Made of Darkness

by Erica M Kim

  Despite the warm weather that has governed during the day, the night air is quite chilly. Tonight, however, I am unaffected by the cold, my internal body temperature is stabilized at a perfect 98.6 degrees, no matter what weather the world was experiencing. I unlock the door of my black S5 and slide inside, taking in a deep breath of the leather material.

  If it weren’t for LA traffic, I would be gliding at 100 miles per hour. But that isn’t the case. Instead, I move at a snail pace of forty miles per hour, and I blast Muse’s rendition of Feeling Good on my speakers as I remain cool, calm, and collected. It would take more than traffic to get me riled up tonight. After hearing the song on repeat eleven times, I find myself outside of Crux. I opt to park a few streets down in a parking structure instead of valeting, in case I need to get my car in a hurry.

  As I walk toward Crux’s entrance, I replay the lines I plan to whisper to Vincent. I want to melt his heart and devour his soul, literally and figuratively. When I arrive at Crux, I cut to the front of the line, and tell the bouncer that I’m here for Vincent Moreno. He lets me in without blinking, just as I had hoped.

  The club is dark and smoggy, but my eyes don’t need time to adjust. I could see perfectly well in the dimly lit venue of S&M fetishes. This time, when I see the nearly naked woman hanging in the cage, the woman getting spanked on stage with a paddle, or the men following other men on leashes, I don’t think twice about it. But I notice that I’m garnering the attention of the Crux crowd as I stroll through the club, looking like the queen of this hell. When hands, both men and women, reach out to grope for my attention, a snarl forms on my lips as I shrug them off.

  As I wade through the sea of leather-clad bodies, I finally spot Vincent at his usual table. Two bodyguards flank him, and although women are standing around his booth, trying to get a chance to have a seat and drink with this mysterious man, he doesn’t pay them any attention. His eyes rove the crowd until they lock onto mine. His face lights up, just like a hunter who’s found an unsuspecting fawn after hours of waiting underside of a brush. Enthralled, relieved, and rewarded. As I approach the table, Vincent’s face changes as lust then greed takes over. His eyes hungrily take in my body without shame. He regains composure after a moment as he greets me with a joyous, gleaming smile.

  “My, my, my. You are ever so beautiful.”

  I thought about what to say to him tonight for hours. Maybe days. To play alluring, but coy. To seem inviting, yet hesitant. To take part in the cat and mouse game that Vincent loves to mastermind. First, I must give, then take.

  “I thought a lot about your tastes, Vincent. And I’m glad it’s to your liking,” I say modestly. Vincent shoos away his two soldiers, and they get up and leave the booth, closing the red velvet curtains behind them.

  I scoot into the booth slowly, allowing Vincent to take me in thoroughly as I move closer. I sit close enough to let him smell me, but not close enough to quite touch. His breath already reeks heavily of whiskey, though his eyes hardly show it.

  “What can I get for you to drink?”

  “I’ll have a scotch on the rocks.” During the full moon, even my palate changes, and I can suddenly taste things that I couldn’t even imagine before. The single malt scotch that the server brings me tastes like the earthy oak barrel it seeped in over the decades. I can taste the wind that brushed past the deep barley, the sun that dried the fruit, and the charcoal used to bring out the smokiness. The ice clinks together as I put the drink on the table, licking my lips.

  “I see you enjoy it.” Vincent looks at me adoringly. “I took you for a vodka girl the last time I met you.”

  “I drink what I feel like for the night.” My teasing smile hints that Vincent is the drink of choice for the night. He seems to understand as he inches a little closer to me.

  The best thing about the full moon is that alcohol has less of an effect on me. Within the hour, I knock back six scotches, and Vincent keeps up with me, despite his head start. Vincent can hold his liquor, but by the end of his sixth whiskey, his face is flushed, and he no longer masks the lust that lingers there. He inches closer to me with every drink until he has his arm wrapped around me.

  Despite the cold sobriety that I actually feel, I put on the show of a giddy drunk girl. It’s surprisingly not hard to do.

