I am offering the first three chapters of my first book Ripped & Twisted here free. If afterwards you decide that you may like to read more, please go clickity-click at Amazon. (It's Free on Kindle Unlmited) If you do enjoy it, please leave a review. I love reviews. I love feedback. Hopefully...Enjoy!
Also, this is the link to the First Three Chapters of my second book Candy & Kink
Also, this is the link to the First Three Chapters of my second book Candy & Kink
Warning: This book is fictional and depicts acts of violence, graphic sex, including BDSM, M/F/M menage circumstances, and oodles of kink. This book is recommended for mature audiences (21 and over) who are not offended by scenarios such as these.
Pinks, oranges, reds, purples, and blues, they were the colors of a sunset. I could not help but think, “How beautiful?” In the same instant, I thought that was a sick and twisted thought to have at this moment just as everything turned black and the bright stars zoomed as though I were watching a bad sci-fi movie and the ship were taking off into warp speed. Then again, I had been in this scenario before. I never did scream or plea. Those things were simply impossible with his tight grip around my throat, my body hard against the wall, and my feet barely grazing the ground. Oh, I used to try to struggle and cry. I learned quickly that that was a futile effort. Soon enough, I learned that if I closed my eyes and allowed my body to go limp he would usually drop me to crumple on the floor. It became a good defense for me. It was my plan this time. Only, this time was different. I felt the release of one hand. I opened my eyes only to see the barrel of the gun raising, then pressing into my cheek.
Have you ever had a nightmare where you try to scream and there is only silence? Or have you ever once experienced sleep paralysis? It is that frightening time where you are conscious but your body is frozen. That was exactly what I felt like. My mouth flew open but nothing came out, just wheezes and gasps. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Our house was secluded. No one would have ever heard the screams.
My eyes squeezed shut. My breathing stopped. My heart leapt. Wait. Wait. I slowly lifted my lids. He had the gun to his temple.
He laughed, a maniacal laugh. A chill went through me, no it was more like a rush of ice flowing through my veins. He looked like a demon, face contorted, “It’s not loaded, you stupid cunt.” His hand dropped from my throat. I fell to my hands and knees and scrambled on all fours to try and get under the bed, like that would save me. Then, he left… Just walked out. He didn’t come back until the wee hours of the next morning.
I crawled out from under the bed about an hour later. Juvenile, but under the bed was always a safe haven for me as a child. It was the place I would go to be alone, to read, and to hide from the monsters after a scary movie. It was my own fortress so to speak, and I still clung to it as one.
I was sure he was out at the bar getting completely wasted and who knows what else with one of his whores. One would think that I would have left then. But I didn’t, not quite yet. It is truly hard to explain to people the prison of fear that traps you into a really fucked up situation. I was not really concerned with me. Hell, I had always thought that I wouldn’t live to see thirty anyway. To me this was almost destiny. I was only twenty-six. Twenty-six and I was living a complete and utter lie.
At this moment, I hated him. But, I hated myself even more.
Sometimes, I think about how I wound up with this demon of a man. I was young. I had lived a sheltered life, cloistered by private Catholic schools. Hell, at one point, I even thought about entering a convent. That was until my hormones kicked in. He was the bad boy. All the girls wanted him, and he wanted me. How could I resist?
It all seemed so harmless to begin with. I thought the first signs of jealousy meant he really loved me. In my young, innocent brain I thought this was how it was supposed to be. I mean, years of soap operas couldn’t be wrong. Shouldn’t a man be jealous at times?
Then it progressed further. He claimed he could judge others’ character better than I could which was why I was not allowed to talk to certain people. I began to believe him. I began to shut myself off from friends, family. After all, he claimed to love me and worked my virtuous body to heights I had never known could exist, my first introduction to the yearnings of lust. I sunk deeper. Once we were married and had moved a few towns away, I was completely his, isolated and caged.
Everyone on the outside, well, they had no clue what went on behind closed doors. He was good like that. He left no marks that clothes could not hide.
