Page 4

“And who the fuck are you?”

“Shhh.” I shush him, sliding my arm down his head to the crook of his neck, wrapping it tighter around him, hearing the rattling of his strangled breath.

One hard squeeze and his fight is over, his body slumping against me like a sack of bricks. His hand falls from my face, his middle finger catching on the edge of my mask, pulling it down slightly, baring part of my face to his unconscious and vacant eyes.

“Oh, how I wish you would have seen me now. The fear of your realization would be so nice.” I say as I drop his immobilized form to my feet like a bag of trash, because that’s what he is now.

He’s nothing but a pile of denim and leather on the cold, unforgiving floor, and I kick him once in the abdomen for good measure. When he wakes up, I want the first thing he feels to be pain delivered to him while he was out, just like he has done to the little flower he’s defiled with his cane. The next thing he will experience is the terror of me looking down at him before I begin my handiwork.

For now though, the most important thing is to get the object of my new found fascination unbound from the sawhorse and recovered in my arms, where she belongs.

Fuck, H, what the hell are you doing?

I’m not a caregiver, except with my Magnolia. I don’t fawn over women, I don’t feel for them, and I sure as fuck don’t provide aftercare after my own vicious usage of them. Why I’m wanting to hold her, to pet her sweaty hair, to kiss her tears is beyond me. It just feels like the right thing to do.

“Huh. The right thing.” I say to myself as I quickly unfasten the leather straps around her thighs that have kept her from falling to the floor.

My fingertips brush against her soft flesh, and the man in me moans a wounded sound at how succulent it feels against their callused surfaces. It’s like touching fine silk, all smooth and perfect, until I stroke up her leg, and I feel the first welted line from her torture. The puckered skin, all red and heated makes me feel the same, hot and angry.

“Come on Princess, let’s get you taken care of.” I murmur quietly, unhooking her the rest of the way and lifting her up into my arms like a sleeping baby.

She weighs nothing, even with her voluptuous breasts and thighs, ones that jiggle slightly with each step I take towards the back of the room towards a leather sofa sits flanked by two tables and lamps with soft red lighting. She’s more stunning up close, with her scattering of tiny freckles and ivory skin that almost glows under the lighting, making her look like a porcelain doll.

The leather squeaks under my ass as I sit down and gently adjust her in my lap, resting her head on my chest, draping her legs over my thigh. The feeling of her ample ass on my crotch, separated only by the fabric of my trousers has my already hard cock moving under her, seeking her out, looking for her warmth.

“Mmmm.” She moans lowly, her head lolling against me, her eyelashes fluttering on her pale cheeks, brushing those little brown spots like a butterfly kissing a flower’s petals.

She’s still in the safety of being unaware of her physical pain, but it’s not going to last long. The more she comes back to consciousness, the more the agony will set in, and the moans will turn back into screams and tears. She will come back to life into the torture she left just minutes ago, only this time when she feels the pain, she’ll be safe in my arms.

Never thought you’d want a toy to feel safe with you, did you, you bastard.

Next to us on the couch sits her purse and a skimpy little silver outfit neatly folded and set aside with care. The black leather bag calls to me, with its open zipper taunting me to rummage through it, to seek out more information about her. Where does she live, what type of makeup does she use, and above all, what’s her name?

The contents rattle as I dig through them, my hand grabbing at lipstick, keys, and a small wallet. Pulling the little purple, leather pouch from the purse, I open it and take out the driver’s license from the windowed slot.

“Lily Murphy. Of course you’re Irish. These give you away Princess.” I whisper, dragging my finger down her cheek, caressing all the little freckles with my knuckle.

There’s something about the precious little thing in my lap that’s doing God knows what in my chest. I can feel my heart beating, and there’s a twisting feeling when I look down at her. It’s almost what it was like when I would watch my mother as she toiled away in the house with her ever-present smile and pure aura.

“Is that what this is baby girl? Are you pure like her?”

The angelic little sounds coming from her as she stirs in my arms are like heaven, like she’s still out. The piece of shit on the floor though is coming around much faster, and with an annoyed grumble I gently stand up and set her down on the couch, turning her head so that if she were to wake, she would be looking at the back of the piece of furniture. Something so perfect doesn’t need to see what I’m about to do.

Walking around the well-stocked playroom, I gingerly run my hands over the tendrils of whips and floggers that hang from the racks on the burgundy wall. I study them, imaging all the vile things I can do to the pissant that’s now writhing and coughing in his consciousness. I picture behind my eyelids the blood I can shed with some of these implements when I close my eyes and center myself.

Deep breaths. Easy H.

I can’t lose control. I need his punishment to be precise, and a lesson to anyone who dares to look through the window where Samantha still stands in the main hallway, her eyes wide, her hands wringing together nervously.

She knows my level of insanity, and how brutal I can be. She has it in her too. The desire to wreak havoc, to punish, to maim, and to kill. She’s a monster just like me, and she knows that I want to play right here and right now, in her club. She should be worried, and she knows it.

“What are you doing?” The abusive asshat on the floor asks, gripping at his throat as he kneels, his body swaying with the remaining haziness of his short sleep.

