The Red Shoes

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Your biggest fears,” Nico answers. “Are locked inside of your pretty noggin.”

  “… My father?”

  “Is that what you saw?”

  “Ya,” I partially lie, fearing they won’t understand, as Deacon kneels to check on me. Soaking in sweat, I huff, “Fuckin hell!”

  PART IV

  Four

  Glory Holes for the Highest

  We set forth on a path to the castle for Nico to find normalcy, Dom to find his heart, and Deacon to find his feelings; I just want to go home. I mean, I really want to go home. We’re not happy or sad but content within the maelstrom of discontent. And maybe we have existed this way for far too long. Maybe we have become acclimated to the grandiose amounts of instability that exists within our realm.

  We survive in strife.

  “How much further?” Nico asks, finishing off the last of the peaches. “We’ve been walking for hours.”

  “No, we haven’t,” Deacon contradicts. He’s right, but I refuse to get into it with them. I choose to keep my head down, and my lips sealed, not because it’s easier, but because it won’t matter with them. “We’ve been gone for less than a half an hour.”

  “Whatever you are smoking, I want some,” Nico continues as the forest parts to a clear cut path to the castle. It is just beyond the next hill. Despite yielding trees, the sky awaits with black, impenetrable clouds. They curl around one another, rapidly uniting and billowing. This won’t offer a pleasant rain shower.

  This will be a storm for the record books.

  We rise to the pinnacle of the final hill where the road seems to end. The low-lying swamp angles down the hill—which is odd and messes with my cognitive reasoning (the impairment is tremendous)—within the waters, the lotus flowers bloom to an enormous size. Bigger than the triple-XL New York-style pizzas at Mario’s Authentic Italian Deli. The lotus are a good two feet across.

  “We’re going to get wet,” Dom declares, uncertain.

  “You should remove your shoes,” Nico says with his already in hand. He’s knotting the laces together and tossing them over his shoulder.

  Dom pulls his loafers and socks off, and I spot his ugly little toes wiggling in the grass. I look up to him, and he acknowledges, “This is your fantasy, not mine.”

  “… Cruz?”

  “I’m leaving my boots on,” he informs, reaching for my hand. “And you should do the same.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I mutter as a sign of respect.

  Deacon’s upbringing between Houston and ‘the swamp’ pronounces itself loud and clear some days. He understands the basics of survival better than anyone here. If I’m going to the wilderness or the desert or an angled lotus-filled pond or a long, underground tunnel traveling at a high rate of speed, there is no one better to see to my safety. And the fact that I realize his essential life skills earns me one up on the rest.

  He is a better man than me. “Come with me, boy.”

  I allow his term of ‘boy’ and the lead of his marksmanship. I’ve been heralded for my ability with a weapon in my hands for years, but it is a trained, practiced art. Deacon’s enviable masculinity is far more natural and intuitive—despite his hidden, but overt need for all things shiny—as we embark through the waters.

  “This is messing with my head,” I confide, staying on the back of his shoulder. “Badly.”

  “I know, Mr. I-Have-To-Level-The-Foundation-So-You-Can-Fuck-Me.”

  I loudly laugh. He’s right. I need things level, or it messes with my hard drive, and I don’t function properly. It’s akin to turning the processor upside down, or shaking the snow globe, and not a trait I possess. Fortunately for me, Deacon can function in any environment. He is so much better than me in many regards. The trade-off is his lack of manipulative calculations.

  Cruz is good; he isn’t me.

  He won’t win a game of tactical strategy against me. Chess is out of his league. Mafia is as well. His solution for dealing with homicidal sociopaths and child predators is instadeath by bludgeoning their brains against cement. He doesn’t care much for Nico, or his kind, and fails to understand (sometimes) why we keep him around. He hates rapists, despite threatening to do such himself. I know he never would or even could. It isn’t in his helix. He is kind and good most of the time. That said, there is a distinct line drawn around the perimeter of Iris and I. If that line is crossed, then Lord help whomever.

