It was already dark when Paul found himself standing before George's home, leaning on his folded-in umbrella. The sounds of the hooves clacking on cobblestones and the rolling wheels of the carriage echoed through the deserted street as it drove off. The lights in the house were still on, which was a relief. Paul had been afraid he would already have been too late, but it seemed that the Harrisons hadn't yet gone to bed. Still, Paul found himself hovering before the gate leading up to the front door, hesitant to go up and knock. What if he found Ringo there? What if he had killed John? What if it had been that potion and, most importantly, what if there was no way for George to cure him? The thought alone was enough to make him shudder. There had to be a way, hadn't there? There always was a way, or so he had told himself. Although, he started to believe it less and less with every passing second. Taking a final deep breath, he picked up his umbrella, clamped it under his arm and unlocked the gate, finally stepping through it and up to the front door.

He announced his arrival with a loud knock and tried to force himself to stop chewing his bottom lip while he waited. The chilly wind made him shiver as it rushed past him and Paul hunched up against the cold, pulling his coat a little firmer around himself, hoping someone would open up soon. When no one did, he knocked again, a bit louder, and this time he could hear some ruffling behind the door. Not long after, a pretty blond woman opened the door with a slight frown, probably wondering who in the world would knock on their door at this late hour. She had something of a bunny about her, with her large blue eyes, full cheeks, and her large front teeth. George was one lucky fellow to have found a woman like her to marry. Paul felt slightly guilty about disturbing her, but he had no choice.

"Paul!" she called out as soon as she recognised him, her frown immediately replaced by small smile that looked almost emphatic. "What are you doing here?"

"Pattie, dear, I'm sorry for bothering you so late," Paul said, not really giving an answer. He'd discuss that with George. He politely took off his hat with a forced smile.

Pattie stepped aside to let him in. "Don't worry about it, Paul. You are always welcome. You know that. How are you holding up? I er... I heard about what happened. It's horrible. Truly, indescribable. I don't quite know what to say."

"Please, don't say anything. I'd rather not think about it," he told her, and the young woman nodded as she beckoned him to come in, which he gladly did, being more than happy to trade the cold outside air for the warmth of a home. Pattie took his coat from him and hung it on a peg as Paul untied his shoes, not wanting to leave mud everywhere.

"George is upstairs if you want to talk to him. I'm afraid you just missed Richie, though, if you were looking for him." Paul looked up at her with surprise at the mention of his lover, his heart speeding up his chest as he repeated the name soundlessly to himself. It took a while before the sentence truly made sense to him.

"Richie was here?"

Pattie nodded. She turned around and started guiding him towards the kitchen. He obediently followed her, eager to hear what she had to say. "Yes... very odd, it was. He showed up at our door in the middle of the night yesterday. No prior warning at all. We had already been lying in bed for some time when we heard someone knocking. They wouldn't stop, so George went to have a look and there he was, looking pale and grim, with dark circles under his eyes. He wouldn't say where he had been or why he wasn't at home with you, so we offered him the guest bedroom. The next morning, he and George locked themselves in the study and didn't come out until about three hours ago when Ringo left. George is still up there working on whatever it is they had been working on," she explained. Paul nodded, feeling relieved to know Ringo was still okay and he had spent the night here and not all alone in the street somewhere. Still, it begged the question: why hadn't he just gone home to him?

"Do you know what they were doing in the study all day?" he asked as they walked into the kitchen. Pattie appointed him a chair to sit on as she put on the kettle for a cup of tea. She thought about the question for a moment, before shaking her head.

"No... I er... I don't remember them saying anything about it. I'm sorry, Paul, but I've learned not to ask questions when it comes to George and his work. Either he is completely incomprehensible or he only gets annoyed with me. I mostly just bring him food and tea when he asks me to and make him go to bed in the evenings. All else is George's area, not mine," she said, looking apologetic. Paul hummed thoughtfully, only looking up at her when she put his mug of tea down in front of him with a kind smile. He tried smiling back, but found that he couldn't.

