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Chapter 1
~ PREFACE ~
Alexander
The pulley racked tighter, stretching limbs until the body bellowed out into the darkened room. He smirked, barely able to discern reality anymore in this low candlelight. Here, in these rooms, with their blackened walls and their decaying air, he was free to commit any atrocity he chose. Brutally. No misdemeanours. No attrition for the acts. No safewords or pleas for the pain to stop. He was free here.
Fluid and empty of care, or contrition.
The sound continued, as he turned the lever another notch. He watched on, enjoying the sound of violent beginnings. There was no preamble with them anymore. No niceties when their time together began. They both knew what was coming, were both ready for it. The rogue had walked into the room, placed his cane against the door, stripped, and bowed his head. That was it.
That’s all it ever was now.
He hovered his hand above the blade on the table, debating the merits of slashing again so quickly after the last time, and scanned the unhealed scars on olive skin. They were barely healed, the crusted layer still evident. He walked closer, his hand gripping the knife to take it with him.
“You can’t even heal successfully,” he muttered, noting Lilah’s newer stripes next to his own.
“No Sir,” came back at him.
Sir.He smiled and ran a finger over the last incision he’d made, knocking the scab off. Red crept out, small droplets of it running a rivulet down Pascal’s spine. His own breath quickened, the sight causing his pupils to dilate further. This is what he was now, what this man had allowed him to become. Offices were gone. Business had gone. Even Elizabeth, once he was in this room, was gone. He was thankful for that.
Not that he showed it.
He leaned in closer and drew his tongue over the crimson offering, lapping at the nectar inside to remind Pascal who this body belonged to. Pascal groaned like the slut he was, twisting his torso at the sensation and trying to rub his cock against the wall. It made Alex slow and gently push the blade into skin, drawing it upwards until it was near lips.
“Open,” he murmured. Pascal did, and then closed his teeth carefully to clamp the steel in place. “Don't drop it.”
The whip uncoiled in his hand and he backed away, gazing at the surface of skin available. It seemed ghostly in this light, an apparition almost. He chuckled to himself, remembering how often that death had nearly befallen the man on show. Too many times. Not nearly enough either. Blood. Pain. Ferocious undertones, towing them onto a final destination that would inevitably come one day. The need was almost too much now, almost unbearable to his senses. He wanted more every time. More panted breaths, more pleas, more sweat, more blood to be spilt.
Alex cricked his neck out, pulling in a fateful breath. Maybe this would be their last time together. He wasn’t sure he cared enough to ask that question of himself, but he asked it nonetheless, as the tail hung loosely at his side. It quivered under his grasp, gently tipping back and forth as he lined up the target. He should stop. He knew that. It was coming to its peak now – the frustration for more, the endless need for that last final gasp of breath. He wouldn’t, though. Never would he stop, not unless the man in front begged him to, and even then he wasn’t sure he could anymore. The height of the moment was too insidious, too darkened.
Months and years had passed, both of them learning more about each other, and every next encounter became more sinister than the last. His own muscles primed in those last few seconds as they fucked every time. The blade at the man’s throat. Hands gripping tighter and tighter to restrict air, fingers trembling for more hatred to be bestowed on skin.
“Tease,” Pascal muttered through the blade.
The word hung heavy in the air from Pascal’s lips. Tease. There was no teasing here. He was simply weighing his options, trying to find reasoning for this careless abandon of brutality before he went headlong into desire anyway. And the longer it went on, the further Pascal pushed him into hedonism, the less he cared of his demise. Only after, when he returned to Elizabeth, did confusion come again. He loved Pascal then. Remembered the reasons why. His mouth. His wit. His ability to know everything before it happened. And Elizabeth? She looked at him with eyes that shamed him, eyes that clawed inside and offered a different life to this. He didn’t want that, though. He wanted this. “Get on with it, Alexa ...”
His whip was thrown and struck before the mumbled sentence finished, and a shout of undiluted agony rang the air around them because of the sting. Alex glowered at the dominance coming from Pascal’s mouth, noting the knife on the floor, and lined up the next lashing. He threw six more simply to chastise the man for disobeying and dropping the damn blade. Each one echoed more shouts of pain, the last one slicing straight across the slashes he’d licked from earlier. “Did you say something?” he asked, moving a step closer.
“No, Sir,” Pascal panted out. Good.
He twisted the whip around his wrist once, lessoning the length of it, and lined up for more cruelty. That’s all there was here. Cruelty and deliverance. He’d fuck the man later if he earnt it well enough. Open him up with clamps and bite into his skin, ravage him in the way Pascal most enjoyed. He chuckled a little and threw the whip again, not bothering to aim this time. It didn’t matter where it landed anyway, only that it did. Ten more. Twenty more. Thirty. He barely broke into a sweat until the twentieth landed.
Hours went by in this room. Hours filled with filth and grime and bloodstains. Deviant games, disturbing images, every one of them endured by Pascal with some sense of love for the man delivering it attached. Fuck knows why. There wasn’t a kind bone in Alex’s body for Pascal anymore, certainly not in here. Everything was about hatred and skin, almost as if the actuality of Pascal’s name meant nothing, only the physicality of flesh to be devoured.
He closed his eyes as the music built to a crescendo, something he used to try and remind himself of life outside this room while indulgence went on. Clare De Lune. Always that. Perhaps he hoped the repeating sound would honour the woman that waited for him at home. Or, more realistically, maybe he just hoped for her acceptance of this side that needed venting. She didn’t, no matter how much she said she did. She wanted less of this and more of something else. It was something he didn’t know how to give. And something he didn’t even want. This would have to stop for that. This honesty and freedom would have to end. And this could never stop.
Not now it had begun.
Check
Six
Months
Later
Chapter 2