  “You smell intoxicating,” I slur as I nuzzle my head in between his neck. From the booth next to us, comes the sound of a smack of a whip and a woman’s loud, unsuppressed moan. Vincent stirs and edges closer to me with excitement. I can tell that he can barely restrain himself. This taut string, the deadly dance between predator and prey, is equally pleasurable as the kill for him. I’d have to say the same.

  And with that, Vincent makes his move as his lips come down on mine hungrily. His arm squeezes me closer to him, and I take the opportunity to bait him in. In one smooth move, I wrap my knees around his legs, mounting his lap. The pleather skirt stretches tightly around my thighs.

  Lips lock in the heat of the moment, and I wait for Vincent’s next move. He likes to dole out the pain, but I’m not completely sure of what he wants from me, and how. If he wants to be on the receiving end, it will make my job too easy. I feel him reach down beneath the booth and pull out furry leopard handcuffs. Is he serious?

  “Cheesy, I know.” Vincent smiles. “They’re the club’s, but I want to put them on you. And I want to have my way with you, if you permit, of course.” You have to hand it to Vincent. Despite being a ruthless kingpin drug dealer, he treats a woman with respect by asking her if he could disrespect her first.

  “Do as you will,” I answer breathily into his ear as I move off of his lap. He snaps the handcuffs onto me and lifts my arms. He finds a clasp on the metal frame of the booth, specifically made for strapping in arms locked by the handcuffs. Despite looking completely helpless, the setup is rather flimsy, handcuffs included, and it wouldn’t take much for me to rip everything apart, but I act as if I am in utter despair, willing and waiting. I breathe out a small moan and wetting my lips. I am literally shivering with excitement of another kind. Let’s start this party.

  43

  Vincent is absolutely consumed by his lust, deranged by his need. His hand grasps a thin wooden stick, about a foot long, that ends in a black leather tassel. A leather-spiked collar appears in his other hand as he moves my long hair aside to bind my neck. His hands deftly move like they’ve done this a thousand times.

  I keep my breath steady as Vincent fastens and binds. None of it fazes me really, not the furry handcuffs, or the spiky collar, or the leather whip. In fact, this is all part of the plan. I just focus on the simple fact that before the end of the night, Vincent Moreno will be dead, and I languish in the fantasy of how I will rip him apart. I can hear his lovely blood course through his veins, and it fills me with absolute glee to imagine it being sprayed everywhere soon.

  When Vincent has secured me to his liking, his lips find my neck as he trails down my body. His white collared dress-shirt is immodestly unbuttoned, and I can see the gray hairs on his chest. His heart is thumping wildly, fueled by both desire and alcohol, and his breath unsteadily rattling his lungs. He knocks back the final sips of his seventh scotch, and he picks up the whip that he has put aside and brushes the loose tassels across my thighs. Without warning, he snaps down the leather tassels across the tender part of my thigh, and I purposely let out a soft moan. In actuality, it feels like nothing but a tickle, but my face winces in pain as I look into the depths of Vincent’s eyes, begging him for more.

  “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting and dreaming for this moment, my dear. No idea at all,” he says through a lascivious smile. He raises his arm and brings the whip down again across my thighs, which leaves a pink mark across my white skin, visible even through the fishnet stockings. He then flips the whip around and brings down the wooden stick across my thighs hard, and this time I let out a real moan. This motherfucker. I can’t even respond to him verbally in fear that I will lose utter co
ntrol at that very moment. Vincent doesn’t notice or care. For the next few minutes, his mouth explores every part of my exposed skin.

  “You taste like no other woman I’ve ever tasted.” I manage a smile in response.

  And with that, he pulls out from his coat pocket what looks like two miniature silver skulls connected by a long metal chain. The skulls have rubies for eyes, and the jaws, which appears to be shut at the moment, open by the squeeze of the clamp that the skull is appended to.

  “I brought these, especially for you, my sweet. I hope you enjoy them,” he says before bringing his mouth onto mine once more. Objectively speaking, he’s not a bad kisser, and it’s not hard to pretend as if I’m thoroughly enjoying this. His hands roam my body, cupping every mountain, digging into every crevice. At last, his hands tug at the top of my dress, successfully exposing both of my taut, pink nipples. His face takes on the look of a twelve-year-old boy, opening up Christmas presents revealing the best toys of the year. Without any hesitation, he opens one skull-clamp and puts it on my left nipple.

