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He switched off his phone and gazed into the dull dark sky. Missed calls from Lilah were of no importance here, nor was her sanctimonious attitude in the voicemails she left. It was time for some entertainment of a disciplinary engagement. Namely, him fucking without thought to either Alexander or Lilah. And perhaps some mind manipulation with the brute would be helpful.
Intriguing.
Nodding at the limo driver at the bottom of the jet’s steps, Pascal headed into the interior of the car, enjoying the taint of fresh leather that held the air’s fragrance. It was enjoyable to his senses, invigorating. The door which slammed too loudly was not quite as appealing. He scowled.
“Is this your first assignment?” he snapped at the new driver he had hired for the week.
“Guv?” Guv? What was Guv?
“Is that English?”
“What?”
“That word. What does it mean?”
“Gov? Guvnor. Boss.”
“Sir is the word you require, and I would suggest you use it on every next occasion or I will have no choice but to decapitate you.” The oaf laughed. Pascal was not sure what at. Certainly since his cane now had a dagger inside it. He might well decapitate something, and soon if Alexander did not get on with his position as a sadist.
“Haven’t called anyone Sir since me army days.” He would.
He rubbed the ebony in his grip, as the car pulled out into traffic, remembering the night Alexander had showed him how to open the concealed screw. Two clicks pressed in the right location revealed access to the hidden steel. It had been for Alexander’s own benefit at the time. Bleeding had apparently been required that night. Blood play. Something Alexander had not told Elizabeth about, nor would. Such erotic fantasies had not been met before that midnight calling. The knife at his throat. Alexander deep in his ass as he tried not to move and kept his head tilted just so. Intriguing indeed. And utterly enthralling. But since his Rose had become pregnant that first time – nothing more. No midnight dalliances. No fucking. Barely any reciprocal phone calls.
Six months of nothing.
Cars passed by, their lights flashing hideous beacons of London’s pretentious nightlife, as they travelled swiftly through traffic. Oaf was a good driver it seemed. He snarled and looked through the window. Eden was all he required. An Eden without Thomas presiding over it so Pascal could rut the week away and do as he chose rather than have Lilah or Alexander ruling anything. Not that either of them did, or had done for some time, but the connotation was there. It waited in the wings, as if he must answer to them, or seek permission for whatever he may or may not wish to do. He was exhausted by it. Mainly because it was not there enough. It was peripheral. Only announced after the fact, when he was made to justify actions that had gone and were done. No more. Control was needed – his own. He would fuck with abandon and relish the screams that came, all the time allowing his inner sadist its course again.
Without the permission of others.
Submission, under two, was not as becoming as he once thought.
He may even remove Thomas and take his clubs back if the runt did not fuck women soon.
“We’re ‘ere, Gov,” the moron in the front said. Pascal narrowed his eyes.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked, reaching for the door that was not being opened for him.
“What?” The oaf replied. Pascal sneered at the word and took in a somewhat calming breath. When had these East End louts begun driving limousines? Horrendous.
“A drink? The bar is plentiful, and I will be here all night.” The oaf looked over his shoulder at him, slightly shocked at the invite. “Hmm? And we have women, men. All you could need for a good time while you wait.” And handcuffs. There were plenty of handcuffs. Also, a guillotine if he remembered correctly and Thomas had not removed it. “Waiting is such tedium without some vice to occupy yourself with, no?”
The oaf smiled and exited at haste, still forgetting to come round to open the door.
The oaf should die. Or at the very least be trained.
He opened the car door himself and walked to the entrance, perturbed by the lacking manners or education of drivers. What would they know? Nothing presumably, because he had not been here to teach anyone anything. He’d been wallowing instead. Floundering in some atrocious state of part pity part desperation. He’d known dominants be brutalised for such abominable disregard to their subs in the past. Hung out to dry by such people as himself, and then left in gutters to rot until they remembered their place in society. That was, of course, above others. Alexander was currently above nothing but the floor he walked on. He was not flying, nor was he elevated. Or perhaps he was both and he needed a damned reminder of what his responsibilities were by being grounded.
Either way – he cared not.
Mischief and fuckery were needed.
Immediately.
And this Oaf would prove a useful route forward.
“After you,” he said, smiling at the fool as he held the club’s door open. “We will have much fun, yes?” Or he would.
“You’re not like the other guvnors I drive round,” oaf replied, wandering into the dark corridor and looking around. The idiot was indeed correct. He was not. Not in the slightest. He was Pascal Van Der Braack, a fact that had been somewhat dispersed in these past few years. Under Alexander.
