I confess This fat ugly ho has some pretty good pussy but her asshole feels a lot better she introduced me to analyzing a ho for the first time what would you do to this fat ugly ho

Jamilla’s crucifixion

Jamilla was already awake when the sunlight entered her cell. After the Romans had captured her a week ago at the villa of her master, they had locked her up in there. They had stripped her and tied her up tightly, her hands behind her back, she was forced to sit here in this dark cell. She have had a lot of time to think about what has happened, and, more important, the things to come. At first she had been scared to death by the thought of being crucified, but right now she had found peace with it. Jamilla knew what she had done, and she also knew that she deserved nothing better. There was no doubt that, if she was to be killed, it would happen out there for every one to see. She was just to beautiful to let her die in here. After all she was the most beautiful girl in and around the city, In fact the thought of starving in here scared her even more than a public humiliation. Being tied up all the time and at least raped and tortured, imagine taht! No, no, all well considered, crucifixion was the best she could hope for. At least her pain would be over in a few days instead of years. She didn’t dare to think that the soldiers wouldn’t come for her.

But then the door opened and a couple of men gave entered her cell and removed the ropes from her hands and feet. Jamilla felt some sort of relief when she left the cell. They would not let her starve. Thus far she had been very lucky. It was only now that she realized that nobody had abused her until now. She wasn’t raped, she hadn’t been whipped. The fact of being nude don’t scare her, as a slave girl she has experienced this form of humilation many times, it was usual for the female to walk nude trough the city up tot he crucifixion side, while the men are allowed to wear a loincloth.

As they came out of the dark hallways into the inner yard of the camp, Jamilla spotted a long, thin, wooden cross lying on the ground. “Pick it up!” one of the soldiers said. Jamilla walked towards the cross and lifted it on her shoulder. There was no use in trying to resist, which would only make it worse for her. Two soldiers came standing next to her and one of them hung a wooden plate around her neck with her name, her age and her crime carved in it. Jamilla expected them to push her forward in to the streets of the city, but they didn’t. Both of the soldiers were looking at a little door behind them. As Jamilla looked at it as well, she saw an other soldier coming out with a hammer, a ladder and a basket with nails. Long heavy spikes…

“So it ’s going to be a full nailing” Jamilla said to herself. Until now she had hoped that they would only use ropes or at least only nail her hands, but as she could count more than two nails, she knew she wouldn’t be that lucky. The soldier loaded the gear on a donkey and the other two gave Jamilla a gentile push on her shoulder. “Let’s go.” They said and the campgates opened.

Jamilla carried her cross through the narrow streets of the city. It wasn’t very heavy but despite the early hour the sun was already shining hot. As she came closer to the crucifixion site, more and more people were watching and following her, yelling things at her. She noted the views of the men, on her slim body, her well-shaped breasts, with the long nipples. Her master has pierced them years ago, she has to wear rings there, and the nipples has grown considerably. Except her long hair, her body has been shaved completely, even if the pubic hair has started to grow back, her crotch is visible for everyone.

“Look at you, you stupid basterds,” Jamilla said to herself “ shouldn’t you be working? No you just want to see me suffer, you want to hear me scream on the cross, you want to see the extreme fear in my eyes when they nail me to it. Well screw you! You think I’m afraid but I’m not, you think I’ll beg them for mercy, beg them not to nail my feet, but you’re wrong, wrong, wrong! I won’t. In fact I’ll show you that it doesn’t scare me, I’ll show you how a proud girl faces her destiny!”

As she took the last turn to the marketplace, Jamilla felt this strange sensation in her underbelly. She knew she was walking her last few steps ever. On the market place, one of the soldiers gave the order to stop right in the middle of the square. She let her cross slip to the ground, took a few steps back and looked at the people that came to see her humiliation. One soldier held a hand on her shoulder and took back the wooden plate as the other one unpacked the gear. The third one began to declare her verdict and why she deserved it. During that time Jamilla realized that the strange feeling in her underbelly wasn’t fear as she thought it was, but pleasure. Her crotch has become wet, she noticed it. Every single person on the square wanted to see her young, nude body exposed on the cross. She knew she turned on every man that came to see her today, but none of them would ever have her. She would remain an unreachable ideal forever. She knew she could give them a spectacle they would never forget, that would make every other women look like durt.

Right now Jamilla realized that her time had come. The third soldier reached the end of his speech.

Jamilla knew what she had to do, she would show the crowd she was not afraid. Slowly she walked towards the cross, looking at the soldiers. Then she turned around, looked at he crowd and went lying down on her cross. Before one of the soldiers could grab her, she placed both of her wrists on the crossbeam, waiting for the nails.

