My life requires a number of rules to run smoothly. They keep my life organized. Orderly. Successful, to the tune of billions of dollars. I have requirements about eating, sleeping, exercise.
I don’t need a shrink to tell me I thrive on control because I grew up without any. I prove my superiority to Shannon with every limit I maintain.
And my strictest rule, one I’ve never broken: I don’t fuck mysubs. I tie them up. I use them for role play, for impact play, occasionally even for breath play. They get off at least once each session, because that’s the kind of Dom I am.
But I don’t come. Not with them.
I can’t keep myself from getting hard—that’s what a body does. But I can delay gratification forever, if need be.
It’s never forever. It’s rarely further away than my next shower. Than a few business-like strokes taken between meetings. Than a replay of a dungeon scene in my memory, accompanied by my own right hand in the privacy of my bed.
But watching Kate take her punishment on the cross last night had me second-guessing my own rules. Holding her on the couch was an unexpected torment. Refusing her offer—it’s our wedding night—was far more difficult than I ever dreamed it would be.
That’s why I ordered Nilsson to get Patel here today. The solution to my will growing weak is to make the challenge harder. Years ago, I added kale to my morning smoothie because I started to daydream about bacon and eggs for breakfast. I stopped wearing colored neckties and socks because I craved a break from black. I added a hundred crunches to my morning workout because I wanted to skip a day in the gym altogether.
After Patel sees to it Kate can’t conceive, it will be that much harder to avoid fucking her blind. Ineedthat challenge.
I’m strong enough to do it. But Christ, Kate doesn’t make it easy.
If Nilsson has any questions about why I need Patel, about what I’ve done to break my new wife, he keeps them to himself—precisely as I expect. The same way I expect him not to comment about the state of Kate’s wedding gown, currently shoved into a corner of our bedroom’s walk-in closet. Or the two dozen tiny cloth-covered buttons piled on the nightstand, because I didn’t have the patience to unfasten each and every one when I undressed my sated wife for bed.
When I want Nilsson’s opinion, I’ll pay for it.
I’m setting asideThe Wall Street Journaland reaching forThe Financial Timeswhen an email arrives on my private account. I’ve been expecting it since I woke beside my sleeping bride. After all, yesterday was the deadline for me to pay up, to avoid the release of my extended client list.
The subject isNew Business Model.
Now you know this isn’t a game.
Time for a new business model… I know you never graduated from Dunbar High, and I know why. Twenty-five million will keep the world from knowing too.
Noon.
Next Sunday.
Don’t make the same mistake you made yesterday.
P.S. Congratulations on your wedding.
They’ve repeated the link to their Bitcoin account—convenient, I suppose, if I happen to have misplaced their earlier demand. And they’ve linked to an article that appeared onThe Vergefifteen minutes ago.
White Hat Hacker’s Client List Exposedreads the headline. All five of my clients are listed. The article cites an anonymous source.
Right on cue, my phone rings. It’s Marty Lyon, from Lyon Momentum.
I let the call go to voicemail, then set all my devices to Do Not Disturb. I’ll do my best to soothe clients’ ruffled feathers as soon as possible. For now, I have a much bigger problem on my hands.
My correspondent is right. I didn’t graduate from Dunbar High. On the day I was supposed to walk across a stage to collect my diploma, I was locked up in a juvenile detention facility, serving a sentence for multiple counts of criminal fraud in the first degree.
If one hint of my conviction gets out, Lone Wolf will be destroyed.
If I had committed murder, people would make excuses and look the other way. Arson would make me an intriguing curiosity. Armed robbery would demonstrate a character flaw, but not a fatal one.
But there’s not a businessman on earth who will hire a computer security specialist who’s served time for fraud. Especially when those convictions came with aggravating circumstances—targeting multiple victims, incurring high monetary loss, and targeting the elderly.
No one is supposed to know I served time. My records were expunged the day I turned eighteen. That was the entire reason I took the fall for Shannon—because I could walk away clean.
Shannon already had a string of prior arrests when the cops busted her forrunning a fraudulent collection agency. She was on the hook for a ten-year sentence. All her assets would be liquidated for restitution, and Nutmeg and I would be farmed out to foster homes.
