My little heart raced. I knew I shouldn’t see this. I didn’t understand it. Something bad was happening, but I was too naïve to know. But, on some level, I knew exactly what it was.
My father hurt a woman who didn’t want to be hurt. She hadn’t been naughty like I was sometimes. All she did was cry and curl into a ball. Yet my father beat her with fists and whips. Enjoying her cries, he turned into a purple-faced baboon with pleasure.
The scene scarred my brain for life, irrevocably changing me. I went out of my way to be kind and gentle to every living thing. The cook caught me, time and time again, feeding birds, mice, and other woodland creatures.
My mother fell more and more in love with fruity-smelling alcohol, leaving me motherless, with a rambling drunk.
All while my father amassed a stable.
He already had a stable full of cars: Bugatti, Audi, Ferrari, and Porsches. He owned a barn full of thoroughbreds and world cup racers. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted humans. Girls. Possessions.
On my eighth birthday, he brought home his twelfth filly. She kicked and screamed, until he punched her so hard she passed out. A full wing of the house was barricaded for his new acquisitions. No member of staff was permitted.
But I knew secrets he didn’t. Hidden passageways in the walls—no lock could keep me out.
I watched from air ducting and wall cavities. My stomach twisted as I saw sick, foul acts committed against fragile women.
Rather than suffer boyhood excitement, a thrill of shame coated my life. I wallowed in guilt. My own flesh and blood ruined lives of others. Stealing their freedom and turning them into broken belongings.
I never loved my father, but day by day, my hatred for him grew. I hated that he’d created me. I wanted nothing to do with him. I wanted him gone.
On my thirteenth birthday, I broke into the stable while my father wasn’t there.
The girls all looked up with red-rimmed eyes and fright. I didn’t know why I went. To offer sympathy? Comfort? It seemed so stupid, standing there. I offered to bring them anything they wanted—to steal food from the kitchen, anything to take that hopelessness from their eyes. But they wailed and hid; running from a scrawny thirteen-year-old boy.
Their fear stank, and I couldn’t stand to be there any longer. But I owed them something, anything—it was my father who ruined them—it was my place to make it right. “Please. I don’t mean to hurt you.” My balls hadn’t dropped; my voice sounded as high as their whimpers for help.
Not one of the girls came near me that day, but I saw their bruises, the shadows under their eyes, the haunting emptiness in their souls. I couldn’t stay away.
The next day I returned and uttered the one word I swore I never would. The word my father used a lot. “Esclave, obey me.”
Immediately, the girls stiffened, dropping to their knees. All twelve bowed, long hair, all different colours, kissing the ground.
That was the day I learned the word broken. They were broken. Completely. And I couldn’t stand it. With one command, they were mine, and I hated their weakness as much as I hated my father for creating such miserable creatures.
I ordered, “Crawl to me.”
Sounds of skin rubbing against carpet as the circle of naked slaves obeyed.
“Stop.” They did. Immediately. Total obedience.
Standing in a circle of women, I made a vow. I would help them. No one should be broken beyond repair. No other human had the right to steal their life.
I would become their saviour, and rehabilitate them back to sanity.
*
Three years passed before I got hold of an untraceable gun. Boarding school in London allowed me to mingle with rich, bored kids with mean connections. Criminals hung around the wealthy like flies to rotten meat, and I took advantage.
I earned a reputation for being closed off and angry, when really, I plotted constantly how to bring my father to justice. My family’s reputation preceded him and people feared me. Feared my power, my own legacy of a ruthless tycoon.
I did nothing to disillusion them. Fear was a powerful weapon—I knew. I saw how fear ruled my father’s women.
Two weeks later, school holidays came around. I travelled home on the train with my leather-bound suitcase, a heavy black gun in my waistband.
I hated going home. There was nothing there for me. Only the undying need for vengeance.
My mother had died a year before from alcohol poisoning, leaving me vacant. She was my mother, but never paid attention to her only son. I wasn’t bourbon or shiraz, therefore I wasn’t important.
