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I didn’t tell them. I didn’t tell my mother, or my brothers and sisters, or any of my friends at school. I didn’t tell my teachers, didn’t explain a word to them why I didn’t ever cry out in sports matches when somebody crashed right into me. It was none of their business. Nothing about me was anyone’s business.
I don’t remember how old I was when other people’s pain began to fascinate me, but it did. Everyone’s pain began to fascinate me. The first time I ever acted on it was when I saw my classmate Anthony crying in the bushes after school one day, hurting after someone scraped his arm so hard he was bleeding. I recall how I stepped up to the sad little pussy once I’d made sure nobody was looking, fascinated enough to kick him over onto the grass and press my foot down onto his bleeding skin. I put my weight on him, hurting him even more, and he cried for me, squirming and squealing and begging me to stop. Even then, people knew better than to fight a Morelli.
I loved the flood of power I felt as he begged me with pleading, crying eyes. I felt like a god standing there, like a lord. It fascinated me. I had no idea what sensation would lead you to squirm and cry like that, so broken.
I don’t remember how old I was when that fascination took on a particularly strong taste for pretty girls with big, crying eyes. Maybe I was twelve or thirteen. I’d long grown to rule the schoolyard by slamming my punishment out on anyone I chose, but that was mainly on other boys – rivals and losers alike. Big for my age, I enjoyed going after older boys and making them suffer.
The first girl I hurt was Bethany Fryers. She was walking through the park after art class one day with a spring in her step, blonde hair swinging as she walked. I’d noticed her before, her gaze on me. Curious. Wanting.
My mouth watered at the sight of her, and my dick hardened like I’d known it to do at night for years. I had such a strong need to see her beg me to stop that it took my breath.
She recognized me the moment I pressed up behind her; she didn’t even need to see my face. She let out a gasp as I dragged her from the path and down the bank, well out of view of any passers-by. But she didn’t fight. Didn’t scream. If anything, she seemed to melt against me, her body willing even if her mind was shocked.
Her eyes were big and scared when she turned and saw me, and that made my dick even harder. But then she licked her lips, her tongue darting out as she reached for me with a shaking hand.
I slapped it away. This wasn’t about me. It was about what I could do to her. What I’d wanted to do for quite some time.
I hurt her where nobody else would see it. I unbuttoned her blouse and saw her pretty nipples there, and something made me want to hurt them worse than anything else. I did hurt them. I twisted them so hard in my fingers that she whimpered, and her whimper thrilled me even more than a shout from one of the boys. It felt private somehow. Her shallow little breaths made me feel like more of a god than I’d ever known.
Instinct takes over, even at that age. Biting her felt like the most natural thing in the world. I loved the marks I left on her, so pink against her skin. I knew they would bruise and hurt her later as well as in the moment. I wanted to hurt her over and over again just to keep those marks alive on her skin.
She was older than me, probably sixteen. Her tits were a lovely shape that jiggled just right when I slapped them.
“Ahhh, owww. Owww. Lucian, please . . .”
Only it wasn’t just a cry of pain as I squeezed her and pulled her nipples. There was more in her eyes as she arched her back for me, even as she was whimpering . . . and then that whimpering changed to a different type of whimper.
She came from nothing more than my violence on her meek skin, her mouth open as she moaned for me. That was power.
“You tell anyone about this and you’re dead,” I growled at her as I let her go, and she nodded. She knew the score.
She also knew that every single week from then on, after art class, I’d be waiting for her, in exactly the same spot at exactly the same time. She didn’t fight me, because she knew there would be no point. What’s more, she wanted what I dished out, wanted it so badly she never strayed from that exact path. She was a meek little bitch as she followed me down the bank to our usual spot, spreading herself wide open so I could hurt her however I wanted.
