“No,” Rafe teases, slowing down again and grinding his cock deep into my pussy. “Your punishment isn't over yet.”
Again and again, he brings me to the trembling edge, my fingernails clawing into his arms and shoulders as I'm so close to coming before pulling back, freezing solid and pinning me underneath him as he leaves me caught. I'm reduced to tears, begging him blindly for release, and Rafe's eyes never leave me. “Please, sir . . . please. I'll be good.”
He doesn’t respond, but his cock speeds up in an instant, pummeling my tired, aching, trembling pussy. I'm blasted over the edge of orgasm, my scream so loud that even my own ears ache as I feel a release even greater than before. Rafe thrusts one final time and comes, his cock spurting deep inside me as he freezes before collapsing into my body, rolling to the side and holding me safe and secure.
“My beautiful Shawnie,” Rafe whispers, stroking my back while I go into tremors. “I'm sorry for not telling you.”
“I'm sorry, sir,” I whisper, clutching him desperately. “I didn't mean to anger you.”
“I’m not angry,” Rafe says. “It's time you understand.”
“Understand what? That you're perfect?” I chuckle, and Rafe shakes his head sadly.
“No . . . that I'm a monster.”
Chapter 15
Rafe
Where do I start? Shawnie's looking at me, her beautiful eyes open wide, shocked by what I just said so soon after our mutual climax, and I'm suddenly stuck again. I know why. I've spent nearly a decade trying to get past the blocks, the hypnosis, some of the same drugs that were pumped into Shawnie but administered by people who knew exactly what they were doing.
“A monster?” she asks softly, unbelieving. “What are you talking about?”
I withdraw from Shawnie and sit up, realizing that I'm naked, but then again, with what I'm about to tell her, it's pretty fitting. “I used the word broken yesterday when I described you. I think you've used the same in talking about yourself. I've seen every scar, I see the way you rub at your left shoulder when you're nervous or scared, a total PTSD reaction because of the dislocation.”
“But why?” Shawnie whispers, stunned. “What’s that got to do with you saying you’re a monster?”
“Because I've seen that pain before in my own face,” I admit. “Because I'm tired of living my life behind a mask, a mask even more complete than the one that I wore at Club Paradise. I hide things from the world every day, like the fact that I know how to speak seven different languages, two of which are dead. Because seeing such a unique, beautiful mind, soul and body trapped in a prison of the pain and horror of what Chris Lake put you through is a crime against humanity. And because . . . because I'm lonely.”
The word is out before I can stop it, and Shawnie's face clears a little. “So you’d actually want to be with me?”
“Isn’t it obvious? When it started, I thought . . . well, I'll admit, I thought I’d just try to remind you that life is more than the pain that you've felt for so long. Let you ‘rebound’ safely with me, so to speak. But the more I work with you, the more time I spend with you, the harder it's been for me to separate what is best for you from what I want.”
“And what you want to do is . . .”
“To never let you go. But I want you, not the slowly self-destructing stranger I saw in Club Paradise. I want the woman who surprises me and has made my life better for the past few months.”
Shawnie smiles, then shakes her head. “Listening to you, I almost believe that woman exists.”
“She does,” I insist, “but I can't demand that from you until you understand where I'm coming from. You still don’t know who I am . . . what I am.”
“You say that as if you really are a monster,” Shawnie says. “What makes you such a monster? Your past?”
I nod, and she reaches out, our nudity totally forgotten, taking my hand. “Tell me your story, Rafe. But I have a feeling you’re not going to tell me anything that’s going to make me feel any different.”
I find the path I'm seeking in her eyes, and knowing that I need to teach as much as I need to expose myself to her, I open my mouth, letting the words flow naturally. “This is going to be long and probably confusing.”
“Can I ask questions?” Shawnie asks, and I nod. I must look pained though, because she squeezes my hand, and for the first time in our budding, screwed up relationship, I feel like she's the one giving me strength.