As I succumbed deeper to his possession, rules began to be implemented. Psychologically, he had manipulated my mind so much that I really did think that I was crazy. I sat passively as the verbal threats turned into physical actions.
I say no one knew, but I had gone to confession. Falling back to something I once held so valuable in my life, I had told the priest about my unhappy marriage and vaguely hinted at abuse. The holy man told me that it was my cross to bear and divorce was a sin. Obviously, I was not fulfilling my role as a godly wife. You have to love Catholic guilt as the cherry on top of everything else you hate about yourself, your life. I believe this was the final straw with me, and religion as well. I stayed.
I attempted to leave once. He punted my little dog across the yard. Then, he threatened to kill my parents. I did not doubt him. He was insane, and he had always had complete possession and control over me. I was not allowed to wear makeup. I was not allowed to talk to anyone unless he approved or was around. This made working in an office a little difficult needless to say. He picked out my clothes. I was not allowed to shower in the mornings and had to wear my hair in a ponytail because as he had told me time and time again, “You don’t need to impress no one.” Then again, he was never impressed with me either. As the years passed, he savored the control, but he did not crave me or my body. He curbed those cravings with other women.
I worked full time and handed over my checks to him. It was expected that the house be spotless at all times. I had to vacuum and mop daily. Dusting was also expected twice a week. Once a week, I had to move appliances and clean underneath and behind them. Yard work was my responsibility. Everything in the house had a place, and it best be in its proper place at all times.
Imagine the movie “The Burning Bed” combined with “Sleeping with the Enemy.” Our pantry, yes, the canned goods were in a specific order, labels all facing forward. Water spots on any sink or surfaces were not tolerated. Curtains cleaned and pressed. Hell, I even had to iron his paper money. Have you heard of anything so irrational? Yet, I did it.
That was my life, and as long as I followed the rules and was a good girl, I was able to keep him calm enough to get through the day. I spent my life walking on egg shells, hoping not to poke the beast. Though, I had known no other relationship but this, in my gut I knew it wasn’t okay, but I allowed it and could not rationalize why.
The last straw.
We were over at a friend’s house. It was spring. Music blaring, meat grilling on the bbq, drinks being consumed. Everything seemed, well, normal for a change. Laughing, singing, dancing, talking, then like the flash of a camera bulb, it changed. For a very rare moment, I was relaxed and felt as though I could speak freely. I remember making an offhanded sarcastic comment joking around.
His eyes darkened, blackened. He strode a path straight for me, grabbed me by the arm and drug me into the bathroom.
His voice was low, harsh. I can’t even recall all of the words that spewed forth as he shook me and threatened me.
It was probably the usual rant about me being a stupid cunt, flirting, being a stupid bitch, a whore. As quickly as we entered, we were heading out of the bathroom where he announced that I wasn’t feeling well and he was taking me home. He had bought a new Corvette convertible. He had bought it without me knowing. He liked to drive like a bat out of hell in it, weaving in and out of traffic, going twenty to forty miles above the speed limit. We screeched to a halt across our manicured lawn. The pretty green St. Augustine now ripped and torn. He continued with an iron grasp to pull me inside the house, jerking me along by the hand he had rooted in my hair. He shook me more as he was now able to unleash his screams about me embarrassing him and being such a stupid little cunt.
For the first time, I dared to yell back at him. “Fuck you!”
That’s when he slapped me across the face. Out of my head, with a new found courage, I slapped him back. He was shocked, not for long though. That’s when he spit in my face.
I spit back.
He smacked me again in the face and threw me to the floor, then stormed out of the front door. I heard the tires squeal as he drove away. I sat in a slumped ball on the carpet and cried. I was repulsed. It wasn’t the fact that he had spit on me. No, that had happened quite a few times before. It was the fact that I had acted out, and in the same manner he had done to me.
He would often abandon me after any altercation to stew in my thoughts… think about what I had done until I would call and beg him to come back, apologizing profusely for my wrongdoings. Then, I would wait for him to arrive and face my punishments in silence, returning to my docile role once again. This time, though, this time I had fought back and tested him. Tonight would be indefensible to him. No apology, no amount of pleading would help me. My mind raced and became muddled with what torture he may inflict upon me in payback.
