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The slap came out of nowhere, hard and sudden. “I said get undressed.”
Sir Edward Manning did as he was told.
I’m going to enjoy this.
For the first thirty minutes he did. Sergei was such a natural submissive, it was incredible how readily and skillfully he took to the dominant role. Tying Edward to the bed, first by his wrists alone and later by his ankles as well, he did things to his body that Edward had never even imagined. Probing, teasing, hurting occasionally but never to the point where it became a turnoff, the boy had the energy of a young bull and the ingenuity of a chess grand master. Time after time Sergei brought Edward to the brink of orgasm, only to deny him the ecstasy of release. After a long, difficult day of serving the needs of his demanding new female boss, this night of unbridled male pleasure was exactly what Edward needed. Why would anyone want to come out of the closet when life inside was as exquisitely pleasurable and verboten as this?
“Stay there. I’ve got a little something I want you to watch.”
Spread-eagled on his back, with patches of still-warm wax congealing around his nipples and groin, Edward had no choice but to comply. He hoped the porn would be good. Generally speaking, he wasn’t a fan, preferring his own imagination to the crassly performed scenarios of the “actors” on-screen. But perhaps this was more of a young man’s thing, a price one paid for having such delectably nubile lovers.
The film began predictably enough, with a young hitchhiker servicing an improbable-looking group of truck drivers at a truck stop. But about ten minutes in, things became too violent for Edward’s taste. The boy was being choked, and was clearly in distress.
“This isn’t working. Turn it off.”
When Sergei turned around there was no mistaking the wild arousal in his eyes. For the first time Edward felt a flicker of real fear.
“Turn it off? How about I turn you off, old man.”
Pulling a rolled-up pair of socks out of the top drawer of Edward’s dresser, Sergei stuffed them into the civil servant’s mouth. Then, as casually as if he were snuffing out a candle, he closed Edward’s nostrils, pinching them between finger and thumb.
The panic was immediate and total.
He’s going to kill me.
Edward struggled wildly, aware that his efforts were futile but unable to stop himself from straining at the ropes. He could hear the blood in his brain, the pressure building up like a swollen damn. He felt as if his skull would explode, imagined his eyeballs popping out of their sockets. He was aware of losing consciousness, of the white stucco ceiling above his antique mahogany bed blurring then turning to black. He braced himself for death.
“There now. No more talking. We watch.”
Miraculously, incredibly, the boy let go of his nostrils and pulled the balled-up running socks out of his mouth. Air rushed painfully into Edward’s lungs and tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Jesus!” he sobbed. “That wasn’t funny. I thought you were going to kill me.”
Sergei Milescu looked at him and smiled.
“Maybe I am.”
Henry Whitman felt the sweat pouring down his back as he increased the incline on his running machine. The prime minister’s daily workouts were grueling, but did wonders for his stress levels.
“Prime Minister? Sorry to disturb you, sir. But I have the home secretary on the line.”
Henry scowled at his secretary, Joyce Withers. “Can’t she wait?”
“Apparently not, sir.”
Henry hesitated, aware how foolish he must look in front of Joyce. I’m the damn prime minister. Alexia De Vere works for me, not the other way around. But he took the call. He was too afraid not to.
Afterward he ran and ran until his legs shook with exhaustion. But his frustration lingered. How had he gotten himself into this situation?
More importantly, how the hell was he going to get himself out?
Sir Edward Manning stared at the laptop, wide-eyed with terror. On a pillow in front of him, Sergei Milescu had arranged Edward’s own top-of-the-line Japanese chef’s knives into the shape of a fan.
“You see, that’s what I call true love,” Sergei was saying. “Not just being willing to die for someone. But being cooked and eaten. Would you do that for me, Eddie? Do you love me that much.”
The images on the laptop weren’t graphic. Sergei was showing Edward a CNN news report from a few months ago of a famous case in which a gay psychopath had murdered, dismembered, and ultimately eaten his boyfriend in the ultimate snuff movie. The boyfriend was filmed willingly consenting to the entire affair, prompting a flurry of philosophical hand-wringing about the dangers of sadomasochism, and whether voluntary killing could ever be classed as murder.
It was the look in Sergei’s eyes that terrified Edward, turning his bowels to liquid and making sweat stream in little rivers down his back and chest.