  “Mmm . . .” I groan to play the part. Vincent then delightfully opens the second skull-clamp and bites it down forcefully on my right nipple. Try as I might to fight it, pleasure ripples down my body, releasing a real moan, and for a hot second, I almost lose complete control. The scent of Vincent’s lust is overwhelming. He is on the brink of losing himself. Right here, right now.

  “My dear, can I invite you to my home where we have a little more privacy? There are many more things I’d like to explore with you there.” His eyes glisten with promise. I agree with a voice laden with lust, but all I see is blood.

  The ride to Vincent’s house in the Hollywood Hills feels short despite the traffic. With Carlos driving, I spend the entire ride on Vincent’s lap, facing him, driving him certifiably insane with my tongue. By the time we reach the iron-wrought gates of his driveway, the man is barely breathing. I wonder if his heart will give out before I get to him myself.

  We stumble into his home. After slamming down more drinks than I can remember at Crux, Vincent is wobbling, and I’m starting to feel the alcohol. Carlos trails us with a distance, but keen to keep an eye on his boss. Vincent leads me up the stairs and into a room that is at the opposite end of the hallway from the master bedroom. It’s a room that he had not shown me during my previous visit and tour, and the room is locked. Vincent fumbles around in his jacket as he pulls out a set of keys. He selects one and slides it into the lock. I take the opportunity to steal a glance at my phone’s clock and see that it is already nearly 1 a.m. I only have a few hours before the sun will start to rise, and my powers will wane. I need to act quickly.

  I’m not exactly sure of how many bodyguards Vincent employs, and Carlos is stationed right outside of the door. Knowing the scale and type of business Vincent runs, the house must be stocked with weapons, surveillance, and men willing to throw their lives away.

  “Welcome to my dungeon, my dear.”

  As we enter, I quickly understand the reason behind the namesake. One of the walls in the room is actually made of cobblestones. Several contraptions are bolted into the wall with the purpose of administering pain, mixed in with torturous pleasure, all while holding someone captive and defenseless. The room also has a large, black satin fitted bed, with what looks like ropes hanging down from the ceiling above it. Above the rest of the room, is a cage that hangs from the ceiling by chains thicker than my wrists. The cage alone must weigh at least several hundred pounds. Other than the cobblestone wall, the room is painted blood-red, and several mirrors hang from different angles on the ceiling. I can only imagine that Vincent likely holds lavish orgies in this room. I feel claustrophobic with just the thought of it.

  Another wall holds a wet bar with at least ten different types of liquor. Next to the bar is a large chest that likely contains all types of horrors that I can’t even imagine.

  Vincent leads me to the bar and directs me to a barstool, then starts mixing some more cocktails. I look around the room for surveillance but can’t find any. I can’t tell if Vincent would be the type to record himself, so I don’t completely cross it off the list. As far as weapons, for all I know, the chest that sits just a few feet away could be holding AK-47s.

  My investigation is interrupted by Vincent’s hand, holding a glass with lime, tonic water, and vodka in front of me. The last thing I want right now is to drink more alcohol as I feel the warming and dulling effects creep on my body. I accept it reluctantly as Vincent’s hand doesn’t drop. This man must have a bottomless well inside of him. I clink glasses with Vincent. I take a gulp knowing that Vincent is eyeing me as he chugs his cocktail. This latest concoction doesn’t even taste like alcohol anymore.

  “What do you think?” Vincent gestures around the room, his words slurring together, and I realize that a bottomless well he is not. His hands are busy pulling out a white powder from a hidden compartment inside the bar. Cocaine.

  “It’s quite elaborate,” I answer with a smile as I slide toward him.

  “Would you like some?” He points to the white powder.

  “I’ll pass.” I have no interest in putting more toxins in my body tonight. But Vincent seems to think otherwise as he arranges a thick white line for himself using a gold-plated card. Without much further ado, he inhales the entire pinky-finger-sized line through one nostril using a gold straw. Holy shit.