“First of all, Shawnie, realize that as much hell as Chris Lake put you through . . . imagine a lifetime of that. Imagine a darkness beyond dark, a pit within a pit. That is my childhood.”
She looks at me skeptically, and I continue. “In 1859, Charles Darwin published his most famous work, On the Origin of Species. I’m sure you know it was essentially his theory of evolution. However, one of the dark offshoots of this debate started in 1883.”
“What happened then?” Shawnie asks, and I smile a little. It's the perfect question to further my story. My beautiful, perfect Shawnie, knowing me without even knowing.
“In 1883, Francis Galton advanced and advocated a theory that eventually became known as eugenics,” I continue. “His basic idea was that there are genetic traits that give people advantages over others. And that by breeding people a lot like dogs, you could increase those traits.”
“You’re starting to lose me,” Shawnie says. “I’m an engineer, not a doctor.”
“I figured. Just bear with me for a second. Anyway, in 1890, a very radical group of eugenicists started in London. Their leader was Geoffrey Meyers. The difference between his—yes, I share his name—and other movements is that instead of arguing that certain people were superior to others, Meyers stated that everyone was deficient.”
“What was his plan?” Shawnie asks, and I grin at the horror of it all. It's either grin or get angry.
“He latched onto the idea of finding and developing the ubermensch, what bad translations have come to call the super-man. His solution was to selectively breed, which I guess wasn’t exactly unique. Just his motivations were. It resonated with certain people, and so the Program was developed.”
“What is the Program?” Shawnie asks.
“The Program was simple. Starting with the adherents, believers in Meyers's theories would intentionally breed with ‘the best of the best’. Members of the Program were instructed to search out the so-called best and brightest. Growing up, I never knew who my parents were. Bloodlines were expanded by having breeding trips between communities. Children were no longer members of their parents' family, but rather community assets, taken from their mothers and given to a wet nurse soon after birth in order to prevent any sort of maternal bond forming. They were raised in a group home with every other child in the community. They were called the cadre.”
“And you were born to this group?” Shawnie asks. At least she seems to be believing this crazy tale that is my life.
I nod. “When the members of the group isolated themselves in the thirties and forties, there was another theory that added to Meyers's ideas. The world was becoming so fucked up that they had to up the pressure to find the leader who could solve the world’s problems. It was calculated that it would take four more generations—and I'm in generation three—to achieve this so-called ubermensch. The basic crux of the new idea was that diamonds are only created under intense heat and pressure, so they would do the same thing.”
“What do you mean?”
I take a deep breath, trying to figure out how best to describe the pain, the horror, and the daily pressure I felt. “Let me give you an example. I was seven years old. I woke up at five thirty in the morning to go on a three- to five-mile run through the freezing cold with our cadre group leader, a seventeen-year-old girl named Rachel, seven minute per mile pace. After that, at six thirty, I had breakfast, a blended drink that was scientifically engineered to provide all the nutrients, vitamins, minerals and calories that I was expected to need. From seven until noon, I had classe
s that were far beyond anyone my age should be doing. At noon, I took fifteen minutes for lunch to fuel me for my strength conditioning, which for kids my age was non-traditional strength work like gymnastics and such. To drive us, our groups were divided up into teams, and the losing team was beaten by the instructors.”
“This sounds like one of those cult stories you can’t believe existed,” Shawnie whispers.
“Trust me, it exists,” I assure her. “Fail an academic test, go without food for two days. Drop out of a run, you wouldn't get breakfast. Lose a game, get beaten by the instructors. But our day wasn’t done there. We still had three more hours of classes and then some kind of social or cultural lesson. They knew that we might have to go out into the world at some point.”
“And this continued for how long?” Shawnie asks, and I shrug.
“From the earliest time I can remember until I was twelve,” I tell her.
“But how did you get away?” Shawnie asks, and I shake my head. “You didn't? What happened?”
