18. No Quarter

18

NO QUARTER

LESTER

Even now, with my hands on the new mask that I'm crafting at my desk, I still can't get her out of my fucking head.

My hands shake as I try to paint the shapes and colors of the sinister, hollow eyes. I can't get them to stay still. There's too much adrenaline pumping through my body.

The bright light of my work lamp burns my eyes, and I cut myself with one of my carving tools a few minutes ago, which is something that never happens to me.

She's made me clumsy. And that is absolutely unacceptable.

I touched her yesterday. She could report me to the school and I could lose everything.

Part of me knows that she would never do that. Though that doesn't make me any less panicked. Because, like I've mentioned before, the line has moved farther out of reach. And I'm close to erasing the line altogether.

Every single thing she said to me rings true.

The fact that I want her is no longer something I can deny.

I envision her before me, sitting on my desk with her legs spread and one of those short skirts on with nothing underneath, her heels digging into my chest as she smirks at me.

She knows the power she holds.

She's lethal.

I put my mask away with a groan, the throbbing cock inside my slacks an evil derision. The desk is scattered with sketches, variating between beige papers with body parts drawn on them with charcoal, and white sheets with human anatomy posed in ways that belong in the darkest parts of Hell, made with soft pastels.

I always plan out my kills before I finally let myself indulge. All year I work on them, trying out new things, new techniques. Planning out how I'll turn my new victim into the most masterful sculpture, up to the last detail.

I am a killer. But I'm an artist first.

Will I braid their skin? Paint with their blood? Carve intricate shapes into their pale flesh or pierce hooks through their empty eye sockets? And if I do, how will I make use of their eyeballs? What culpable metaphor can I put into the masterpiece by using their corpse, their limbs? The types of rope I'll use also need to be considered, and what types of bondage.

All of that usually fills me with energy and excitement.

But it does nothing for me in this moment.

Another groan, and I stand up, leaving it all behind me.

I'm no good right now. I'll just fuck it up further. Better to quit and pick it back up later, when I'm fully invested and not distracted by beautiful skin and lush lips and sinful eyes.

I decide to call one of my subs instead. A stunning woman whom I meet up with regularly. No strings attached, as we are both content with our own lives, and we need nothing from each other except for one thing.

A little over an hour and a half later, I'm well on my way to have her strung up inside my Red Room. As I twine the rope around her, some of the tension I've been holding in my shoulders, in all of my limbs, releases, finally giving me back some small shred of control.

It always helps. When my submissives give up their control, handing it to me, I gain it. I feel an overpowering sense of strength, of power. It works like a drug, pumping my veins full of a sweet concoction. A feeling of ecstasy. Something I'm never able to feel except in times like these, when I work with my hands―when I have my sub before me, willing and compliant, bathing in their own feeling of power.

I feel a more potent feeling of release when I kill, but this is pretty damn close.

Looping the long length of rope through the loop, I move it underneath her breasts, then back around. The material glides expertly through my hands, until the woman before me is wearing a beautiful harness. I lower to the floor, feeling the hard ground beneath my knees as I make work of her thighs.

When she's ready, I pull the rope around a large steel rod and suspend her in the air. Her ankles are bound together with her wrists gathered on her back, and I watch her face as she bathes in pleasure.

This is the deal. I need to be sure that they can't touch me. Which is the whole reason that I'm a rigger.

I want to be in full control. I need to be in control.

That's why it grinds on me so much that I let Daisy touch me that day we spent together.

She touched my skin.

My scar.

The place where I'll always have a reminder of one of the worst days of my life.

Why didn't I stop her? Why didn't I implode, like I always thought I would if someone touched me there?

Moans of sweet release mixed with cries of pain ring through the air as I whip my sub with my flogger. I know exactly what she wants and needs, and in turn she pleasures me in any way she can. But despite how good it feels, I'm not in it.

Because a certain face keeps popping up behind my eyes when I close them. A persistent, recurrent vision of long brown hair wrapped around my fist, freckles on a cute nose, pursed lips…

She haunts me like a ghost. An enchantress in her own right, a goddamn succubus ready to yank me down to my doom.

I'm no longer haunted by the demons, because I've become stronger, more powerful than them. I've defeated them a long time ago and will remain chasing them until the day I part from this dark world.

But this is unknown territory. Nothing I could have prepared for.

Something more dangerous than the demons.

She's named after the most ordinary flower on the planet. Which is just erroneous. Misguiding.

Because she is nothing even close to ordinary.

I pound into Lisa, my sub, with force, my skin clapping hard against hers as I fill her with my cock over and over. Her moans fade away and they evolve into those of Daisy instead. The ones that have been stuck in my head like a blaring siren for longer than a week now.

Losing my mind entirely, I focus on the back of Lisa's head as she hangs suspended in the air by beautiful knots of rope. She's a brunette, the color close to Daisy's hair. Wrapping it around my hand, I pull it back as I focus on it. My brain works to my advantage, and pretty soon, it's as if I'm fucking into Daisy Burton instead.

And I break.

I fill my condom up with a large load of cum and I growl when it doesn't seem to end. She comes around my cock at exactly the right time, squeezing me so tight it feels like I'm coming twice.

"Fuck, Daisy…" My eyes squeeze tight, and I ride out my release.

The moans stop, which makes my eyes shoot open with the realization of what just came out of my mouth.

"Daisy?" Lisa asks offendedly. "What the hell, Les?"