  “I want to change things up tonight, because you are special, my dear. I want you to take over control and do as you please.” His eyes rage with desire. Cha-ching. I finally get what I’ve been waiting for.

  “Are you sure you can handle everything that I want to do to you?”

  “I’ll try, but only if you wear this,” he answers as he holds up what looks like shreds of black vinyl. “Don’t worry; it’s brand new. I picked it out just for you. It will fit you perfectly.” I know I have to concede to his game to get what I want, although my patience grows thin with every second.

  I take the shreds of vinyl and look around the room for a proper place to change outfits and realize that there is none. Greedy bastard. Vincent, watching me come to this realization, smiles lewdly as he licks his lips and takes a seat. I would have to reconsider ever taking an assignment with an S&M fetish. I’ve never had to be so sexually elaborate for anyone in my whole life.

  Despite it all, I am grateful that Vincent isn’t absolutely disgusting, at least from a physical appearance standpoint. In fact, despite the messy hair, alcohol reeking breath, and drunken glaze, he still looks handsome and charming. He certainly knows how to keep composure, more so after hitting the line of cocaine, even in the face of being tethered and tortured by a stranger.

  I decide to at least walk to the bed to strip down to put some distance between us. I manage to keep on my boots, fishnet stockings, and thong while I put on the meager strips of an outfit for Vincent. The total sum of the outfit is probably only one square foot. There are strategically placed strips that hold just the right amount of skin concealed, while vastly exposing the rest. My ass is completely exposed, other than a mere strip down the middle. Despite the lack of coverage, the actual materials curve around my body perfectly, as if it was custom-made. All things considered, I can’t deny Vincent’s attention to detail.

  Vincent hands me the vodka tonic again, and I empty the contents in preparation for the final act, licking the limey taste off of my lips. By the time I turn around, Vincent has already placed himself into the harness of the torture mechanism. He is undressed down to his black underwear, ready and willing for some pain.

  “Do you need instructions?”

  “Uh . . . I think I can figure it out,” I answer. I put his right arm up to a leather strap and secure it in tightly. I then do the same to his left. Each foot is placed about shoulder-width apart, with his heels against the wall. I strap in each foot separately, making sure there is no room for movement. This is turning out to be the easiest hit ever.

  Lastly, I put his head agai
nst the wall, and pull the spiked leather collar around his neck, securing him to the wall completely. There is no way for him to escape unless he employs magic.

  Once I am satisfied, I walk to the treasure chest. Inside it, there are more sex toys and torture mechanisms than I could have ever imagined. I choose a ball gag for his mouth to prevent him from shouting. There are other mechanisms and contraptions made of curved metal, spikes, and cuffs that I don’t even know how to use. I settle on a good old fashion three-foot whip. It’s made of thick brown corded leather. It could do serious damage if one properly knows how to employ it. And lucky for Vincent, I do. I will put on a show for him, as his final wish before death.

  “Have you been a bad boy?” I change the tone of my voice to something you would hear in an awful porn. Vincent answers a muffled response through the ball gag, which I took as a “yes.”

  I smell the lust wafting off of the man, as his eyes beg for my torture. My hand caresses his body, enjoying the fine muscles that would be shredded to pieces in a few moments. My caress turns into a slow attack as my claws scratch across his torso, leaving long red marks. Vincent moans in pleasure. Then, I back away. As I take one last good look at my victim, my face breaks into pure glee. This is my moment. The monster in me, the one made of darkness, is finally climbing out for glory. Goodbye, Vincent.

  44

  The tough leather feels comforting in my hand. I take a final deep breath in and shatter the barrier that holds back the dark demon that’s been waiting to rear its ugly head. My blood sings, and my heart roars as joyous liberation sweeps through my very being. A pure evil smile takes over my face as I hear the swoosh of air next to me as my arm snaps back and brings the whip on across Vincent’s midsection. He seems a little shocked by the brutality, but then pleasure spread across his face. I haven’t broken skin yet.