As I laid there sobbing, everything closed in around me. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had numbed myself to so much over the years. I had come to the point that I knew he would kill me eventually. I even had begun to welcome the thought. Peace from torment. That’s when I made the decision. At least I could deny him the satisfaction of taking my last breath.
I had several bottles of painkillers in a cabinet. I never took them, I had a very high tolerance for pain and never needed them. In fact, I welcomed it. Pain made me actually feel. Over the course of a few surgeries, and ‘mishaps,’ the bottles had accumulated. He liked to fill my prescriptions and sell them by the pill to people he knew. I knew he did it. I had said that I didn’t like it. How could I stop him?
We always had a full liquor cabinet and fridge full of beer. People usually wound up at our house every night after drinking all night so that they could eat and drink more. You see where this is heading right?
I started on the first bottle of pills and washed it down with a bottle of vodka. As I moved to the second bottle of pills, I switched to a six pack of beer. I sat down and began scribbling on paper. Who knows what I wrote because everything was turning blurry, and I was getting tired. I think it just resembled black swirls and scrawls across the sheets of white paper. I was feeling tired, but hot and even a little nauseous. I crawled to the bathroom and splatted across the cool ceramic tile floor. I remember being able to lift my heavy body to the toilet and vomiting, then lolling back to the floor. I don’t know how many more times I vomited. My eyes wouldn’t open anymore. I had no concept of time. I heard him laughing above me and sort of nudge me with his foot. I heard the paper of the note ripping and then him leaving again.
It was late the next day when I became conscious. My heart dropped when I did. My first thought was, “Why?”
I could open my eyes. I could even raise myself up from the mess that I was covered in. Looking in the mirror, my eyes were swollen to the size of golf balls with little slits. My hair was matted with dried vomit.
Why didn’t it work? Why was I still here? Had I really been that bad in life? I had to be in Hell, right? I just couldn’t take it anymore. How in the hell was I still alive?
This was the last straw. This is when I knew I had to plot escape.
I’m a special sort of depraved.
We’ll get back to that part of the story, maybe.
I guess you should know that I did get out. There was no knight in shining armor to help, no prince charming, just little old me. This bitch was her own hero, sort of…. Here we are now, and if you saw where I was sitting at the moment, I’m sure that you would think that I had lost any little piece of sanity that I had left.
I’ve been pretty numb for at least six years now. I have not cried in the same amount of time. The only thing that I do feel is immense rage. This fury fills me until I feel as though I may explode. Don’t get me wrong, no one suspects how dark I really am. I live a complete lie to the outside world, once again. I have become a spectacular actress. I radiate fucking happiness. I plaster a glowing smile on my face every day that I walk out of my god damn door. I make people laugh. Trust me, I can be hilarious. I am quick, sarcastic, and have a quip for everything at any time. People always tell me that I make their day and love to tell me how I make them laugh all the time. It’s an art that I’ve perfected over the years. I give a great façade, social butterfly, life of the fucking party, and the girl many guys think they want to fuck. Pricks.
It’s not completely their faults. I emanate sex. I can’t help it. Maybe it’s true what they say about pheromones. Possibly, they just smell the horny on me. Essentially, I am insatiable. In this aspect, I am just like a boy entering puberty. I think about fucking all day long, all night too. Since, I can’t always have access to a nice cock, well, let’s just say that I keep the stocks up on the battery companies.
I really am not trying to be conceited. I know that many consider me “hot.” In reality, I’m nothing special. Personally, I have never felt pretty before. At least, it wasn’t until recently that people commented that they thought I was. Weirdness. I like to claim being five foot one. After all, it’s only a quarter of inch that I’m lacking. I weigh roughly a buck. I’m tight and ripped. No, I’m not lucky. No, I don’t starve myself. My body is this way because I’ve found one way to help control the violent intense anger that threatens to bubble to the surface. Discipline. Control. Instructions. These are things that I need. I follow a regime, given to me by a trainer who keeps my ass in check and isn’t afraid to call me out on any type of bullshit with her directions. Yeah, “her.” She’s a fucking badass. She’s one of the only people in my life that I allow to tell me what to do. I eat like a bodybuilder: pure, clean, and tons. Hell, I don’t even drink any more. I work out like a fiend. I spend two to three hours in the gym a day. I’m there while the rest of the world is still tucked away in their protected, sweet cocoons. I run. I lift. I run. I lift. I do this until the tightness in my chest begins to abate a bit. Afterwards in the morning, I am able to face the rest of the world with my happy little mask.
