Each of Chastity’s slender limbs are cuffed to the bed frame. She looks beautiful spread out in an X, blindfolded, gagged, and facedown on a mattress yellowed with age. A dim glow is cast around the room by the few large candles on the cheap desk. I take one in my hand. I can hear her force thick, wet breaths around the ball gag as I inch closer to her, steadying the burning candle. She knows nothing about what's to come. She never does.
With a quick flick of my wrist, a smattering of melted wax plops against her back and ass. She gasps, her hands gripping the cuffs so tight it looks as though her ligaments may rupture her skin at any moment. Another flick of the wrist and she lets out a muffled scream. Her body curls in pain.
"Shut up, Chastity!" I say with a growl, placing the candle back on the desk.
I rub my palm over the curve of her ass before smacking it hard. A red handprint slowly rises to the surface of her pale skin, and I smile. I want to hurt her. I want her to scream until those worthless fucking tears of hers spill down her cheeks.
The thought of those tears nearly drives me to the brink of madness, and I quickly pull down my jeans, grabbing my cock and fisting it as I loosen the restraints around her legs. Stepping behind her, I grab her hips, my fingers digging into her flesh as I yank her ass into the air. Sometimes I wonder if I could grip her hard enough to tear her flesh open, but I won’t do that tonight. I’ll save that for next time—maybe.
I press my left hand over the small of her back, forcing it down into the mattress as I rub a single finger over her pussy, exposed and waiting for me to do with it as I fucking please.
“Remember. Don’t fucking move.” I place my cock against her then grab her hair and yank her head as I lay over her, placing my lips by her ear. “And don’t make a goddamn sound. Play dead, my little slut.”
I slam into her, burying myself to the hilt. She is completely under my control, and though her cries sound as though she's in agony, she's loving every fucking minute of this. She craves receiving pain just as I crave giving it to her. Right now, I own her, bought and paid for. I am reinventing her, using her, and the thought that, if I wanted to, I could kill her with my bare hands… well, that makes me fuck her even harder.
I wrap my hand around her neck, and with each powerful thrust of my cock, I squeeze just a little tighter. She gags and chokes, and I let up, wanting to crush her throat but knowing now is not the time. The temptation is there though—but then again, when isn't it? I fight the urge to end her because I like making her come, making her moan, and all at the touch of a murderer.
It's my dirty little secret, my wicked little lie.
An hour later, I drop Chastity off in front of a 7-Eleven, and with a screech of tires against the pavement, my night truly begins. If it goes according to plan, this evening will come to a close on Tenth Street.
“Creep”—Radiohead
I'm a sad, pathetic little fuck—it’s all I can think as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Now, I know that's probably not something you're likely to hear from most thirty-somethings who are fit and possess a legitimate career. Something more than “entrepreneur,” that is. But for me, it's an intrusive thought that takes over from the moment I wake. Blame me if you want, but I was programmed this way.
The morning news spouts the usual depressing bullshit in the background as I sip my coffee and Jameson, half ignoring what I'll get to experience firsthand shortly. I've been a homicide detective with Asheville’s police department for four years now. I served three tough years in the army before that. I've seen the worst this world has to offer, and I live it every single day through victims and heartbroken family members, through the carnage and bloodshed.
I rub a hand through my uncombed hair. The ever-present tired look in my eye staring back at me from the mirror is a nice reminder that being a detective takes the life right out of you. That's not the only thing sucking the life out of me, of course. My childhood comes into play quite often. My time in the army also consumes my thoughts, playing out like fucked up home movies in my dreams.
Sometimes I look back and wish I could change things. I wish I could erase the war, erase the pain of growing up broken. But more often than not, I'm resigned to a sense of understanding. I've made my peace with the Lord, however broken that peace may be. I'm his factory defect. I try my best to fight the absurd carnival of torment inside my mind, but alas, it’s a twenty-four-seven party.
The unusual bustle of the department at seven in the morning lets me know I'm in for a treat today. I'm one of only a handful of detectives around when I arrive most mornings, and I'm always the first one in from the day shift. As I reach my office and toss my briefcase onto the desk, my partner, Detective Tommy Matthews, appears in the doorway. He raps two knuckles against the doorframe and lifts a manila folder, shaking his head.
"Let me fuckin' guess," I huff as I sit in the stiff leather chair. "Another cold one?"