The soldier that was going to nail her held back his two accompagnons. “No, no, don’t grab her. I want to see if she really can take this.” Jamilla looked at him as he put the first heavy spike right on top of her wrist. There was no one holding her wrists in place, yet she did not pulled them away, when the soldier raised his hammer for the first blow. Jamilla looked closely as the point of the first nail was driven into her wrist. “Aagh!” The pain was more than unbearable, it didn’t just stay in her wrist. Like water spilled on a flat stone, the pain started to run in various directions, all through her body. Yet the nail had only cut a few muscles and flesh. Right now he was only pushing on her wristbones, slightly driving them apart. As much as Jamilla was suffering, she couldn’t move her arms. She could only watch how the hammer came down a second time. This time the nail crushed her wristbones. Jamilla could feel the couldnes of the steel against her bones. Again she could not hold back a short scream. The pain had now turned into a supernatural form of agony. One of the soldiers who was standing next to the cross, noticed how Jamilla was rubbing her beautiful bare feet over the sand in a useless attempt to lighten the pain. Although the nail hadn’t reached the beam yet, she managed to keep her tortured wrist in place. Her most beautiful body was already covered with sweat when the hammer came down for the third time. Finally the nail came out of her wrist again and made his first contact with the crossbeam. Jamilla felt a bit relieved because she thought the wrist part was over. Once the nail was through, it would be easier to bare. But she was wrong. The hardness of the wood made it very hard to finish the job. The executioner needed six more blows to get her wrist fully nailed to the beam, every blow causing Jamilla more and more pain in addition to the already unbearable agony…

At the first blow, Jamilla had pulled back her second wrist. “Aagh!” A short scream escaped her mouth every time the nail went deeper. Finally the last blow was given and the executioner stood up. Shortly he admired his work, then he walked over to the other side of the beam to nail her other wrist. Jamilla didn’t know how she did it, but she had managed not to cry. Although only one of the four nails was in place, she was already covered with sweat. She looked at her unnailed wrist once more, then she placed it on the crossbeam as she saw the executioner approached with the second nail. He looked at her beautiful young face while he went across her wrist with his fingers to locate the bones. When he found the right spot, he place the nail on it, held his hammer high up in the sky. Then he waited for a moment to see if Jamilla really wouldn’t pull down her arm now that she knew what it felt like to have one nailed wrist. Then he started his horrible job.

Jamilla thought she knew what she had to expect, but no one could ever get used to a sudden explosion of pure pain like that. Again her short screams filled the air, again her beautiful bare feet rubbed against the sand, but yet the agony seemed like at least a thousand times worse. Again she felt how the nail crushed some of her bones and drove others apart. It was in this pure sensation of nothing-but-absolute-agony- that Jamilla realized something strange. With every blow she screamed her little “AaAgh’s” as a message to every one on the square that she couldn’t take it any more. But now she realized, as her pain reached a new, horrible peak with every other blow that she wanted more. Though the agony made it quite impossible to keep her wrist in place, as long as the nail hadn’t pinned it to the wood, Jamilla realized she was able to do so, because she loved it. From this moment one, she could kill and love the executioner for what he was doing to her at the same time. She hated and admired him because he was able of hurting her like this. Though her agony reached unknown hights with every blow, she couldn’t wait for the next one. She watched closely how the nail disappeared deeper into her wrist and into the wood. When the executioner stood up after the nailing, Jamilla felt relieved and disappointed at the same time. Her body was under tension, shivering, excited, despite the heat her nipples remain hard all the time, and she notes that her juice has started to leak.

Jamilla looked at her beautiful nude body as the soldiers made preparations to pull up the cross. With her arms spread out like this above her head and her legs a bit opened to feel the sand under her feet for the last time, both her beautiful small breasts with their long and hard nipples and shaven pubic were exposed to the crowd. Yet Jamilla felt no shame, she felt only pain and a deep desire for more pain. Two soldiers were tying ropes to both ends of the crossbeam while the third one was placing some small pieces of wood at the bottom of the longpole so that the cross wouldn’t slide over the sand when they tried to raise it. Then they attached the ropes to their donkey as well. Then the executioner kneeled down at Jamilla’s feet. He grabbed them by the ankles and measured the length of her legs. He placed her feet on the longpole, right next to each other, so that her legs were slightly bent. He looked at it, changed the pose a bit, released her feet and carved a little bit of wood out of the pole, where he wanted her feet to be when he nailed them. Jamilla had observed his actions very well. For a moment she thought he was going to nail her feet before they raised the cross. She had loved the feeling of his hand around her feet. The two soldiers made the donkey pull up the cross while the executioner made sure the longpole would slip into the hole that was dug for it. As they raised her cross and her feet left the ground for the last time, Jamilla felt how her weight was no longer carried by the thin longpole but only by the two spikes that pierced her wrists. She had to scream. Little yelps of both extreme agony and pleasure escaped her mouth while the donkey was raising her cross. As her cross was almost in a complete vertical position, Jamilla spotted the carve made by the executioner to indicate the intended position of her feet. While the soldiers were making sure the cross wouldn’t fall back if they cut the ropes, Jamilla tried out her final footpose. With her feet against the longpole and her legs opened widely because of the roundness of the longole, she decided that it was both a humiliating and an exciting pose. Jamilla looked at her elegant ankles and her adorable toes. Soon her most beautiful feet would be nailed. To feel once more the pain of really hanging on a cross, she moved her legs away from the longpole, so that they were just hanging on either side of it. Now the executioner placed his ladder against the cross and climbed up to fulfill his duty.