"Are you sure you're feeling alright? If you need to talk with someone, I'm here, you know," she offered, but Paul shook his head as he wrapped his hands around his mug, letting them warm up from the outside cold as he looked down into his milky tea.

"Thanks, Pattie. But I rather not think about it. Did-Did you notice anything odd about Ringo while he was here?"

Pattie took a seat opposite him with her own tea and chuckled. "What? Apart from showing up at our doorstep in the middle of the night without any sort of explanation?" she asked, but when Paul shot her a look, she cleared her throat and her expression turned more serious.

"I didn't spend much time with him, Paul. But he seemed alright to me, considering," she said, and Paul huffed, feeling somewhat let down, which puzzled him. He surely wasn't hoping that something was wrong with his lover, was he? Then, why did he feel so disappointed?

"However-" Pattie added after a brief moment of silence, sitting up in her chair a bit more. "-when he left, he seemed rather erm... upset. Disgruntled. Angry even. He almost left without saying goodbye and when he did he was rather curt."

"Did he?"

"Yes, which was strange because he was his sweet, polite self this morning. I just assumed he and George had had a misunderstanding and that's why he wanted to leave."

"Did he seem in a hurry? Did he tell you where he was going?"

"No, he didn't. Sorry, Paul. Like I said, he tried rushing past me without a word before I stopped him. When I asked him if things were okay between him and George he said he was just really busy and that I needn't worry." Paul froze at those words, before promptly looking up at Pattie with wide eyes, making her frown in confusement. "What?"

"Did you see George again after Ringo left?" he asked her, looking deeply into her eyes, hoping she'd answer with the affirmative. When she shook her head, he jumped up from his seat, his cheeks going pale.

"What's wrong?" Pattie asked as he made his way out of the kitchen and towards the stairs without another word. He could hear her pushing back her chair and getting up to follow him. He let her, but when they had reached the stairs, he stopped. Pattie came to stand right beside him. "Paul?"

"George! George, are you there?" Paul called up, ignoring Pattie completely and only focusing on the voice of his friend. Or lack thereof.

"Paul? What is-"

"Shush!" He raised his hand at her to tell her to stay quiet, and thankfully she did. He called again, but there was still no answer. He cursed.

"Pattie, stay here and don't come up until I tell you to, alright?"

"But why-"

"Pattie, I'm serious. Please, wait here for a moment," Paul firmly interrupted her again. His fingers were trembling slightly in fear and Pattie nodded slowly with a frown, not quite understanding why Paul was acting all serious all of a sudden. Sighing, Paul motioned her once more to wait, before he slowly started to ascend the stairs, wincing as he heard the wood creak under his weight, hoping to whatever deity was out there, that he was wrong about this.

Upstairs it was eerily quiet and dark, with only two poorly lit gaslights lighting the hallway, creating flickering shadows across the dark wood panelling. Paul took a deep breath and forced himself to move on, knowing his friend's study would be at the first door on his right. The wooden flooring creaked as he stepped on, making Paul's breath catch in his throat, despite the fact that there was nothing to be afraid of. After all, George might be sitting in his study right now, too busy to notice anything that was going on around him, which tended to happen more often than Paul thought to be healthy. And if not... if something had happened... then Ringo wasn't here anymore... He couldn't believe he was basically accusing his lover of murder.

Once he had reached the door to George's study, he took a deep breath and stretched out his left hand to the golden coloured doorknob, tentatively wrapping his fingers around it, before turning it and slowly pulling it open. The study was almost completely dark, the only source of light being the moon outside that shone through the bay window. Carefully, Paul stepped inside, but found himself stubbing his toe against something solid. He tried pushing it away, but it was too heavy.

"Pattie?" he called downstairs, his voice trembling more than he would have liked. "Could you come bring me a candle or something? I-I can't see!"

