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April is the worst month of the year in the northeastern united states. The weather is still laced with the frost of winter, making the frequent rains icy enough to chill you to the bone. April showers bringing May flowers and all that bullshit is just that, bullshit. The only positive thing about all the rain is the fact that the lengthening days are gloomier than they should be, giving me the freedom to roam in the dark for more hours than daylight savings time would allow.

The all black leather gear I’ve adorned myself with does more to protect me from the asphalt if I were to dump my bike, than it does from the soaking wetness from yet another spring storm. It’s a miserable feeling, the already heavy clothing weighing me down even more as I careen through the streets on my one-liter sportbike.If the weather was warmer, I’d be riding squid, in nothing but street clothes, but it’s just too fucking cold for that still.

In better weather, I enjoy my rides home after a long day at the office. The peace and solitude inside my helmet and the freedom of being cage free as I drive relaxes me, helping me erase the shit of the job and prepare for my other, more enjoyable activities.

Being the CEO of a fortune 500 company that deals in international imports and exports may sound boring, but in reality it’s not. The amount of work I need to do, just to hide the illegal activities of smuggling and tax evading, is enough to be making my jet back hair start to grey at the temples early. I’m only thirty, and I already feel like I’m at least ten years my senior.

I’m in my prime, but some days, I tell you, I don’t feel like it. The only times I really feel alive anymore is either when I’m racing as fast as my two wheels will allow, or when I’m buried balls deep in some pretty young thing as she cries out in pain at my sexual brutalities. Well, that and my OTHER extra-curricular activity, but we’ll visit that in a little bit.

The bike lurches between my legs as I flip up the shifter with my foot and pick up more speed. Just the thought of my cock getting wet in some prime pussy has me wanting to get home and start my evening of debauchery. Friday nights are my favorite, when the liquor flows freely, and the women throw themselves at me for just the chance at being my chosen ones for the evening.

The masquerade parties at “Le Chateaux” are the highlight of my week. The anonymity they provide for all the things I like to do both in the bedroom and playroom, gives me an outlet for all my dark pleasures. The women never know who the man behind the mask is, and I prefer it that way. I don’t want to date in the traditional sense. I don’t want some gold-digging floozy trying to get her greedy claws into me or my vast wealth. I sure as shit don’t want a relationship to just one cunt for the rest of my life. No, those things aren’t for me. They would never fit into my lifestyle, the lifestyle I enjoy and never want to give up.

The wrought iron gates to my compound squeak slightly as they swing open like a hungry mouth, ready to swallow me up. The long driveway up to the main house on the hill is like a rocky esophagus, leading me to the gullet that I call home, and I maneuver it expertly, weaving around the ruts made in the surface from my truck tires during last night’s storm.

The pickup was extra heavy with the cargo I stowed in the back under the bed cover and made an absolute mess that I’ll have to repair, but it was worth it. The screams echoing off the walls of my basement made all the extra cleanup and disposal needs seem so insignificant.

My bike vibrates and bounces under my ass, and I lift myself up off the seat. I don’t need a shot to the nuts by my gas tank on the night I plan on using them over and over again. They need to be in perfect working order for all the ladies at “Le Chateaux”, because the sexual needs I have right now, after last evening’s activities are vast and can only be fulfilled by multiple orgasms over many writhing bodies.

As I approach my thirteen-bedroom, ten-bathroom mansion, the yapping sounds of my dogs grows louder. The pack of Dobermans patrol the property without fail, always keeping me and my secrets perfectly safe along with the security system and mass of cameras directed at every angle of my house. They’re the most protective and loyal breed of dog and I adore each and every one of them, treating them better than most men treat their wives.

Magnolia, my head bitch, is always the first to greet me and she trots behind the bike like the obedient girl she is as I pull into the massive garage. The door rattles loudly as it lowers closed behind us, enveloping us in the warmth of being out of the storm.

“Hey baby girl. Was today a good day?” I ask, parking the bike and dismounting so I can squat down and scratch her behind her cropped ears.

She answers me with a single quiet “woof” and a press of her wet head into my hand.

“Such a good girl. Come on inside.”

The other nine of them stay outdoors, having free access to their own cabin with warm beds, fresh running water, and all the food they can eat. In the rear of the property, where they can come and go as needed, they rule the kingdom, just as I do inside with my Magnolia at my side. Call me sentimental, or whatever you wish, but even the most vicious killers in history have had their loves, and she’s mine.

The house is toasty warm as we make our way from the garage into the massive kitchen. The dark woods and shiny marble make the space opulent to the extreme, a room worthy of a king’s castle. It’s my favorite room, with the ten-burner gas stove and triple ovens built into the cottage white walls.

Cooking is more than a hobby of mine, being not only something I love to do, but also the source of the only good memories I have from my childhood. I would watch my mother make elaborate meals, always with a smile on her beautiful face. She was a loving and stunning woman, before she was taken from me violently by the man who promised to love her.

Images of her, in her paisley apron in front of the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand, holding it out for me to taste the sauce in its ladle wash through my mind as I trot across the room. It makes me smile as I continue through the house, into the foyer, and up the vast staircase to my bedroom with Magnolia still on my heels.

“Remind me later to change out those flowers in the entryway will ya, baby.” I say to my prize bitch as I strip off my soaked leathers, dropping them unceremoniously in the hallway outside my bedroom door.