  Deacon is vindictively reactive, a thermonuclear bomb ready to detonate with the slightest of touch, probably more so than any of us. He believes in an eye for an eye and takes the two he does care about to an extreme level of guarding. He won’t change his position once his mind is made up. His defense is a thing of infamy in amongst our Unholy circle, and the boys know not to test the strength of his fierce aptitude.

  We scurry through the shallow water like we’re walking on it, a holy rite of passage. I glance over my shoulder to see Dom and Nico floundering in the middle. They’re tiptoeing as opposed to Deacon’s method of moving through the waters as quickly as possible. We don’t traipse, concerning ourselves with the unknown, especially barefooted. We’re resilient and expeditious.

  Reaching the other side, we turn back to see them, yawning and slowing to a snail’s pace. “What is happening?”

  “Sleeping spell?” Deacon hypothetically questions. “I don’t know, but they should have worn their shoes. There could be anything in the water.”

  I glance at the red shoes on my feet. They are dry. I bend down to touch them. And his. “How the fuck did you do that?”

  “A little magic never hurt anyone.” He winks.

  “You ought to warn a guy before you do that shit.”

  Lighting a cigarette, he chuckles, “So you can worry?”

  “Precisely.” I steal a drag of the smoke from his fingers. “Are they going to make it across?”

  “Yeah,” he replies, watching them intently. “And then they’re going to pass the fuck out.”

  “Why do you care for me the way you do?”

  A light smirk lifts on his lips. “Complete love since the first punch.”

  “… Punch struck love drunk?”

  “Pretty much,” he replies, flicking his blues to me. “It was always you; it will forever be you.”

  His words seep into my veins, like a slow trickle to infuse my soul with his goodness, and in Deacon, I have stability and security. These same things I have in Iris, regardless if anyone else sees them or not. I have. I do. And I will continue to do such.

  Dom and Nico barely make it across before falling prey to the slumber. “What do we do now?”

  “Find our way inside?” Deacon suggests as I gaze to the ominous gates before the grand palace of glimmering virgin white. We march forth to where the swollen moat surrounding the castle flows with jostling rapids. “Hmm.”

  “We cannot cross this,” I mutter.

  “May we please enter the Castle of Cum held by High Monarch?”

  The two gargoyle statues on either side of the door open their eyes and extend their broad wings before taking flight and lowering the bridge. “Holy fuck…”

  “All you got to do is ask nicely,” Deacon snarls, stroking his blonde beard. “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes.” The pair land, and as we cross the bridge, they follow close. The heavy wooden door opens, but no escort arrives. “Are we just going inside?”

  “You have another idea?”

  “Nah.” I shrug and cross the threshold. The inside is pristine and polished with an opulence I’d expect. At the top of the majestic, winding staircase, I spot the girl of my dreams dressed in a red and black silk robe. I bump Deacon’s shoulder and point at the beautiful sight. “Iris…”

  “It took you long enough.”

  I blink several times. “We had some hitches.”

  “Hitches lead to glitches, and you end up in stitches,” she replies with her rhyme and spins away. I dash up the staircase with Deacon hot on my tail. She lifts her han
d as we stand outside the double doors. “You must remove your shoes before entering my boudoir.”

  Don’t have to tell us twice.

  We kick off our shoes and leave them at the door before following her inside. She immediately pulls her hair down and drops the robe to her feet. Her creamy porcelain skin burns into my mind. The curvature of her backside and beautiful legs I long to have wrapped around my body send a jolt between my heads.

  Crawling onto the bed, she taunts with the wiggle of her ass cheeks. She lays on her side and pats the bed. “C’mere, boys.”

  “Should we get naked?”

  “Maybe,” I whisper, knowing Deacon is as aroused as I am. I step closer. “Iris… Are you really here?”

  “Of course,” she simmers with a smile. “Come.” I wish she would stop saying that word because my body wants to respond to her command readily. “Take off your clothes, Salvatore.”

  I understand—better than anyone—I am a top, a Master, and a Dominant. However, there are certain times when that does not come into play, and we have interludes where I am just a man, and she is just a woman. This is one of those instances.