Let me explain a little further. I found this lifestyle purely by accident. I was a normal cardio bunny using running as a release when I was approached by a female bodybuilder in the gym. We began chatting. I was intrigued when she told me, “Discipline is freedom.” I thought she was insane.
Many people don’t understand that the discipline and control that one takes upon themselves in this lifestyle somehow really do give me a freedom to live the rest of my life without falling completely apart or becoming completely self-destructive. Maintaining the regime, and self-restraint that comes along with it, help me manage the times that I must appear normal to the rest of society. It does not help all of my inner yearnings though.
I work at a gym. I have to be a ray of sunshine to everyone who comes in. Therefore, the great faux persona is mixed with the bod that I kill myself for. I won’t lie, part of me does this from the years of being told how fat and frumpy I was when I was a whopping ninety-five pounds. Besides, during that period I truly began, and still somewhat believe, that I am “a horror to all men.” Yep I was told that. Do you like that one?
I like to keep a pretty, edgy, a somewhat punk vibe. I have tattoos, but they’re sweet. Fuck, even the LOVE/HATE on my wrists are inked in pink. I always joke, “It’s just a subtle, little dab of girly hate.” By the way, I hate the color pink. I sport it, though, with all of those other floral, bright colors because it makes me seem even brighter. I keep my hair short, crazy, yet feminine and bleached now. That would be rebellion for all of the years not allowed to color or cut it without retribution. This is me, Faith Dumont, who has the face of a sweet angel, filthy sense of humor, has a penchant for angry, aggressive rock, and love of everything. At least this is how it appears to everyone else. The dichotomy of the equation, I’m told, equals “hot.” Shrug.
It helps, the crazy routine. You know, they say that exercise releases endorphins to help improve your mood. For me, my mental state doesn’t change very much. I am riddled with nefarious thoughts and intentions. I am, however, constantly horny. I mentioned that, didn’t I? I am anything but promiscuous though. There have been only four men since I left my, um, situation. Suffice it to say that I own pretty much every battery operated device out there. I even carry them with me so that I can get a little self-quickie anytime during the day. Gotta love an orgasm for quick deliverance from tension. Can you believe that I can actually orgasm during my workouts too? Yes, yes, I can after exceptionally hard, long sessions. Those are the only two emotions that I actually feel now, hate and lust. I say hate, when in actuality it is a deep seated self-loathing.
This routine doesn’t help soothe my turmoil completely. Too many times, I feel that my skin is so tight and that the blackness expanding inside of me is going to rip me to shreds. These are the nights that I wind up here, Rapture. Fucking corny ass name.
Rapture, my friends, is an underground BDSM club. This place is nothing like you read about in those lame ass books either. It’s dark. It’s scary looking. It’s fucking paradise to a person like me. This is New Orleans after all. The building is old, exposed brick, old worn wood floors that creak, dark hallways. There are still oil lamps on the walls. No sign adorns the outside. Off the side streets from all of the famous bars and tourist traps, the building sits tucked between others looking like any other random private residence. The last thing we need is an accidental asshole tourist peeking in for a looky-loo. Just in case someone stumbles upon us and knocks, the foyer has a door that blocks what lies beyond.
This is where I come several nights a week. I’m here tonight, sitting at the ancient wooden bar nursing a club soda with slices of lemon and lime. I told you that I don’t drink anymore. Not only does the booze mess with my ability to create the intensity I need in my workout routine, I do not want it to dull what goes on here. Besides, suffice it to say, that I have a few issues with drinking until the point of blackout. Or even worse. This habit alone should have contributed to me being in jail or dead.
