Free The Prophet Murders by Mehmet Murat Somer Page A

hungrily.
    I’ve encountered masochists before, but none of them were cripples. Sadomasochists are a widespread subset of the gay community. What they practise is known simply as S&M, which also stands for slave-master. S&M was not one of my interests. I did have some knowledge of it though, from films and websites.
    I grabbed a fistful of thick, wavy hair and jerked his head back. He held his breath. I spit in his face.
    “You piece of shit!” I too had taken to hissing. He looked at me with wide, astonished eyes. His tongue crept out and onto his lips, licking off my saliva. His eyes pleaded for me. His lower lip drooped and his mouth hung half open.
    I leaned over, my face inches from his, and stared him directly in the eye.
    “You,” I said, “are a complete maniac!”
    “I am!” he agreed.
    His voice trembled with excitement. Without hesitation I once more spit in his face. This time, it landed on his quivering lips.
    His hand had strayed to his crotch. He seemed to be in a state of stunned disbelief, acting only on his animal instincts.
    I reached out, grabbed his hand and raised it.
    “There’ll be none of that!” I commanded. The master lurking within me had come to life. I caught him sneaking his other hand towards his crotch. Invalids often have strong arms, but he was no match for me.
    “Again . . . Please . . . ” he begged.
    I dropped his arm and slapped him again, so hard saliva sprayed from his lips. The hand returned. He was about to come. I had no idea how to help him climax.
    I squeezed his nipples. It wasn’t easy to find them through his thick sweatshirt. In fact, I wasn’t sure I was even pinching my intended target. But he pushed his chest out.
    His eyelids fluttered wildly. As a final act of assistance, I smacked him once more. And, he came.
    His sweatpants were stained. He looked at me with a stunned expression.
    Men with problems tend to regret everything once they’ve climaxed. They run home to repent alone. Others are filled with hatred, and take it out on their partners. They are the ones I truly fear. There’s nothing they won’t do to suppress their sense of shame and guilt. Some will kill.
    I didn’t know what to expect from Kemal. I read regret in his eyes. But also detected relaxation and pleasure.
    “You were good,” he said.
    So he enjoyed it. And he didn’t seem at all ashamed.
    “We have sinned,” he said.
    “So you realise it’s a sin,” I teased.
    “We’re all sinners,” he replied. “What’s the point of being on this earth if we are incapable of sin?”
    I couldn’t believe my ears. What was this transformation?
    He begged me to visit him again. He told me that we could arrange for his mother to be out, that we would be all alone and able to get undressed next time. For a moment, I thought I’d feel sick. But I didn’t.
    I made him promise not to cause any more problems in our chat room. I threatened him, warning him that if he did, his address and everything we did today would soon be posted on the internet. He got the message. I had nothing to hide. He did.
    I ordered him to do some research into the girls’ deaths, and to let me know if he came up with anything. Then, and only then, would I consider a second visit.
    Finally, I told him that I would pass along any computer work that wasn’t worth my while. We agreed on that as well.
    He wanted to kiss me goodbye. Now that I knew what turned him on, I denied him the pleasure. I even considered a parting slap. In the end, I pressed a knee into his chest and grabbed his chin. I jerked it upwards. He held his breath.
    I glared into his eyes. He waited expectantly. For what, even I didn’t know.
    I released his chin roughly. His head bobbed sideways.
    “Please come again,” he called after me. “If you don’t, I’ve got plans of my own.”

Eleven
    T here’s no question that wheelchair-bound Kemal has exotic tastes, and suffers from a guilt complex. He is also hostile and blindly devoted to his