  I am exhausted from the perils of the journey, more so the acquisition of Nico, and running through the horrifically unending tunnel of terror. I need to bow down before my one true Queen and pay homage to her greatness.

  Her sapphires lock onto my emeralds as I undo the button of the jeans. I rip them open, my hard cock pressed against the sharp, biting teeth.

  “Show me,” she whispers, biting her lip. “Show me all of you.”

  I ease my palms under the fabric and let the jeans fall to my ankles. I’m captivated by her stare, so eager and anticipating. She wants me. She needs me. She desires me. “… You like what you see?”

  “I do,” she mutters, reaching her slender fingers out to graze over the head. My eyes shutter closed. “Where are your piercings?”

  Truth is, I don’t know. I didn’t arrive in the Kinky Kingdom with them. I don’t have the many wristbands or my crucifix, either. I noticed Deacon’s fingers were missing his rings when I found him in the cornfield.

  “I don’t have them,” I mumble, opening my eyes to find her fingertips rubbing my dick. Deacon is naked, spooning her demure, feminine body.

  Time passes so awkwardly here—one minute is slow, enhanced with every second and the next races towards a finish line I am not sure I want to cross. She scoots forward and her tongue skirts over the tip. I close my eyes and moan. She is heavenly, a floating celestial being, and I want her fairy to douse over me—the blessing of her holy water. This isn’t my choice but hers—what capacity she wants—and I will do my damnedest to provide.

  “Make love to me like we used to in New Orleans back when everything was easy and uncomplicated.”

  I never associated our time at The Dollhouse as being easy or uncomplicated. It was hot with the humidity so thick, clinging to every thrust and wrapping an effervescent, unfathomable bubble of love around us. We were the holy trinity—a triumvirate, a triad, and a perfect triangle.

  At that point, we were so equally balanced; nothing else seemed to matter. And I wouldn’t stand for the label of ménage à trois. I loathed it—despised—because it only hit the sexual cusp of the intimacy we brought forth.

  Iris and Deacon knew my mind like no other, and they embraced my sometimes hyperaware states of taxing cognitive paralysis. They welcomed my flares like champs, and we brought our A-game of therapy to the table. I did as well because there would be no skimping, cutting corners, or easy rides. I played psychoanalyst with every choreographed sensual act for the kid who couldn’t admit he had homosexual feelings and the fat girl who believed she was unworthy of love.

  Yes, we knew each other’s shit.

  Inside. Outside. Under a microscope.

  Over a rainbow in a bright, blue sky.

  And together, somehow, we grew.

  Deacon needed Iris as much as me.

  Iris needed Deacon as much as me.

  And I knew I needed them both, but I always hoped the time would come when Iris and I would become more than best friends who liked fucking. I wanted to believe the fairytale—an odd thing for a guy to admit, but this is me—and I tell you everything. I didn’t know what would become of our trinity, but I figured even through an “I do” that we would remain as loyal as ever.

  Perhaps a foolish notion.

  We were sacred, like communion dissolving on my tongue. That didn’t absolve all of the problems, spats, and tiffs, but at the end of the day, we held tight to the sweet notions of a love that would never sour. We would be present for one another and aware of the strife trying to subjugate the bliss to the fray. That is to say, in times of duress, we would overcome the obstacles to be there for one another. The words did not matter as much as the action. They spoke volumes about respect, confidence, and trust.

  Easy and uncomplicated?

  They were not words I would ever have chosen to use, but I cannot own her etymology anymore than she can mine. I would say the time in New Orleans was full of reflective growth but categorically bonded our uniqueness to come together as one. We were a fluid, moving unit without vacillating in a multitude of doubt.

  “Say what you mean,” I correct, wanting a more concise answer. “You know, I don’t take requests.”

  “I want you,” she whispers as her jewels dance to mine. She grasps Deacon’s hand on her hip. “And Mr. Cruz…to fuck me senseless until I see stars.”

  She couldn’t be more direct than that. I gaze to Deacon as his blue eyes strike with a challenging chord, one I am not sure I cannot repeat. With his focus set on my next move, he presses his lips to her shoulder, and her eyes close.