A soft grumble of acknowledgement follows me into the master suite as she jumps up on the giant four poster bed and settles herself into the super soft duvet.

“Daddy needs a shower, then I’m going out. It’s Friday.” I say, scratching her head before leaving her to herself so I can warm up my frozen bones.

It’s a lonely existence being here without human company, but I’m thankful I have her. She doesn’t nag me or make me do things I don’t want to do. She doesn’t care that I have the activities that I enjoy, and she sure as shit isn’t telling anyone what happens inside these walls.

Still, a woman would be nice. Maybe someday I’ll meet one who also enjoys the same things as me.

The water heats up instantly. The multiple shower heads pouring out torrents of steam, filling the large room quickly until it’s so hot it takes your breath away. The stone walls weep with a shimmery condensation, and the vast, frosted glass enclosure becomes opaquer as I step inside.

“Oh fuck yeah.” I groan, stepping under the scalding heat that feels like millions of tiny hot pokers sinking into my still chilled flesh.

My muscles tremor, their corded knots loosening as I lean my sculpted body against the shower wall and the water massages away the day. If my skin was made of tin, the rivers running down my body and over my eight pack abs would sound like a washboard being used, and I watch with a calm serenity as the water falls from me and disappears down the drain.

Most evenings I’d be closing my eyes and wrapping my hand around my cock, watching as the devil tattooed on me from finger tips to forearm gobbled it up, but not tonight. Tonight I want to save every drop of cum in my full sack for later.

It's still a beautiful sight though, as I wash myself, with my black and grey ink passing over the rest of my body as I rub the soap between my palms then smear it over myself. The scent is almost mossy, you know, how the woods smell after a light rain. It’s natural, manly, and anything but overpowering. It's subtle. I like subtle. I want the women I’m with to have to be against me, their noses in the crooks of my skin to smell me. It draws them in and keeps them there while I do with them as I please.

Olfactophilia is, by definition, the sexual arousal of scents emanating from the body, a pleasure most women experience but don’t even recognize. I like to play on kinks and unexplored fantasies with my toys, and it begins with something as simple as my choice of soap. If I said it didn’t arouse me too, I’d be lying. There’s nothing sexier than a partner, or victim that smells good enough to eat.

Shaking off my concupiscence I finish scrubbing then wash my short, cropped hair, making sure to condition the frosted tips and the dark roots so they’re soft and touchable, the complete opposite of the rest of me. I’m a hard man on the outside, with thick skin and large muscles. Intimidating tattoos of demons, vines, and Japanese warriors shedding blood in scenes of violence are etched permanently into my flesh, making me ominous and unapproachable. That is until I open my mouth, and my sliver of Russian accent laces the words I so eloquently speak.

I’m the man your mother warned you about, the kind with unclean intentions, that will sweep you off your feet with promises of romance then destroy your body and soul. I’m a giving lover, and a taking man. A hunter who will draw you into my sights, then pounce on you before you know what has happened, and if you’re lucky, you survive the night with me. If you’re not so lucky, you end up in the back of my pickup truck, taking the ride down the rutted driveway to a place where you’ll never be found.

My father aptly described me, when he graced me with the name Hedeon, which in my native language means destroyer. It’s like he knew I would adopt his perversions, with the undeniable force of nature winning over the gentle nurturing of the angel that was my mother.

Да пошёл он. Fuck him.

Hedeon Zverev is my identity, and I live up to it. I’m a destroyer, a ruiner, a beast, and a force to be reckoned with in the bedroom, boardroom, and dungeon. I’m ruthless, unforgiving, and vile. I’m a sexual deviant and killer. I’m…me. Love me or hate me, I couldn’t care less.

The heated bathroom floor is toasty warm under my feet when I step out of the shower, wrapping a fluffy white towel around my hips. Was it necessary to have something so frivolous added to my house? No. But I have more money than I know what to do with, both from inherited family wealth and my career, so why not make things more comfortable for myself?

“Woof.” Magnolia greets me as I come back into the bedroom, her large body sprawled out on my bed, with her head hanging over the edge of it like a silly thing, making me smile.

“Hey baby girl. You gonna watch the house for me while I’m gone?”

Sometimes I think the conversations I have with her are better and more intelligent than ones I have with other humans. With another quiet huff, she watches me as I stride over to the walk-in closet and open the mahogany door, exposing rack after rack of designer suits, casual wear, and my stock pile of disposable stuff for my in-home play dates. Tonight I need suave, sophisticated, dark, and dangerous.

A pair of black slacks, a crisp white dress shirt, and a tailored black suit jacket drape over my arm as I pick out a pair of shiny black shoes and my favorite belt. The metal buckle clinks quietly as I toss it over my shoulder and flip through my tie rack.

“What do you think girl? Silver or red?” I ask, popping my head out of the closet and holding up the two ties. It’s not like she can actually tell me, but whatever. “Red? Good choice.” I chuckle, tossing the silver one back onto the spinning display with all the others.

Grabbing a black trench coat, I toss it on the bed, then dig through the small chest on top of my dresser. The masks and blindfolds swish around as I drag my fingers across them, picking out the perfect one for tonight’s festivities. Black, with red piping around the edges, and a little shimmer to the fabric will go nicely with my attire. It covers three quarters of my face, leaving just my cheek and chin exposed on the left, like the one the phantom wore when he terrorized the opera.

Perfect.