Mrs. Sucre welcomed me home, and I holed away in my room, cleaning my new possession. Staring at shiny brass bullets, I welcomed anger and rage.
At two in the morning, I went hunting. Night was my father’s playtime. I knew where to find him.
I sneaked with the silence, fingers tight around the new purchase.
The whimpers of girls punched me in the chest. Soon. Soon you’ll be free. I knew they’d thank me for what I was about to do. My own sanity would thank me. Soon, I wouldn’t have to live with guilt that I allowed my father to continue hurting so many innocent women.
My father never heard a thing.
I moved right beside him while he fucked a girl, holding her pigtails like handholds; his old man ass wobbling with every thrust. My lips curled in distaste and I snarled. The girl’s tears set fire to my stomach.
I raised the gun, testing the weight. My hand was dry—not sweaty or nervous. My heart even and sure.
“Enjoy your last fuck, father. It’s the last you’ll ever do.”
My father, Mr. Quincy Mercer the First, stopped mid thrust, face bright red, jowls trembling.
“What are you doing in here, you little shit? Get out. I told you this part of the house was forbidden.”
Girls all around the room, tied up in horrible positions, started to cry. Some with their necks bound to ankles. Others hanging from the ceiling upside down. Tears flowed, but light slowly glowed in their eyes. Hunger, revenge, freedom, infected each like wildfire. Smashing the shackles of brokenness.
I didn’t say another word. What was there to say? I squeezed the trigger.
The red spray was a gruesome firework. My father’s brains splattered over the girl he still impaled on his cock.
She screamed and scrambled away, wiping her face with shaking hands.
The entire room rippled with darkness. I flexed my arms, standing in the centre, breathing deep.
My father’s reign was over. I was the new owner of the Mercer Empire. At sixteen, I inherited all his belongings, including the stable of women.
For a brief moment, my cock stiffened at the thought of carrying on my father’s legacy. It would be so easy to violate a girl who was bound, unable to move or stop me. I could lose my virginity to a slave. I could do whatever I wanted. A ruthless tycoon, just like my old man.
But as I stood, with my mind overflowing with darkness, I knew I could never walk that path.
I wanted it too damn much. I craved the feel of submission. I drooled for a woman sucking my cock under duress. I hated myself with vengeance.
I was my father’s son, after all. Somehow, the moment I killed him, his evilness shot into me. I wanted to put a bullet in my own brain as I knew I’d never be free from the monstrous urges.
Needing to run, I quickly freed the women and brought them clothes from my mother’s old things.
The girls accepted what I gave. Keeping their eyes downcast, mouths closed.
That night signified a new beginning. For all of us.
A year later, my rehabilitation of the twelve women was complete. Some girls left immediately after I freed them. I gave them money, and sent them back to loved ones. A few remained, needing psychological help. I admitted them to the local hospital, footing all the bills.
I didn’t need to lie about how the girls became that way. Everyone knew my father and his sick tastes. He supplied many a sick fuck in the village with toys. Rent
ing them out for thousands, not caring some never came back alive.
I’d been painted with the same brush, even though I resisted the beast inside. I wanted more than anything to keep those girls locked and chained, and subservient to my desires, but I never caved. Always fighting. Forever struggling.
The last girl to leave was a sheik’s daughter. She’d been a gift for a lucrative property deal in the east. Captive for six years, she felt some sort of sick loyalty to me for freeing her.
The night before she left, she trapped me in my bedroom. The girls were allowed free reign of the house, slowly acclimatizing to freedom once again.
She closed the door, signifying what she wanted with one click of a lock.
I tried to refuse her. I tried to push her away. She didn’t owe me anything, most of all her body, but she took control, and made me do things my father would’ve been proud of. I lost my virginity, not in sweetness and tenderness, but with spanking and degradation.
The moment it was over, I loathed myself. I kicked her out, put her on my private plane, and sent her home. I couldn’t stand to see her. She reminded me how far I’d fallen. How alike I was to the one man I hated the most.