"Yes! Yes, hold on!" Pattie called back, and Paul took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment to calm himself while he waited for Pattie. He so hoped his suspicions were wrong, but something told him they weren't. He could hear Pattie stumbling around downstairs, probably searching everywhere for a candle. Feeling impatient, however, Paul softly called out for his friend again, hoping he had fallen asleep, but again no answer came. He tried moving the thing again, and this time managed to push it a tad bit away from him, before it got stuck again. He let out an annoyed huff, but before he could try again, he could hear footsteps on the stairs, and soon there was a bright light in the corner of his eye. He swiftly turned around and blocked the entrance to the study with his body. Pattie looked at him confused, but still offered him the candle. Paul smiled thankfully at her as he took it from her.

"Thanks, dear. Now, wait there, alright?" he asked, but Pattie only stepped closer to him, cocking her head to the side, before she tried to look past him and into the study. Paul quickly blocked her sight.

"Paul? What is going on?" she asked, but Paul shook his head.

"Please, Pattie. If I'm what I'm thinking is correct, you don't want to see this."

"Is George okay?" she pressed on, and Paul bit his lip, before turning his back on her, ignoring her question. "Paul!" Pattie exclaimed, but Paul didn't reply to her. Instead, he carefully raised the lit candle Pattie had given him, and although the light wasn't bright enough to light to whole room, it was enough to see the state the room was in.

The study was a mess. It had been completely turned upside down: books had fallen off their selves, bottles and jars and vials lay shattered over the floor, maps and drawings had been ripped, pieces of paper lay scattered all across the room, showcases were smashed, the two armchairs by the fireplace had been pushed over, the chemistry set looked almost completely destroyed, and right before Paul's feet lay George's desk. Even the curtains had been pulled down from their rods and were torn in half, and one of the bookshelves had fallen forward and was now resting against one of the armchairs. It looked like the entire study had exploded. Of George, however, there was no sight.

"Oh dear lord!" Pattie exclaimed as she looked around the room with wide eyes from over Paul's shoulder. Paul himself, could only nod, staring at the mess, not even realising he had told her to stay away. "How did this happen?! I hadn't even heard anything!"

Carefully, he stepped into the room and over the desk, looking around carefully to make sure he wouldn't step on anything. Pattie stayed behind by the door, bending down to pick up an animatronic that looked as if it had been tossed across the room.

"What happened here? Where's George?" Pattie asked as she tried to fix the little machine that was supposed to look like a little soldier, but now looked like a contorted circus freak.

"I don't know, Pattie, but it's not good," Paul told her as he carefully stepped on to the other end of the room, where he could see George's desk chair. It looked like there was something on it, something large and bulky, that casted a shadow over the floor as the silver moonlight from the bay window fell upon it. It looked heavy and as Paul carefully stepped closer to it, he noticed a puddle underneath the chair - of what he didn't know, couldn't see - and every alternative second, a fresh drop was added to it that dripped from the bulky mass above it.

"Paul? What is that?"

Paul again chose to ignore her, and carefully moved closer to the chair, having a fairly good idea, but not wanting to say it, fearing it would make it too real. He reached out with his hand for the chair and took a deep breath to calm himself, before he slowly turned the chair around, screaming and jumping away in fright when he saw it wasn't so much a thing that was in the chair, but a person.

"Pattie, stay back!" Paul called on instinct, turning away from the body to see that Pattie was already standing next to him, her eyes firmly locked onto the mutilated body of her fiancé, a hand wrapped over his mouth to muffle her screams and cries. Her face was slowly paling and Paul could see her knees trembling. He quickly reached out for her, trying to steady her, but she pushed him away and took a quick step back. She tripped over a broken piece of machinery and fell back against one of the chairs.

"No! No! Oh god, no!" she shouted, still staring at the body, and Paul quickly hurried over to her. He stood before her, blocking her view, and took her hands in his, squeezing firmly to bring her back to him before she'd go into shock. She was gasping for breath, her eyes had gone red and were watering up, and her fingers shook as she reached out for Paul, grasping his shirt in pure panic.

"Pattie. Pattie, look at me, dear. It's okay. Just calm down," Paul tried, but the look he got in return was murderous.

"Calm down?! Calm down?! He's... he's..." she screamed, her voice dying off again with a faint sob as her eyes landed on the man on the chair.

