Page 7 of The Monster I Am

It would be a shame for him to go to waste, and he wondered just how much Russell would charge for a gem such as this. But no. The risk of bringing a human home was still far too high.

He inclined his head to Dominic. “It would be.” He exhaled slowly. He could not draw from his savings to acquire a masochist.

To save one slave.

But oh, he wanted to.

Dominic used a couple of fingers to lift the slave’s chin from where it was hanging, and the slave blinked at him in a haze of bliss and slight confusion. He ran his thumb over the slave’s lower lip as he studied him. “Such a waste,” he repeated before letting the slave’s head drop again.

Alastair grunted in what sounded like annoyance. “There are plenty of others. They’re as bad as cockroaches. Kick over a box and grab one as they scurry away.”

Rhys felt something knot in his stomach at the idea of this human being wasted, tortured to death in some supe’s pursuit of pushing him to the limits of what he could stand before he stopped moaning and crying out and began to truly scream in the depths of agony.

“Do you think Russell would sell him?” he found himself asking, disregarding Alastair’s comment in favor of voicing the question aloud to Dominic.

No.

He was not going to purchase a slave, even one as enticing as this. He had watched so many other humans go to their deaths without lifting a finger to save even one of them. He had seen his artwork go to waste so many times.

What was it about this one that tugged on his heartstrings so?

“Perhaps,” Dominic said, the word having no particular inflection to it. He inclined his head to Rhys. “Enjoy your use of him.”

“I will,” Rhys replied. And he would. It would be terrible and wonderful all at once, to take advantage of the slave’s pliant body and mind, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do so because appearances dictated that he experience this in full.

Appearances.

Was that what he was telling himself?

Dominic took a sip of his drink, wandering away.

Alastair grunted again. “How long is he going to be like… this?”

“It depends,” Rhys replied, going back to stroking the slave’s cock. “We’ll see if he wakes back up when I fuck him.” He glanced around, finding a tube of lubricant on a nearby table. That was the only mercy he’d offer the human, and that was partially for his own benefit. He could’ve made sure that he was adequately prepared, stretched and ready, but with a masochist, well…

He’d enjoy the stretch and burn of it as much as Rhys would enjoy stretching him wide with his cock.

He slid the sleeve of knives from his pocket, quickly cleaning the short blade he’d used and tucking it away. Only then did he unfasten his pants and release his aching cock.

May the gods have mercy on his soul.

Rhys ignored Alastair’s light scoff when he squirted some of the lube into his palm and stroked his cock until it was glistening with it.

This would absolutely ruin the art on the slave’s back if he didn’t take care, so he used one hand to brace on his hip while the other guided his cock to that waiting hole. “Deep breath,” he whispered, as though the slave was aware enough to hear him… or understand him.

The slave drew a ragged breath.

Ah, so he was there, at least a little bit. Well, they’d see what he thought of this.

Slowly, Rhys began to push into the slave’s ass. It was as tight as a fist, stretching around him as he forced his way in, inexorable as the guilt that would overwhelm him when he filled the human’s ass.

But that was a problem for the future; right now, all he cared about was taking care of his aching cock.

And with the way the slave was moaning at the intrusion, how could he do anything but bring him pleasure? He’d taken the pain so beautifully; he deserved this.

Is that what you’re telling yourself?

He thrust inside, squeezing the human’s hip as he bottomed out. He stood there a moment, breath coming raggedly as he listened to the lyrical sounds of that long, loud moan. How was it the slave could be so expressive, so… perfect?