As the executioner reached the final step of the ladder, Jamilla lowered her left foot and placed it right on the spot the executioner wanted it to be. He put the nail right on the most central spot of her foot, slightly adapted its pose so that the toes were really pointing towards the ground. Then he began the nailing. Once again Jamilla experienced a wave of fresh agony running through her body. Again she felt how the nail pushed against the bones of her foot and crushed them with the second blow. Again she let out her little yells every time the nail went a bit deeper. Even when the nail entered the wood after the third blow, she didn’t dare to put any weight on it. Her foot was causing her the same amount of agony as both her wrists. Oooh, she loved crucifixion right now; She thanked the people that invented this heavenly torture from the bottom of her heart as the final blows were given. As the executioner finished the nailing of her left foot, Jamilla felt a bit sad. Now her other foot was the only thing left. After that, her agony would slowly fade away … So she put her other foot right next to her nailed one. The executioner brought out the last nail. Jamilla closed her eyes as her bully raised his hammer. Very intensely she tried to analyze the waves of pain that were caused by the final spike. As the bones of her right foot were crushed she couldn’t hold back a small yelp. Also when she felt how the nail tore the skin of here sole apart, she simply had to release a little “ Ôah!” As the nail was driven further into her foot and the wood of the longpole, Jamilla first realized she was being put to death in the most cruel, horrible and agonizing way known in the whole of the Roman Empire, and that she just loved it. The soldier smashed the nail a bit deeper for the last time. Then he went down a few steps and nailed the wooden plate that quoted Jamill’s crime, name and age to the longpole, right underneath her beautiful, nailed feet. “Jamilla, twenty one year old, blonde slave, murder, theft and arson.” Then he stepped down, took away his ladder and together with one of his fellows he went back to the camp. The third one staid to guard Jamilla so that no one would get her down of there.

Although it had seamed a lot longer, her crucifixion had only taken half an hour. Now most of the spectators resumed their work on the market. For Jamilla, the real horror of crucifixion was about to begin. Right now she realized that the pain in her wrists became too much to bare, even for someone who loved it, so Jamilla had to push up on her feet. Putting her entire weight on the nails piercing her feet caused her a wonderful amount of pain, yet she had to let go, if she didn’t want to faint, and she fell back on her wrists. But very soon, again, the pain in her wrists forced her to retry the push up. The Romans had spiked her in a very ingenious way. By bending her legs just a little bit, Jamilla had to face the problem where to put her weight, but she couldn’t suffocate that easy. As she looked around to see what the other people who had watched her crucifixion were doing. Some people were still looking at her, pointing out to each other how well she was nailed. Jamilla herself was also admiring the work of her bully. While she was at it, she saw that she wasn’t bleeding as much as she thought. The only blood Yamilla saw was the blood that had run out of the wounds when the nails were still driven in. Meanwhile the soldier that staid behind walked over to the fountain and took a drink. He didn’t return to the cross but went strait to one of the stalls on the market. He decided to watch over her from there, in the shadow. On the cross, Jamilla was exposed to the sun. Very slowly her bronzed skin was burning. As she saw the guard take a drink, Jamilla became aware of her own thirst. She wondered whether she could ask for some water as well. After a while her thirst became so big she decided to risk it. “Can…can I have some water to, please…?” she moaned. The guard fulfilled her request and put a cup filled with water on the top of his spear. Jamilla drunk it all and asked for more several times, especially around noon when the sun was burning every drop of liquid out of her.

Jamilla now realized that the pain wasn’t fading away at all. She didn’t know why but the spikes kept hurting her as much as they did when they were driven into place. She looked once more to the nails piercing her body. As she could clearly feel, al four of them were smashed through some bones. “I wonder…” she thought. Jamilla tried to move her fingers, but some of them didn’t react to her command. Also her toes weren’t completely movable. The sight of the spikes entering her feet and wrists fascinated her. Jamilla tried to reach the head of the nails in her wrists. Her fingers could only touch the top of the nails. Her excitement still remains, and her crotch has started to leak, she notes the liquid running down the lips, and the it drops down to the sand.