  “Show me,” I encourage, pulling up the jeans and locking my unpierced beast away. Back to the cellar with you, slut. “Steal the show, beautiful ones.”

  “Sal,” Deacon discourages, laying his hands on my girl. “You can’t be serious.”

  “But I am.” I’ve recently taken a backseat and requested their partaking without my participation. I enjoy watching them. There is a tenderness in the way he looks at her and how she bends to his will. She eagerly trusts him, and I find their moments to be incredibly erotic and hot.

  My discipline dictates my observance, but I relinquish control in the darkest of the night when I’m alone with my fist wrapped around my dick as I pump harder in the memories of their lovemaking.

  Perverse? Hell, yes.

  It’s my latest addiction, controlling the puppets I have trained. They indulge my whimsical notions and let their passion lead the dance. They entangle with the knowledge of one another’s bodies, crushing and swirling until I can no longer see two but one.

  One complete whole package.

  Iris easily rolls to her back as Cruz mounts between her legs. He guides his dick with his palm, a simple instinctually trained effort. I’m rock hard by the time my best friend thrusts inside of my girl’s wetness. She gasps, and I moan. He moves, and I adjust my cock bound by the tautness of the denim—those jeans I insist Deacon purchase. No more sagging ass. The jeans must fit. She drifts her dainty, well-manicured red fingernails—those talons I ask she have to claw at my back—over his guns.

  They kiss.

  Tongues and lips and love, so much love.

  She tucks his locks behind his ear, and I benefit from the remarkable profile of the man I long to be. His hands hold hers before he pins her wrists above her head, and he guides the soul-leeching blues to me.

  “Stroke it,” he mutters beneath the scruff. “We’re taking our time in exploring the castle.”

  She giddily smiles, content with being penetrated and filled by Cruz.

  Only him. Only her. Only me.

  We three.

  I hold back a little longer, knowing the request came from my submissive, not a command from a Dominant. I run the show. Every smack of my flesh, every fuck of my ass, every minute between the three—I am the Master of the puppets. Th
ey are my playthings, not the other way around. I am a masochist, a pain slut, a deviant for a good round of torture—but not a submissive. Not a bottom. Perhaps at one time, early on, I was. But now, I direct the show.

  And without even a breath, I can change the course on a dime. They are that well-behaved. “Is she warm, Deacon?”

  “Oh, yes…” he answers, letting her wrists go and lifting onto his hands. My mouth waters at the ripeness in her nipples and the blush on her cheeks. “Are you ready?”

  “I want to whip her for your sins.”

  Her eyes closed as she whispers, “Please, Sir.”

  In the rearrangement of my masterpiece, Iris strides atop Cruz. She’s upright, and that can only mean one thing—his fat cock is buried deep in her dew-drenched flower. I pace around the pair, assessing the angles and searching for the elements to send the three of us skyrocketing to the stars.

  Her request; my mission.

  “Hold her hips down,” I demand, scanning around the room. With a mischievous smirk, I warn, “Don’t let her move.”

  “May I buck from below?”

  “Not until I say.”

  I grab the hairbrush from the dresser. My fingers caress over the smoothness as I understand the years of growth that went into a tree to provide the wood I’m about to wallop her with. I run the bristles through her long auburn hair. I’m careful and calculated as I brush every strand.

  Flipping it over, I fire off a pop against her bottom. She jerks, but Deacon holds her still. I rub her soft skin in my hand and repeat the move. Her lips part and her tongue runs over her bottom pout. She’s hungry, but I am ravenous.

  “Can you be good and not move?”

  “Yes,” she whispers, peering to me. “I will be good.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Mhmm.”

  I’m not sure, but I humor her when I instruct, “Cruz.”

  His fingers move to her nipples, one on each breast, kneading, tugging, and pulling as I lash out and let her have the spanking she deserves. My hand dips down between her legs as I briskly rub circles around her clit—round and round and round. I lightly pinch the hardened nub in my fingers as I continue successive swats to her behind. Not hard. Just enough to warm the skin and slick the lips.