"I know, but you need to calm down and stay with me. I... I need you to do something for me. You need to take a deep breath-"

"You take a fucking deep breath! My fiancé... George-"

"- and go downstairs to phone the police, okay? Can you do that for me?" he asked, trying to focus on her to have something to do and not freak out himself. Pattie stared up at him, but when she saw the look in his eyes, she nodded and took a deep breath. Right away, her body stopped shaking. She nodded again and finally, with some of Paul's help, she managed to stand. He helped her to the door, guiding her past and over the mess, before seeing her out. He glanced back at his friend's body once more, his breath hitching in his throat as he found his death-like eyes staring straight at him. It was a horrid sight, with cuts all over his hands and face, and one deep one across his throat, from which thick dried blood was still dripping onto the floor. There was dried blood on the corners of his mouth, his chin and his nostrils. It looked as painful as it must have been, and Paul couldn't imagine his last moments, slowly dying as the blood slipped out of him, any effort to speak resulting in gurgling up blood, making him completely incoherent. Paul averted his eyes and stepped out of the room as well, the sight being too awful to bear.

Ringo kept his head lowered and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat as he roamed the streets. Anger and frustration was still rushing through his veins, making his fingers tremble. He had to learn how to control himself. He had already killed two people and both times he had done so in a haze of calm, but uncontrolled, anger, making his actions rash and sloppy. He knew the police would start searching for him as soon as they found George's body. Even the police would be able to figure out he had done it, seeing as he was the last one to see both George and John alive before they were brutally murdered, and that he had disappeared right after John had been killed. It didn't look good for him.

He hadn't even meant to kill George. At least, not initially. It had simply just happened. Really, it had been that other part of him that had ruined it. His 'good' part. He snorted to himself at the thought. He had gone to George to get help, to help cure him. Thankfully, he had managed to take over just in time, before he and George had locked themselves into the study. He had been able to feel Ringo fight against him, but he had failed, because in truth... he was weak. Unlike him. The horrible deeds he had done gnawed at him. They constantly made him worry and fear everything. Guilt paralysed him, slowly but surely. It was rather laughable.

At first, his own talk with George had gone well. He had told him about 'the split', as he called it and asked if he could indeed cure him, like his other part had hoped. When George told him he couldn't, he had been relieved, but when he had told him he might be able to 'banish out' one part of him, he had been ecstatic. He hated being stuck in one body with that other part of him, having to share a consciousness. Sure, he was growing stronger, while the good side weakened, meaning he could take over at will for a period of time if he pushed himself, but it cost him a lot of energy. So, not having to do that at all, would be even better. He had managed to convince George to do that for him, and George had agreed, thinking he would want the evil part gone. But he had failed. Continuously. No matter how hard he had tried, George hadn't been able to do it. And with every fail, Ringo had felt himself getting angrier and angrier, until George had begun to notice.

The young man had been too clever for his own good. He had figured it out, realised exactly which side he was talking to and that he had killed John. He had threatened to call the police. He had had to do something, hadn't he? He couldn't just let George ruin everything. So he had attacked him, and finally he had slit his throat with one of George's knifes. The mess he had made had been horrible, and Ringo had made a run for it, knowing he was going to have to leave before George's fiancée - that stupid bitch - would come up with something stupid like tea or biscuits. He had hung his coat over his bloodied hands and walked out of the front door. Then, he had managed to find a public restroom, where he had washed his hands and shirt of George's blood. There was still some under his fingernails, but most of it he had managed to get off. What he had done with the knife, he didn't know - couldn't remember. Which was exactly why he needed to learn how to control himself. He needed to kill deliberately and with a plan, so no one could figure out it was him, not leave clues left and right so that even a simple housewife could figure out who was the murderer.