As the sun went down and the market became empty, Jamilla first realized she would never leave her cross again. Even her corpse would be left up there after she died. She wondered what it would be like, if she died. Would she pass out and never awake again? She didn’t know.

Jamilla’s first night on the cross was filled with agony. There was now way of getting some sleep up there. If the pain didn’t keep her awake, then the coldness of the night would make sure she didn’t sleep. The hours passed slowly, way to slowly, but when Jamilla finally thought she was used to it, the first rays of sunlight announced a new day….

As the market became crowded again, people returned to her cross to see how she was doing. "You 're realy enjoying this, aren't you?" Jamilla managed to ask her public. Of course they did. "Guess what," Jamilla moaned as a reply, "so do I..."

According to some spectators who had seen a few crucifixions already, Jamilla was “dancing” real nice. She was pushing herself up on the spikes piercing her feet and falling back on her wrists al the time. Even if she didn’t had to push up to get some fresh air, she still forced herself to do so. It largely increased her pain. It was her second day on the cross, but Jamilla felt far from exhausted. Now she knew why she hadn’t been raped or whipped: If she were still strong when they nailed her to her cross, she would last longer. Once again Jamilla looked at her beautiful body. The nails fascinated her, how they disappeared in her wrists and feet. Only four nails, but they put her in hell. Right now the thought crossed her mind that despite of the fact that she had been drinking quite a lot yesterday, she didn’t have to pee. The sun burned away every single drop of liquid, even the water from the fountain. In the afternoon, Jamilla felt how she was becoming weaker and weaker, how the pain slowly faded. Right now she wished she could live through it al again, from the cell, to the first nail, the moment of triumph when she exposed her completely nude body to the overwhelmed crowd, the nailing of her wrists and feet, her complete crucifixion. Later that day Jamilla lost conscience. She didn’t saw how a rich salesman paid of the guarding soldier and ordered his men to get Jamilla down from her cross. She didn’t even realized the nails were pulled out.

Jamilla looked out of the window as the sun came up. Six months had passed since her crucifixion. Her wounds had completely healed. The salesman had dropped her of at one of his houses in a small village while she was still unconscious. An other girl slave had told her everything. She had never seen him until now. He was standing in the inner yard, saying goodbye to someone. Then he entered Jamilla’s room. “You’re so beautiful” he said. “You’re so beautiful that you can ask me anything. Ask me and I’ll do it!” Jamilla looked at him as he touched her face. “Well, there is one thing you could do…” She answered.

Later that morning, the entire village watched how Jamilla publicly undressed herself. Completely nude, she walked over to the cross and went lying down on it. She smiled at the salesman as he approached with the hammer and the nails. “Nail me!” she said.

So I was talking to this sexy 19 y/o girl at work. While we were talking she went under her shirt two or three times and was playing with her bra strap. Am I missing something here or simply over analyzing this???

Latina hardly analyzed

http://www.analspermsluts.com/hosted-id389-latina-hard-anal.html

I love it when men critique my body. Make it known that you're analyzing every inch of my body. I want to feel like an object, I want to feel like your whore.

I'm presenting to you, Masters, my genitals. Please, if you would oblige this useless slut, critique my most intimate body parts.

I confess that I'm lonely... Usually I'm not the needy type but I've been depressed lately and this is a way for me to vent without burdening anyone I actually know. For once I would like to have a girl I can say sincerely say I love you to and have them say it back and mean it as well. I dont know if it's asking too much or even if I deserve it. But I want it. Im at a point in my life where I'm out of high school graduated '07 and everyone has moved on and I've been left. I have no idea how to meet anyone and I'm also not too fond of most people. I find that most people lack common decency and genuine kindness which is probably a problem because I analyze EVERYOE and can usually figure out what they're about in 5 minutes. Even if I find someone I actually like most people upon meeting me think I'm an asshole because I'm more to myself and say what's on my mind rather than what someone wants to hear. But usually I just like to listen. Don't get me wrong I can be assertive I'm capable of holding a conversation. But usually I just like to listen and learn the type of person I'm around.

I'm on the bigger side but honestly I dont think I'm a bad looking guy. I hold myself well I do have a lot of confidence. I've just been in a long rut and It's to the point that I wonder if I'm ever going to get out of it. I'm wondering if it's me or if I just cant find a person I can click with. I know this isnt the place for a sincere post to get help. I dont know if I'm actually looking for help. I just kind of wanted to say what's been on my mind recently.