I sit scanning the entrance every few minutes waiting for Slade to come in. Slade is the man who can give me what I need. When I say need, I mean it. I require what he does like the necessity of oxygen.
Behind the bar, J grabs my glass and refills it full of my fuzzy favorite. “He’ll be here. He said he would, didn’t he?” I give him a little nod. J gives me a sympathetic but reassuring smile and goes back to serving other patrons. I turn in my stool to watch the front room. Lots of the usual suspects are here. Nothing outlandish goes on in this area. People mingle, dance, sit, and chat as though it were any other nightclub. We even look like it, no stupid getups. I’m wearing a backless black dress that dips so low that you can see the dimples at the top of my ass. It’s held up, barely, by two thin straps. The dress is silky, short, and sexy. Royal blue platform heels, “fuck me pumps,” round it out. I look like I could be dancing to the house music and pulsing lights in any club in the Quarter.
My skin has begun to burn. My insides feel expanded like a balloon about to burst. Pressure, so much pressure, and those feelings of hate and self-loathing. My jaw is clenching so hard that I feel as though my teeth may crack. The suffocating feelings are creeping in. I begin to slump a little in my seat, putting my elbow on the bar and my head in my hand. That’s when I feel him even before his finger lightly runs down my bare back. He steps in front of me smiling and bending down to look deep in my eyes. “They’re almost green,” he says referring to my eyes. “You must be bad, Squirt.” My eyes are ordinarily gray blue. My mood dictates the color. The wrath makes them this color, a weird mix of aqua and green.
“I keep telling you I’m a petite delicate fucking flower, you big oaf.” I give a half smile.
By anyone’s standards, Slade Gautreaux is gorgeous. He is about six foot three, dark brown hair, always mussed up. Slade is built like a Physique competitor. Hell, that’s because he is: lean, full blown shredded. He has that v-taper that makes the girls go crazy. I call them cum gutters, because well, yeah. Every single time that I see those, I want to run my tongue along those creases that lead to his cock for hours, mmmmmmm. His eyes, damn, they’re so icy blue. The man is downright beautiful. I’ve seen women throw themselves at him on the street or at the gym. Me? I use him, and he knows it. I don’t do romantic, neither does he. To me, love is for chumps. Love is evil. Love is a lie and the most sordid of all bullshit. I’ve been down that road before. He makes my cunt wet. But all that heart fluttering, stomach flipping shit? No.
Between us, there are no possessive feelings or jealousy. We respect each other. We do this. He does not ask me detailed questions about my past, and I return the favor. I will say, no matter what anyone tells you, there needs to be sexual attraction in this. We do have that, and we share the common fact that normal people cannot fulfill what we do here. Slade still creates the normal illusion on the outside though. He dates magnitudes of gorgeous clients. By date, I mean he fucks them. He’s a trainer at the gym. Yes, the one that I work at, imagine that. Poor women, they’re clueless, and they fall hopelessly for him even though he always divulges first thing that he is not a relationship type of guy. On the outside, we’re just friends. I mean, we actually are friends. He is the closest thing that I have to a real friend. We just carry the secret of what takes place here between us. I’m going to call us a special sort of friends, with ‘special’ benefits.
You may wonder how did this thing even begin? Fetish events are quite common here. It just so happened that I was at one, observing. Yeah, I like to watch and …exhibit. I was watching a super, sexy flogging when someone approached me from behind and whispered, “Well, well, well… who would have ever thought?” I turned to see Slade.
All I said was, “Face of an angel, the rest is pure sin.” That was the beginning and end. We’ve been hooking up ever since. Kin of the kink, you could call it.
There are times that we do not meet here. Slade has the honor of being the only person with a key to my house. What can I say? We both have an insatiable sex drive. I have never said no when he has happened to pop up for a little late night frolic. Besides, as happy as all of those toys make me, nothing replaces the real deal dick, my friends.