The following years were torture. I needed a release, but normal sex didn’t cut it. I needed violence to get off. I needed the feel of complete submission of ownership. My blood was tainted, and I’d never be free.
Then the bribes started. As I grew my father’s empire to worldwide domination, people wanted property favours. A building here. Special grants there. I had friends in powerful places and men gave me presents. My father’s reputation preceded once again, and instead of gift baskets, I received slaves.
It started slowly, one a year. Then two. Until, finally, I became the king of accepting trafficked women for a business deal. It cost a fortune to accept, and I didn’t touch a single one.
They arrived, broken, trembling, sometimes drugged, sometimes completely damaged. I became a father, brother, friend to them.
Most recovered, but others… some I couldn’t save.
I enlisted the help of the local police. Together, we worked tirelessly. They made me an exemplary citizen for my ‘charity’.
Then Suzette arrived. She had bite marks all over her body. Hair shaved, cigarette burns, and broken fingers. I promptly hired a mercenary to return the favour to the men who broke her.
It took six months before Suzette spoke a word. Another six months before she let me be in the same room with her. Slowly, she started working around the house, throwing herself into housework, as if she could become invisible as a staff member and not the slave she’d been. And I let her.
It helped. Her skin went from pallid to rosy, her eyes lost the panicked hue, and slowly she stopped jumping whenever I appeared, moving with silence.
When I asked if she was ready to go home, she refused. She threw herself at my feet, begging to stay. She had no one to return to, and professed her love for me. She wanted me to love her. Take her however I wanted. But I couldn’t. I never could. I couldn’t resort to using broken women. I would never find myself in the aftermath.
Instead, I used professionals. Played out dark fantasies with women who gladly accepted ten thousand euros for a bit of pain. It never satisfied. It left my throat coated with dissatisfaction, but that was my sacrifice. I would never touch a slave again.
Suzette became fundamental to helping other girls heal. She befriended them, and they found their way back to happiness quicker.
Our little team worked well for years. I focused more on property than saving women. I expanded the company into South East Asia, Fiji, New Zealand, and Hong Kong.
Then my world flipped upside down.
Esclave fifty-eight arrived.
The moment she stumbled across the threshold, all those dark needs roared and raged inside. I wanted to throw myself down the stairs and take her then and there. I fucking wanted, wanted, wanted.
She was different.
She wasn’t broken.
For the first time, a slave came to me spitting and alive. Intelligence blazed in her eyes and my cock stirred, unable to be controlled. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop, and hated her almost as much as I hated myself.
I finally met a woman with fire and passion matching my own, and all I wanted to do was break her. I wanted her to be mine in every way humanly possible.
I was a sick, sick bastard and would go to hell for what I fantasized.
After twelve years of battling the beast, it sprang from its cage and refused to go back. The lifetime of urges couldn’t be refused. They overtook, held me hostage, and I fell into the role of master so effortlessly, as if it was the true me. The real me. The monster.
She was mine.
*
*Present*
She shook her head, looking into my black soul with dove-grey eyes. “Nous sommes les uns des autres.” We are each other’s.
Two emotions fought for space in my chest. The beast lurched forward, ready to take her up on the offer to debase and hurt, while the other wanted to gather her gently and lavish every penny I had.
After everything I did. After what Lefebvre did… my heart raced. That fucking cock-sucking bastard. Black anger gathered again at the thought of him raping her. I wanted to dig up his unmarked grave and dismember him piece by piece. A single gunshot was too good for that asshole.
But Tess survived. She forged stronger and shone brighter. She never broke.
I pressed against her again, hissing between my teeth at the burn in my cock. I wanted to fuck her so bad, but I needed to tame other urges, too.
“Nous sommes les uns des autres,” I repeated, kissing her deeply. Her soft groan sent my sanity spiralling out of control. How did I manage to send her away? Kick her from my room after she let me whip her to the point of drawing blood? I’d been a bloody saint with willpower of an angel.