Tl;dr Baaaawww pretty much

Many criminal cases, even when investigated by the most
experienced and best qualified investigators, are ultimately
solved by an admission or confession from the person responsible
for committing the crime. Oftentimes, investigators are able to
secure only a minimal amount of evidence, be it physical or
circumstantial, that points directly to a suspect, and in many
instances, this evidence is not considered strong enough by
prosecutors to obtain a conviction. In such cases, the
interrogation of the suspects and their subsequent confessions
are of prime importance.

This article addresses the question of why suspects speak
freely to investigators, and ultimately, sign full confessions.
The physical and psychological aspects of confession and how
they relate to successful interrogations of suspects are also
discussed, as is the "breakthrough," the point in the
interrogation when suspects make an admission, no matter how
minuscule, that begins the process of obtaining a full
confession.

DEFINING INTERROGATION

Interrogation is the questioning of a person suspected of
having committed a crime. (1) It is designed to match acquired
information to a particular suspect in order to secure a
confession. (2) The goals of interrogation include:

* To learn the truth of the crime and how it happened

* To obtain an admission of guilt from the suspect

* To obtain all the facts to determine the method of
operation and the circumstances of the crime in question

* To gather information that enables investigators to arrive
at logical conclusions

* To provide information for use by the prosecutor in
possible court action. (3)

Knowing the definition and objectives of the interrogation,
the question then asked is, "Why do suspects confess?"
Self-condemnation and self-destruction are not normal human
behavioral characteristics. Human beings ordinarily do not
utter unsolicited, spontaneous confessions. (4) It is logical
to conclude, therefore, that when suspects are taken to police
stations to be questioned concerning their involvement in a
particular crime, their immediate reaction will be a refusal to
answer any questions. With the deluge of television programs
that present a clear picture of the Miranda warning and its
application to suspects, one would conclude that no one
questioned about a crime would surrender incriminating
information, much less supply investigators with a signed, full
confession. It would also seem that once suspects sense the
direction in which the investigators are heading, the
conversation would immediately end. However, for various
psychological reasons, suspects continue to speak with
investigators.

SUSPECT PARANOIA

Suspects are never quite sure of exactly what information
investigators possess. They know that the police are
investigating the crime, and in all likelihood, suspects have
followed media accounts of their crimes to determine what leads
the police have. Uppermost in their minds, however, is how to
escape detection and obtain firsthand information about the
investigation and where it is heading.

Such "paranoia" motivates suspects to accompany the police
voluntarily for questioning. Coupled with curiosity, this
paranoia motivates suspects to appear at police headquarters as
"concerned citizens" who have information pertinent to the case.
By doing this, suspects may attempt to supply false or
noncorroborative information in order to lead investigators
astray, gain inside information concerning the case from
investigators, and remove suspicion from themselves by offering
information on the case so investigators will not suspect their
involvement.

For example, in one case, a 22-year-old woman was
discovered in a stairwell outside of a public building. The
woman had been raped and was found naked and bludgeoned.
Investigators interviewed numerous people during the next
several days but were unable to identify any suspects. Media
coverage on the case was extremely high.

Several days into the investigation, a 23-year-old man
appeared at police headquarters with two infants in tow and
informed investigators that he believed he may have some
information regarding the woman's death. The man revealed that
when he was walking home late one evening, he passed the area
where the woman was found and observed a "strange individual"
lurking near an adjacent phone booth. The man said that because
he was frightened of the stranger, he ran back to his home.
After reading the media accounts of the girl's death, he
believed that he should tell the police what he had observed.

The man gave police a physical description of the
"stranger" and then helped an artist to compose a sketch of the
individual. After he left, investigators discovered that the
sketch bore a strong resemblance to the "witness" who provided
the information.

After further investigation, the witness was asked to
return to the police station to answer more questions, which he
did gladly. Some 15 hours into the interrogation, he confessed
to one of his "multiple personalities" having killed the woman,
who was unknown to him, simply because the victim was a woman,
which is what the suspect had always wanted to be.

This case clearly illustrates the need for some suspects to
know exactly what is happening in an investigation. In their
minds, they honestly believe that by hiding behind the guise of
"trying to help," they will, without incriminating themselves,
learn more about the case from the investigators.

INTERROGATION SETTING

In any discussion concerning interrogation, it is necessary
to include a review of the surroundings where a suspect is to be
interrogated. Because there is a general desire to maintain
personal integrity before family members and peer groups,
suspects should be removed from familiar surroundings and taken
to a location that has an atmosphere more conducive to
cooperativeness and truthfulness. (5) The primary psychological
factor contributing to successful interrogations is privacy--
being totally alone with suspects. (6) This privacy prompts
suspects to feel willing to unload the burden of guilt. (7) The
interrogation site should isolate the suspect so that only the
interrogator is present. The suspect's thoughts and responses
should be free from all outside distractions or stimuli.