He offers his arm, and I stand taking it, snag my coat from the other stool, and we journey to another part of Rapture. Finally. My jaw relaxes just a bit. Soon. Soon, I’ll be okay for a little while. Slade and I almost always venture through the building to the far back where we take the skinny set of worn wooden stairs to the third floor. Two people cannot walk side by side, so he follows behind and puts his hand gently on my lower back. There is only one room up here, an old attic that has been roughly finished. Small windows allow the glow of moonlight through. Purples, blacks, burgundies are the colors in this room. The velvets and satins make the antiquated area look sumptuous with slight Goth club feel.
Slade closes the door behind us. I walk to the center of the room and kick off my heels. I lower one strap at a time until the dress pools at my feet. I step out and kick it to the side of the room and stand in my blue lace panties. I’m not coy. I’m ready. Slade just points and says, “Those too,” referring to the lace panties. I hook my fingers inside the lace at my hips and push them down. I know this means this evening will end with hard, fabulous fucking. He turns and goes to the armoire in the corner. My skin starts to tingle with anticipation to see what he pulls out.
Fuck yes. He walks over with the two metal spreader bars. He locks my ankles in the metal cuffs. My legs are spread wide. Immediately, I’m wet. He does the same with my arms, and up they go above my head being hooked to the chain hanging from the ceiling. Once again, He goes to the armoire. I swear I feel my wetness already sliding down my inner thigh. When he turns again and I see the leather cat-o-nine with metal studs on the ends, my pussy gushes. This is going to be so fucking good. The chomp of those studs, I can feel it before he’s even begun.
He likes to tease me, the bastard, gliding the leather and cool metal slowly up and down my spine, over my ass. I writhe. “Fuck, just do it, Slade.” There’s none of that playing master and servant between us. I don’t call him ‘Sir.’ He doesn’t demand obedience. Although at times, I wish…
This is pure ecstasy and raw urges that need to be fulfilled. The first sting always makes me flinch and let out a “God Damn!... God Damn!” He tells me that it reminds him of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. To me, that first hit is the beginning of my high. That burn, it gets an honest smile out of me. I can feel a tinge of release, like black smoke beginning to float out of me. The strike comes again, metal pricking my skin, searing pain. Real physical pain. I feel this. I can actually feel. The tentacles of the leather octopus deliver blows that kiss and caress and ignite me. My back, from my shoulders to my thighs, is inflamed. I probably even have tiny pricks where the metal has hit, and I love it. I throw my head back. I’m feeling lighter inside. He always moves away from my back after a short while and focuses on my ass. The padded area can take the exquisite torture for a longer period. I have no idea how many lashes have been delivered altogether. I stopped counting at thirty-two. I do know that my nipples are hard as rocks and puckered tight. I can feel them squeezing around the metal of the barbells going through them. I vaguely hear my moans amid the thwacks. Then, it stops. My heart drops slightly. As I lower my head and open my eyes, Slade is in front of me. He brushes my cheek with his hand and simply says, “Done.”
We don’t worry about the tiny pricks, but when there’s an actual cut or “tear,” Slade stops. I feel my mouth open and close and open again. I need more. I don’t feel enough. I’m not fully released of the churning within. I should know better than to think that Slade would leave me hanging though. No pun intended.
He releases my ankles from the cuffs, then bites his way up one leg, over my soaked pussy, licking over my stomach which makes my muscles twitch and jump, until he reaches my tits. He bites my nipples and somehow twists the barbell piercing at the same time. Holy fuck…. my cunt convulses. My brain snaps to a thought, “Maybe I should get my clit pierced.” I must have gotten lost in that thought for a few seconds because before I know it, his tongue was lapping the wetness that was pouring out of me. God, the man’s tongue was magic. Combined with his teeth biting my clit, I swear I have died and gone to heaven, if heaven was pure orgasm on top of orgasm. My breath is ragged, and I push my hips toward him when he pulls his mouth away.
“Don’t stop,” I beg.
Then, he slaps my pussy. Gush. Damn, that always gets me. He stands and pulls off his t-shirt. Those fucking cum gutters. Gush. I lick my lips and even bite my lower lip. He undoes his jeans and pushes them down. There it is that amazing huge, fat cock. Gush. He lifts one of my legs and right before he wraps it around his hip, he slaps my pussy again. Moan. He slams that gorgeous cock into me and grabs me by the ass to lift me to his level. I swear he’s hitting up to my belly button inside of me.