I sacrificed everything, because I refused to break such a perfect woman. A woman who pranced into my life with spark and fire, threatening to burn my very existence to the ground.
“I can’t believe you came back,” I murmured, heart galloping, still unable to believe the blood oath we made. I smeared residual crimson on her throat, whispering fingers across her collarbone.
My eyes dropped to the tattoo on her wrist. Holy fuck, what was she trying to do to me? She spoke to the darkness inside, and despite her fear, stood up to me. I wanted to pummel her into the ground to make her obey, but her rebellion was also my undoing.
I’d never be free of her.
Tess Snow.
Tess esclave.
Mine.
All mine.
I can’t wait any longer. She came back on her own terms. It’s my turn now.
I stood, shoving my cock into my trousers, wincing at how fucking hard it was. Damn woman cast a spell on me. Tess blinked, watching with those intoxicating Bambi eyes, begging me to fuck and hurt her.
I groaned. If I did this, there would be no going back. She would become everything I needed. I had to trust in her vow. The promise she would be strong enough. I hoped to God she was right because I gave up fighting.
The monster roared, beating his chest, salivating at the thought of what was to come.
I was done and she was mine, in every sense.
“Come.” I grabbed her tattooed wrist, jerking her from the library. Stalking through the foyer, her little pants sent lust into a realm of insanity. Fuck, I needed her. To scream and writhe and bleed.
What sort of man needed to make a woman bleed? Not a sane one. I’m infected. Poisoned. Destined for hell.
I slammed my fist against the hidden door beneath the stairs, taking violence out on the wood panel.
Tess flinched, but didn’t move away.
I raised an eyebrow as the door opened, giving her one last opportunity to admit she made a huge mistake. Not that it would make any difference. I wasn’t letting her go again. Willing slave or not. The beast preferred unwilling, because I was
sick. So sick.
“Je suis à toi,” she panted.
I gritted my teeth. Fuck, yes, she was mine. No one else’s. She was lucky I didn’t hang and quarter the stupid boy she went home to. Idiot. Sleeping beside her every night—touching her. Couldn’t he see the unique treasure he had? My chest swelled with pride. Tess left him for me. She was too much for a boy. She needed a man with a demon inside.
I didn’t think I’d ever find a female beast with contorted desires like mine.
But she found me.
My back rippled with tension as I dragged her down the stairs. The lights clicked on automatically, illuminating the dark teak bar, pool table, a music recording studio, and sauna.
Tess didn’t say a word as her eyes fell on the pool table, chest pumping. Goddammit, I loved touching her that night. I’d been so ready to rape her, to try and get rid of the sickness inside in one swoop, but she fought too much, made me too hot. I wanted the agony of dragging out the suspense. I wanted to torture myself with the insanely painful urge to fill her with my cock.
I was rather proud of my strength that night. If I had raped her—who knows if she could’ve handled everything else I did to her.
Tess bumped into me, unable to tear her eyes off the table. I wrapped tight, imprisoning arms around her, growling. “Remember my fingers inside you, esclave? Remember how wet you were? Even then, your body knew you belonged to me.”
She shivered, tight and tense, but malleable and feminine at the same time. “Are you going to finish what you started that night? Take me over the pool table?” A pink tongue darted between her lips, tempting me beyond belief.
Fuck, I could barely stand, my cock ached so hard.
“No. I have another idea.”
She sucked in a breath, pulse strumming in her wrist where I held.
Rational thoughts smashed the horny beast to the side. I panicked. How the hell would this happen? How could I hurt her and then…not? Would the insane urge to beat the shit out of her ever leave? I’ll constantly have to watch what I do, how hard I do it. I could never resort to being my father. Never.
I spun her, trapping her against my chest, rubbing my cock on her belly. “Your skin is too flawless. I want to scar it.” I squeezed my eyes closed. I sounded like a sick fuck, but shit, the thought of marking her permanently did insane things to me.
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 281