The interrogation setting also plays an important part in
obtaining confessions. The surroundings should reduce suspect
fears and contribute to the inclination to discuss the crime.
Because fear is a direct reinforcement for defensive mechanisms
(resistance), it is important to erase as many fears as
possible. (8) Therefore, the interrogation room should
establish a business atmosphere as opposed to a police-like
atmosphere. While drab, barren interrogation rooms increase
fear in suspects, a location that displays an open,
you-have-nothing-to fear quality about it can do much to break
down interrogation defensiveness, thereby eliminating a major
barrier. (9) The interrogators tend to disarm the suspects
psychologically by placing them in surroundings that are free
from any fear-inducing distractions.

PSYCHOLOGICAL FACTORS

More than likely, suspects voluntarily accompany
investigators, either in response to a police request to answer
questions or in an attempt to learn information about the
investigation. Once settled in the interrogation room, the
interrogators should treat suspects in a civilized manner, no
matter how vicious or serious the crime might have been. While
they may have feelings of disgust for the suspects, the goal is
to obtain a confession, and it is important that personal
emotions not be revealed. (10)

Investigators should also adopt a compassionate attitude and
attempt to establish a rapport with suspects. In most cases,
suspects commit crimes because they believe that it offers the
best solution to their needs at the moment. (11) Two rules of
thumb to remember are: 1) "There but for the grace of God go
I"; and 2) it is important to establish a common level of
understanding with the suspects. (12) These rules are critical
to persuading suspects to be open, forthright, and honest.
Suspects should be persuaded to look beyond the investigators'
badges and see, instead, officers who listen without judging.
If investigators are able to convince suspects that the key
issue is not the crime itself, but what motivated them to commit
the crime, they will begin to rationalize or explain their
motivating factors.

At this stage of the interrogation, investigators are on
the brink of having suspects break through remaining defensive
barriers to admit involvement in the crime. This is the
critical stage of the interrogation process known as the
breakthrough.

THE BREAKTHROUGH

The breakthrough is the point in the interrogation when
suspects make an admission, no matter how small. (13) In spite of
having been advised of certain protections guaranteed by the
Constitution, most suspects feel a need to confess. Both
hardcore criminals and first-time offenders suffer from the same
pangs of conscience. (14) This is an indication that their defense
mechanisms are diminished, and at this point, the investigators
may push through to elicit the remaining elements of confession.

In order for interrogators to pursue a successful
breakthrough, they must recognize and understand certain
background factors that are unique to a particular suspect.
Many times, criminals exhibit psychological problems that are
the result of having come from homes torn by conflict and
dissension. Also frequently found in the backgrounds of
criminals are parental rejection and inconsistent and severe
punishment. (15) It is important that investigators see beyond
the person sitting before them and realize that past experiences
can impact on current behavior. Once interrogators realize
that the fear of possible punishment, coupled with the loss of
pride in having to admit to committing mistakes, is the basic
inhibitor they must overcome in suspects, they will quickly be
able to formulate questions and analyze responses that will
break through the inhibitors.

SUCCESSFUL INTERROGATIONS

Investigators must conduct every interrogation with the
belief that suspects, when presented with the proper avenue,
will use it to confess their crimes. Research indicates that
most guilty persons who confess are, from the outset, looking
for the proper opening during the interrogation to communicate
their guilt to the interrogators. (16)

Suspects confess when the internal anxiety caused by their
deception outweighs their perceptions of the crime's
consequences. (17) In most instances, suspects have magnified,
in their minds, both the severity of the crime and the possible
repercussions. Interrogators should allay suspect anxiety by
putting these fears into perspective.

Suspects also make admissions or confessions when they
believe that cooperation is the best course of action. (18) If
they are convinced that officers are prepared to listen to all
of the circumstances surrounding the crimes, they will begin to
talk. The psychological and physiological pressures that build
in a person who has committed a crime are best alleviated by
communicating. (19) In order to relieve these suppressed
pressures, suspects explain the circumstances of their crimes
they confess.

And, finally, suspects confess when interrogators are able
to speculate correctly on why the crimes were committed.
Suspects want to know ahead of time that interrogators will
believe what they have to say and will understand what motivated
them to commit the crime.

CONCLUSION

It is natural for suspects to want to preserve their
privacy, civil rights, and liberties. It is also natural for
suspects to resist discussing their criminal acts. For these
very reasons, however, investigators must develop the skills
that enable them to disarm defensive resistors established by
suspects during interrogation. Before suspects will confess,
they must feel comfortable in their surroundings, and they must
have confidence in the interrogators, who should attempt to gain
this confidence by listening intently to them and by allowing
them to verbalize their accounts of the crimes.