Cursing softly, he walked on, trying to think of ways he could teach himself to control his urges, and more importantly, how to keep his other side away. There had to be a way. Subconsciously, he walked into the lesser part of London. Beggars and homeless people lay on the street, either asleep or looking half-dead. Scantily clad women stood leaning against dirty buildings, smoking cheap cigarettes as they showed off their assets to passing men, hoping one would take them off for a quick 4-shilling fuck so they could live a day longer. Pubs were still open, filled with fat stinking men, easy women, and hopeless children. Looking in through one of the windows, Ringo saw one guy hit his girl straight in the face, and Ringo chuckled. She probably deserved it, with the way she was pressing her knees together.

Ringo started to feel more and more at home in these parts of town, away from all those people who thought they were better than everyone else because they had a fancy suit and proper pronunciation. Really, all of them deserved to die. Pulling away from the pub window, he started looking around for somewhere to rent a room, needing a bed for the night. He knew he wouldn't be able to stay. It wouldn't be long before they would find George in that study of his, throat cut nicely. But at least he could find a nice warm place to sleep this evening.

He walked for a while, finding that most of the rooms were either taken or too expensive for him, and Ringo supposed murdering a guy for a room was taking things a bit too far. As he walked out of the fifth place he had asked for a room, he found a young boy leaning against the wall next to the door, smoking a cigarette as he gave him a calculating, but firm look.

"Alright?" he asked. Ringo raised an eyebrow at him and had a quick look around to see if anyone was around, before he moved to stand next to him. The boy was a few years younger than him, probably about 21. He was handsome, with a small frame, a pretty face and sharp lines. His light brown eyes were looking up at the stars above them, while he sucked on his cigarette, letting the smoke escape past his thin lips and disappear into the air. He was wearing a pair of tight slacks and a half unbuttoned shirt with a tight vest over it. The way he was holding himself made it more than obvious what he was, as it seemed to accentuate every good aspect of the boy's body.

"How much?" Ringo found himself asking, figuring that maybe this was exactly what he needed to unwind and calm himself. The boy licked his lips and took a drag from his cigarette before he answered.

"Depends on what you want." Ringo turned his head to look at him, a smirk on his lips. The boy turned around as well, locking eyes with him. Yes, this boy would do nicely, Ringo thought as he let his eyes take in the boy's figure, liking what he saw, especially the slimness of his neck, which reminded him of when he had last had sex with Paul. He could easily picture the pretty bruises he'd leave there. Yes, he was perfect. He offered the boy a smile, which he returned.

"Do you have anywhere to go?" Ringo asked. The boy nodded, put out his ciggy against the wall, and beckoned Ringo to follow him as he started walking away.

The boy - Ringo still didn't know his name - had a room a little further away. It was small and consisted only of a metal bed with a thin mattress, a bedside table, a dresser, and a mirror. The rubbish that was left all over the place told Ringo he lived here, which made him wonder if he was more used to people taking him somewhere or simply fucking him on the street.

"Make yourself comfortable," the boy spoke as he locked the door behind Ringo and started closing the window by the bed. Ringo nodded and took off his coat, grimacing when he saw the brown blood that he still had under his nails, but he didn't bother to try to clean them. The boy wouldn't care. And if he did... well, he wouldn't be able to say anything by the end of it, would he?

"Do you know a Paul McCartney?" Ringo asked as he laid his coat on the dresser.

"Maybe. What's it to you?" the boy snapped back, not even turning around to look at him. Ringo laughed and shrugged.

"Just curious. The lad got around some time ago, didn't he? Besides, it's not like you have to be confidential about such things, do you?" The boy huffed at that and bent over to take off his shoes as well. Ringo bit his lip as he let his gaze roam over his perky arse.

"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean I like to go around telling people about my clients. Most like the anonymity and you never know who might be listening. And besides, why should you care?"

"If it puts you at ease, he and I are close friends," Ringo said with a little smirk and the boy was smiling knowingly when he turned back around to face him.

"Well, if you are so curious, he was a er... a regular, I guess. Nearly got me arrested once. But he was a great lay, you know. He knew what he was doing. But we didn't get on at all, for some reason. Only made the fucking better, I say. Nothing better than getting fucked by someone who despises you as much as you do him and feeling that raw hate. And he was one of the most gorgeous men I ever laid eyes on. Especially when he was on top of me."