Pausing my attention to the many options hanging before me, I turn back to him, slowly stalking towards where he teeters in the middle of the room, eyeing him up and down. He reaches out and grabs the sawhorse for support, blissfully unaware still of what’s going to happen to him, but he’ll find out sooner rather than later. Where he had the beautiful little flower strapped is where he’ll cease to exist.

Lily. It fits her. So dainty and pretty. A precious spring bloom in a field of shit.

His mask is still perched up high on his forehead, exposing his face to me and to anyone outside of the room. The scar that goes from eyebrow to jawline flexes as he clenches his teeth, and I want nothing more than to open it back up, to watch the blood flow freely from it, like the blood that runs down the back of pretty Lily’s thighs from where he caned her mercilessly.

“What am I doing?” I say to him, bending down, tilting his face up to me with the tip of my finger under his chin. “I’m going to make sure you never do that again.” I add, tilting his gaze towards the unmoving form on the leather sofa that still whimpers in her sleep.

“She didn’t safe word out. It’s not my…”

His words stop instantly in my palm as I cup my hand over his mouth. I don’t want to hear that kind of dribble. He knew what he was doing. He was getting off on her pain, which is acceptable, but he took advantage of it, pushed it too far, and didn’t allow her to use the words she needed before he took her consciousness away against her will with his torture. That’s something unacceptable, even for me. There’s a time and place for brutalities, a time and place to destroy things, even pretty things like her. But here, in a place where she was assured safety is just wrong. Even a ruthless killer like me acknowledges and accepts that.

A surprised squeak slips from his lips as I lift him up and toss him over the wooden, padded bench. He doesn’t have time to flip himself off it before I have his hands in mine, stretching them down, wrapping his wrists tightly with the leather straps attached to the sawhorse’s legs. His feet kick, and he bucks his hips, but a quick slap across his half-masked face stops him instantly. The covering flies off the rest of the way, skidding across the floor, baring his face with wide brown eyes to my view.

The panic in my victim’s gaze is what drives me when I play. I love the fear that I can see when the pupils dilate and the corners of the eyes water. They become all reflective and shimmery, allowing me to see the face of evil, my face, as I stare down at them, and his terror doesn’t disappoint, even though my face is still covered. He knows who I am, everyone here does.

They might not know the real me, the man who lives on the hill with his prize bitch, the murderer who gets off on blood and death, but they know my reputation in this building, and that’s enough for him to be shaking and biting back his pleas for safety from me.

I’m H, the man that everyone steps out of the way for, the man who exudes authority when he moves through the halls and the playrooms, and the only man to bring Samantha to her knees with a pain she needed to safe word out of. I might not own this place, but my word is law here, and this prick in front of me knows it as he tremors across the wooden bench.

The fight in his body has settled down to a simmering terror as he looks up at my masked face. I always wear the same one when I come to play. It’s known and feared by all men, yet desired by every woman in these soundproof, burgundy walls.

“H”. He murmurs so quietly in his recognition of me, that if the room weren’t perfectly silent I would miss it. “H, I…I…”

“I don’t want to hear it. You know the rules, and you broke them, and broke her.”

“Why do you care about a nobody piece of ass?” He asks, his eyes flittering between my gaze and the sleeping Lily.

The question is valid. Never before have I cared, and never before have I stopped a session between two people I’ve never given a thought about, nor met. But that magnetic pull to the beautiful redhead is a mystery that I would rather divulge in instead of figuring it out. To give it too much thought would mean diving into my own mind. It’s a dark and scary place, even for me, and I would rather not plunge into the abyss just yet.

“I don’t need to explain myself to a piece of shit like you.” I say, forcing him to look at me and only me with a hard grip on his face, concaving his cheeks in under my fingers until they squeeze against his teeth. “This isn’t the first time you’ve disobeyed the law in here. But it will be the last.”

“No. H…H…I promise it…” He stutters, spittle dribbling out through his squished lips.

“Sorry mate. My mind has been made up.” I sigh in return.

I was really hoping to get my dick wet tonight, to have it covered in spit and cum, but getting my hands dirty will have to suffice. It’s still a pleasure, just not the one I envisioned when I slipped on my suit tonight to the approval of my four-legged girl. Blood can feel just as perfect when it’s warm and fresh, and maybe, just maybe if I smear some of it on my cock, I’ll get the sexual satisfaction I so crave.

The array of torturous devices and implements hanging so perfectly on the racks just don’t appeal to me. But the discarded cane rolling around on the floor is calling to me, to use it on him more violently than he used it on her. It would be beautifully symbolic for the last reception of pain in his life to be delivered by the instrument of his crime.

It's still warm from the heat of his hand as I pick it up, and slide my palm up and down it’s smooth, skinny surface. The material bends in my grip and makes a loud whoosh as I whip it through the air, watching his eyebrows rise, and his face flush.

“No H. Please. No.” He begs, trying to crane his neck to keep his eyes on me as I step behind him. “God H. No…” He continues as I yank down his jeans and tear them off him, removing his boxers and shoes with them in one hard pull, leaving him naked, with no protection from my hands, or the eyes of the crowd gathering outside at the window.