Interrogators who understand what motivates suspects to
confess will be better able to formulate effective questions and
analyze suspect responses. Obviously, more goes into gaining a
confession than is contained in this article. However, if the
interrogator fails to understand the motivations of the suspect,
other factors impacting on obtaining the confession will be less
effective.

"I'm messed up..." yet again. Sorry about a third thread. The initial post appeared in a second thread, but then I tried to paste the rest in reply and again nothing. So I will try here yet again with an initial post.

Trying again, nothing is showing up (why I write in Notepad!)

Hi again and thanks Brian, W and R! I feel one of those hangovers where you spill your guts and then you wake up thinking fuck I didn't say what I mean at all, so it might take some time (or more wine LOL) to hit my stride again to keep going tonight. OK well school had started again so it wasn't like during the summer I couldn't see them that much, usually weekends and sometimes once a week we'd meet close to where my school was in the parking lot of a cool mall that was in a converted old theater. If his wife wasn't home now and then we'd go to "John's" house but Saturdays she was usually there or going someplace where he didn't know for sure when she's be back and so a lot of the time we just went out. He was nervous about that I guess but I guess I seemed like his daughter even though Karen didn't look anything like me. He didn't seem like a monster anymore and she was really pretty to me again but I couldn't get that vision out of my mind ever either, plus he was different and that's one thing where I'm not sure my memory's not playing tricks on me, I mean -- maybe I was more different than they were because of what I saw that day? But I don't remember him being so... commanding I guess, before then. I mean I felt like I had to do what he said even if I didn't want to and the stuff he gave me it was like all of a sudden more like I was getting it becaise I let him do something, I mean like go to the rest room and take your panties off and I have something for you kind of but it's not like he came right out to say that it's how I felt though and that made me feel really bad. And the pace picked up, too, like if I didn't answer his questions it was OK we're going now. He asked me lots and lots of questions and told me all sorts of stuff and some of it I didn't believe but then after I would like half-believe it or that one part of me would like I wasn't sure about anything anymore and I mean I guess that's not that weird because of being that age anyway it's supposed to be confusing then? It's like he was telling me who I was and I wasn't anybody then.

He asked me about cutting and he even got me to tell him about playing with my butt and the worst part was telling him about Mr Thermometer because he'd like made me promise so hard never to tell and that was like deep in me I mean I could keep secrets and I took promises seriously but in other words John made me tell him everything usually at really nice restairants like where there was more privacy like sitting there and analyzing me and maybe that's why I do it to myself so much. You know by then my dirtiest secret wasnt the sex stuff it was puking and cutting and laxatives. I was losing weight but I was getting taller too I wasn't awkward but gangly and some people could tell there was something wrong with me and I remember even some guys who stared at me like they wanted to do things to me like they were disgusted too I mean theyd look at how skinny my arms were and give me a look like I was sick like pity and lust and revulsion all at the same time and teachers at school asked me about my weight and I would clam up totally and other kids started picking on me and I'd go home and look at fashion magazines and think how stupid they were because I would be in there and they were fat. But I tried to pretend like that nobody knew how I got so skinny. Part of me wanted to grow up faster thats normal too I guess LOL and so I was upset because nothing was happening, I mean I still didnt have any hair and my hips didnt get wider and I didnt bleed. When we did go to their house I felt trapped and things went way too fast I cried sometimes and he would hush me and I still remember him telling me to kiss it and the taste and you know even then there was still a part of me that liked it, I mean I felt like I should suck dick or that's what he told me to feel and it's like that part of me got bigger, like I said it was the Cindy part later he called me Cynthia though because I liked it better and it's not like everything was terrible he like helped me believe in myself too I mean he told me I really would be a model that I was prettier than the girls in the magazines and graceful and here's something I wanted to say before sometimes I thought like I wanted to be in Vogue I mean like not be anywhere else just be likeglossy and paper thin LOL, like I'd even sleep like that like in a picture. Like I said, hard to explain!

He also told me I wasn't stupid and he gave me stuff to read, great stuff like Story of O and I started to feel superior LOL. Part of me did anyway, remember I was still a kid and this was just twice a week at most the rest of the time my stepdad and Mom and school and OK the next thing is I was spaced out probably thinking about sucking and this teacher started yelling at me and I got wet. Like I was really far away and whatever I was thinking was probably sexy but I got wet 'cause he yelled at me. Like I said I didn't get too wet yet then but still I felt really funny about it and it happened again and one time my stepfather yelled at me and it happened too not as strong but it was like I liked it or my pussy liked it anyway.