"How much then? For a fuck," Ringo asked as he started to take off his wristwatch and the ring Paul had given him for his birthday. When he reached up to start working on his tie, the boy suddenly came to stand before him and took over.

"8 shillings. Blowjob is 4. Just watching is 2," he said as his fingers pulled at his tie, slowly loosening it as he looked up at Ringo from underneath his eyelashes. Ringo couldn't help but smirk. Paul always did the exact same thing. "But for you," the boy continued, "a fuck is 6."

"Expensive, aren't you? Why the discount?" Ringo asked, genuinely intrigued. At least the boy wasn't boring. Not yet, anyway.

"Well, you know what they say about men with big noses," the boy said as he pulled the tie from Ringo's neck. "Big dicks." Ringo laughed at that.

"You're very forward."

"I know what I want," the boy replied with a wink, and slowly started moving his fingers from Ringo's neck, down his chest towards his crotch. Ringo felt his cock give a slight twitch at the feeling.

"Let me guess. Extra will cost extra?" he asked, swallowing as the boy started to draw circles over his crotch with his fingertips, playfully teasing. He nodded.

"It all depends on what you want."

"I want to hurt you," Ringo simply said, smirking in amusement as the boy froze at his words. He quickly regained himself, however.

"Like spanking?" he asked. Ringo shook his head.

"Worse."

"You're not allowed to leave any permanent marks," the boy quickly said. Ringo hummed in understanding and slowly brought up his hand to wrap it around the boy's slender neck, applying a little bit of pressure to get the boy's attention.

"I want to choke you."

"1 shilling."

"What if I tie you up?"

"Sixpence."

"Spanking?"

"8 pence. But you cannot bruise."

"But I want to bruise."

"You're not allowed to leave any permanent marks," the boy repeated, managing to keep his head clear despite the hand around his neck fairly well. Ringo, however, didn't like his stubbornness, and he was already starting to feel bored.

"Alright. Let's make this quick. How about I give you 3 pounds, and I get to do anything I want." The boy froze at that and looked up at Ringo with a calculating look, clearly trying to figure out why this man was willing to pay him so much just to hurt him. Ringo waited patiently for an answer, rubbing his thumb against the boy's windpipe as he did so, more as a promise than a threat. Finally, the boy nodded.

"Fine. But you pay up front," he said and Ringo muttered some light curses as he reached into his pockets and got out three pounds, which was all he had left. He chuckled in amusement as the boy's eyes went wide at the sight of the money.

"Now, what do I call you?"

"Anything you'd like."

"And what do you call me?" The boy thought for a while, before he carefully parted his lips.

"Sir?" he said with trembling voice and Ringo smiled down at him.

"Good boy. Now, get on your knees and put that mouth of yours to good use, yeah?" The boy, however didn't move.

"What are you going to do to me?" he asked instead, fear reflected in his voice. Ringo chuckled at that, and offered him a soft smile.

"Nothing too bad. Most of it, you won't even feel."

"Tell me anyway," the boy said and Ringo looked him firmly in the eye, hoping the boy would change his mind and get down on his knees already, but he stayed put.

"You want to know?" Ringo asked with a smirk, his fingers tightening their hold on the boy's neck, "I'm going to hurt you. I'm going to bite you, hit you, scratch you, choke you, and throw you around like a mere puppet. But don't worry. You won't feel most of it."

Permanent marks, my arse, Ringo thought as he slammed into the sobbing boy beneath him. He had him on his back, hands tied behind him, legs spread wider than what could be comfortable, and he was holding him down with a hand wrapped around his throat. He looked absolutely stunning while he was getting fucked: eyes wide, mouth slack and abused, bruised body covered in a slight sheen of sweat, hair an absolute mess, muscles pulled taut, and his limp cock resting completely spent on his belly after two intense orgasms. Not that he would have been erect if he hadn't come already; the pain was too much to get off on. Especially for a little twink whore like him. But Ringo didn't care. It only made it better for him.