His hands are gripped onto my ass cheeks spreading them wide so that he can pound me like a jackhammer. His hands move to grasp my hips so that he can hold me firmly in place to plunge deeper. I feel the metal pressing into my hands and wrists as he pulls me down onto his steel dick. With each agonizing yet gratifying drive, his pulsing rod slides across my aching clit. Combined with the scorching dull ache swimming across my rear, this teasing of my clit is driving me insane. Too gentle. I wanted to have my arms free so that I could pull Slade close and bite him. We never kiss, but we do bite each other, hard.
I also want to get closer so that I can get harder friction on my clit.
I just breathe, “More, harder.”
With that, he pulls me closer by the waist with one arm to free his other. He’s still slamming me up and down on his cock. His finger goes directly to my little screaming nub. He pushes and rubs it like he’s pissed at it, and I cannot get enough. I can feel his cock actually getting harder and bigger inside of me. Just then, he pinches my clit, pinches and twists.
“Oooooh my fucking God!!”
My whole body shakes, and my pussy begins its convulsions and pulses around him, as I cum and cum hard. With a push that I swear moves all of my internal organs, I feel him let go as he groans and bites into my shoulder. Perfection.
He holds me for a moment before sliding my legs so that my feet touch the floor again. One arm free, I slump spent against him. He keeps one arm around me as he frees my other arm. All the blood rushes into my arms, and they get that glorious pins and needles feeling. I laugh a little and look at Slade as I try to move them. Useless. He laughs and brings me down to the floor to lean against him. He turns my face enough to look at my eyes. His brow furrows a little.
“I’m good,” I tell him.
He sighs a little, “You sure?”
I nod and give him my sweetest smile.
“Twelve weeks, Fae.”
“Uuuuugh,” I collapse back onto the floor dragging my still tingling arms across my face. “I know this, okay? You don’t have to remind me. I’m a big girl, Slade. It’s stupid anyway. Maybe I just won’t do it… it’s stupid.”
Did I forget to mention that I compete too? Yep, I stand on stage in the teeniest of bikinis that has to be glued down so it doesn’t go up your ass crack and twat. The sucker is gorgeous though with all of those crystals. What can I say? I love the bling. I love being on stage. I am an exhibitionist. I have horrible self-esteem, though you would never guess it when I’m up there. I own that stage.
He pokes me in the belly with his finger, “Yes, you will. You love that shit too much, and you know it. You just… You know, we have to start being more careful… the marks, ya know?”
I lift my arms above my head and let them drop to the floor. “I know. It’ll be fine. There’s the other stuff. It’ll be fine.” I look at him square in the eye and cock an eyebrow, “Maybe we’ll just have to fuck more often.” He laughs, rolls me from his lap onto my belly on the floor, and rubs his hands across my ass and back. I prop myself up on my elbows and rest my head in my hands. I barely even feel the results. “We haven’t broken out the wheel in a while, or wax, or clamps, or…”
He interrupts me.
“O.K., O.K., I get it. Fae, you look like someone threw pepper on your ass.” I grin at him. “Last time you get that until after the show. You’ll be starting practice soon. What would you say if people asked what happened?”
“Well, Slade, I would say that someone threw pepper on my ass.” I give a facetious grin.
He bends again looking into my eyes and rubs his hand along my forehead.
I crinkle my brow and frown. “Would you?” I whisper.
He nods his head and rises and walks to the cabinet. I roll over onto my back and put my arms above my head again. I told you I need what this man does for me. Obviously, you see he is anything but vanilla. Slade knows my needs. He is the only person who ever has known of my urges and that something more rages within, and somehow, he always knows when I need more. He reads me like a book at times.
He returns and kneels before me unwrapping the hermetically sealed plastic box. He pops open the lid and raises the sparkling scalpel.
I told you; I’m a special sort of depraved.