I guess I sound like I was gloomy, but that would give the wrong impression, too; I DIDN'T belong to him, I mean I still loved getting stared at and even though I mostly thought about the things he made me do mostly sucking mostly on my knees looking up at him I had to and then during Xmas break he made me suck his finger after it was in my butt -- I didn't just think about that I thought about other guys too, not guys my age I NEVER thought about them but other older guys, guys who checked me out. It was winter and I didnt dress in revealing things because it was fucking cold LOL but tight jeans mostly and I copied the makeup in the magazines so I thought I was elegant but I guess I looked like a kid who was trying to be an adult. Like I said a lot of people looked at me not like they wanted me but like they thought I was sick and sometimes both and that winter I didnt have any friends at all. I still thought about girls sometimes too, not a lot. He made me touch Karen and she touched me but even though she was pretty I wasn't into her that much, I mean I didn't think about her when I played with myself and after the curiosity was over I mean like the first times just it was exciting to see her body then I didn''t want to do stuff with her I did only because he said to. But I still fantasized about girls in the fashion magazines and sometimes girls I'd see like at the pool. So I wasn't always gloomy I wasn't having FUN but even now I don't think sex (and I mean all of it, from fantasies to exhanging looks not just fucking and sucking) should be FUN. I think it's serious, I take it seriously, like you know in French an orgasm is called a little death and death is not FUN (OK maybe if you're Irish LOL).

Is anyone else not attracted by the thought of a woman touching herself? I'm straight an all that. The woman body turns me on but its just the genitalia I dont particularly spend much time getting on about or else I'll start to get on about how fucking weird the snatch really is. Like a gelatin bunch of little lippy things all inside a cave with a little slit of skin as an entrance. And then the sick sounding roughness of a women rubbing it all out. Just hits vial territory dunnit? But being all hard my general judgement is down and I'm all about just get in there. But dont fucking analyze that little sliver of tuna melt. That shits disgusting.

today i had to go do the physical for a new job. Of course, i had to do the peeing in the cup and all that, and the nurse told me to not wash my hands and not flush and all that or else we'd have to start over. I saw this as my chance to see if i could get anywhere with her, since i really don't give a fuck anymore about what people think of me, so i said,

"yeah i've done this before. You don't want me switching my pee with someone else's or dropping bleach in it or whatever. Are you gonna stand here next to me and make sure it's my urine going into the cup?"

She laughed at that, and said, "unless you want me to. Is there a reason i should? I was just going to go out and leave the door cracked a little."

With that, I just shrugged it off, playing indifferent.

"If you wanna stand there and watch me go, if that's your sort of thing, that's ok with me. I have nothing to hide. I was just playing, but if you want to, that's fine."

Mind you, the tone of our exchange was in a lighthearted and jocular manner, but through the joking there was seriousness. So, she ended up staying, and watched me pee. I pulled it out, and stroked it a bit, and to that she commented,

"Do you have to get it warmed up, is that what you're doing?"

"Yeah. Just a habit. I'm sure all guys do that. I'm sure your husband does that. Have you ever seen your husband do this?"

"oh no. He just pulls it out and just goes. He has foreskin, so sometimes he doesn't pull it back all the way, and piss gets all over the rim and floor. I get so mad at him for that, but you men are all the same."

I smiled at her generalization.
"Nah, not me. I try not to be like that. That's why i stroke it a couple of times, you know, so it won't splash everywhere."

I knew this was the time to bring it up, so i said immediately after that, "You can help me with a couple more strokes, you know."

Silence.
"Just so nothing goes anywhere, and all of it can get into the cup. I mean you need all of it, don't you?"

More silence. She had been looking up at me, and then down at my dick the whole time, but after that offer, she locked eyes with me, and for a long time, analyzing and computing what I had just told her. After the long stare, she smirked.

"oh you're a bad one. You're bad."

I laughed and said, "yeah i am."

I was holding the cup in my right hand, and the nurse took a quick look behind her, and quietly closed the bathroom door, turning the knob, so it wouldn't click when fully shut. She came back to me, and right up against me as if we were trying to share heat at a campfire. She pushed my right arm behind her, and with her own right hand, took my dick in her hand, and started stroking it.

"Like that? Is that how you want me to help you?"

I could not fucking believe that I had actually won this chick over and gotten her to play along. More stuff went on, but in a hurried pace, because of where we were, and there were other nurses wandering around that office, and so her prolonged absence would have drawn suspicion from the other nurses, but believe me, a lot went on in maybe those five minutes. I'll tell more, but in smaller chunks, because when these get long, they get pretty tedious and a chore to read. i was walkin' around afterwards like a motherfuckin' badass. Still can't believe the luck.

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