It felt good to be doing this, to simply fuck and let out all of his frustration, to simply let go. Finally, he could do what he had secretly always wanted to do. What he had actually wanted to do to Paul not two days ago. He didn't care about hurting the boy beneath him, like he did with Paul. He was only a prostitute after all. And he got paid well. The boy had no right to complain.

He was perfect, though. As perfect as Ringo had thought he'd be. He was compliant, docile and eager to please. He cried when Ringo wanted him to and begged prettily before he could even tell him too. His body was just perfect as well: slim but not bony, small, easy to move around and bendy. It bruised up nicely, and the pink marks of his hands where he had hit him, coloured nicely with his pale skin. His arse wobbled as he slammed into him at a brutal pace, and his insides clamped eagerly down around him, massaging him as he pulled him in deeper. He was hot, wet, and felt perfectly tight around him.

Such a perfect whore, Ringo mused, and leaned down to claim the boy's mouth, fucking his tongue inside of him without warning. The boy simply let him, having lost all control over his body after Ringo had eaten him out, reducing him to a mere fuck-doll. He really would be worth every damn penny. Ringo almost felt bad about what he was going to do. It would have been nice to keep him, perhaps share him with someone else to show him off. With some training, he'd be the perfect pet. But he didn't have time for that. Nor did he really want to do it. He had other needs.

Smirking down at the boy, he changed his angle and shifted his weight to rest on the hand that was wrapped around the boy's slim neck, cutting off his air supply. The boy sputtered and gasped for air beneath him, but Ringo merely pressed down harder, watching the boy choke as he fucked into him, hitting his prostate relentlessly with every hard thrust. The boy started tugging at the bonds, probably wanting to escape to push Ringo's hand off his neck, but Ringo had tied him well, leaving no room to move and with every tug at the rope, it tightened and burned deeply into his wrists.

The desperation he found in the boy's eyes only turned Ringo on even more, and he sped up his thrusts, going as fast he could, while still pressing down on the boy's neck, groaning as he started struggling more and more, until finally his whole body went slack and dropped lifelessly on the bed. He had barely even made a noise. Removing his hand from the boy's throat, Ringo leaned with both hands on the bed besides his head, and kept on thrusting, feeling his orgasm approach, tugging at his insides, until finally he came with one last violent thrust into the warm, yet lifeless body beneath him.

He slowly rode it out, biting his lip as he did so, and pulled out of the boy's body before collapsing onto the bed besides him. He lay there for a while, catching his breath and enjoying the wonderful aftermath of one of the best orgasms he had had in his entire life.

Almost an hour passed before Ringo finally got up and went to the small bathroom to clean himself up and pull his clothes back on. When he walked back into the room, he noticed the lifeless body of the boy on the bed. It lay awkwardly with its limbs bent at strange angles. The eyes and mouth were still wide open, making it look like it was screaming. It really was quite a shame that he had had to die, considering the boy had been interesting and yet perfect in bed. No one was going to miss him, though, Ringo knew. They never did with whores.

He stumbled over to the bed, now suddenly feeling how tired he really was, and inspected the body. The marks around the boy's throat were clear and coloured red, blue and brown. The face itself had gone slightly blue, and his deathlike eyes were staring straight at Ringo. He carefully closed them with his fingertips and closed the mouth too, before moving the limbs around to make him lie more naturally. The skin was still warm.

Then he straightened the boy's hair and pulled away from him to look around the room for his money. The boy wasn't going to use it, so he might as well take it back. He found it on the dresser on top of a letter. Stu, it read. Ringo chuckled, but didn't open it. None of that mattered now. He snatched his money of the dresser, laid two shillings on top of Stu's eyes as a joke and pulled on his jacket. Before he left, he glanced around the room once more to see if he hadn't forgotten anything and saw Stu's pack of ciggies in his coat. Figuring, he wasn't going to use those anymore either, he took them and his lighter, and finally left. Three murders in two days, Ringo mused. Not bad for an amateur, is it?