“In the Program, when a child was ready to move on, there were four options possible. The bottom group was deemed too stupid or weak to contribute to the improvement of the human condition. They were allowed to remain with the rest of the community as workers, more or less, but they were sterilized. The top group was the very, very few like me. The rest fell somewhere in between. We were so small we didn't even have a group name. We were given the opportunity to go out into the regular world, supposedly to measure ourselves. The reality was that we were supposed to attract and bring in converts. We brought fresh blood into the fold of the Program if we could. Believers in this stupid program would consider it the ultimate honor to breed with one of us.”
“Well, thank you,” Shawnie says with a smirk. “How utterly romantic. I just got fucked by Superman.”
I laugh, nodding. “It’s kind of funny now, but it was a living nightmare. I was actually given total freedom to try and excel, to see if we were ready to lead the world into the future that they thought we were destined to bring. I was the best of the best. They were hopeful I was the one, just a bit early. And when I left, I was certain I could do it. But they forgot so many things.”
“Like what?”
“The psychological conditioning . . . they were so good at it. I never had friends, just compatriots and rivals, often the same people. But they made two mistakes with me.”
“What's that?” Shawnie asks, and I look up with a smile.
“They underestimated me. I learned how to game them, how to be at the top without showing too much. They measured me as totally compliant and easy to mold, so they went easy on me. I’m still not over all the mental bullshit, but I don’t have the suicide urge like I’m supposed to feel if you stray off the path. The other reason is that, despite their intelligence, they forgot the whole reason that we're put on this planet.”
“What reason is that?” Shawnie asks, and I reach over, taking her hand.
“To love. I saw it my first semester at college. I saw a man, a basketball player. I saw him screw up his knee and gut it out, playing on what turned out to be a torn MCL and meniscus. He wanted to ask his girlfriend to marry him, and he wanted to do that after playing his heart out. Not for glory—Caltech's basketball team sucks. Not for money, either. But for a type of relationship that doesn't exist in the Program. After seeing love, real love, I knew the Program was doomed.”
“What did you do?” Shawnie asks, and I laugh.
“I took advantage of the chaotic nature of sports. You read a little bit about it. I notified the Program that I was going to enter Muay Thai boxing, prove my genetic superiority. There were three members of the Program in the crowd that night when I let myself be beaten. I threw the fight on purpose, taking a knockout loss as soon as he hit me with something believable. It ruined my standing in the Program since I obviously wasn't physically good enough if I lost to someone they deemed inferior. They invested too much into me to have me ‘put down’, so they let me go as a failure. They thought that I might still be able to act as a recruiter, to find recruits to use for the fourth generation.”
“And do I meet this stupid genetic screening process?” Shawnie asks, and I laugh again. It feels good to laugh with someone about something so horrific.
“We were trained to recognize the traits we’re missing. I can see it in your eyes, in your skin, in your bones and in everything you do. You’re so perfect for me it has scared the hell out of me for months. It was one of the reasons that I've kept this secret for so long, and why I have to be careful. I still can't be sure that the side of me that wants you for me isn't some remnant of left behind psychological torture that they put me through. I don't know if I'll ever be sure. But I don't want to think that my desire for you is just the conditioning.”
“Jesus,” Shawnie says, putting on her bra and pulling on her t-shirt. “You really know how to lay it on a girl.” She puts her head on my chest, hugging me. “But like I said, as out there as this is, it changes nothing. If you're a monster, then that's what I need. You’re a geek too, so I have a feeling you know where this is from. Normally, evil would be fought with good. But in times like these, it should be fought by another kind of evil. So if you're a monster . . . you're my kind of monster.”
I smile, knowing what she’s talking about. I haven’t missed many Vin Diesel movies. “There's something else you have to see.”
“What do you mean?” Shawnie asks, and I stroke her face.
“I need to show you . . . Friday night. You'll need to wear your Club wear.”
“You want to take me to The Club?” Shawnie asks, confused.
I nod. “There's something I have to teach you there . . . about both of us.”
Chapter 16
Shawnie
I'm still in shock and surprised Friday evening when Rafe knocks on the door of my apartment, and I feel strange opening the door for him in my club wear. I hope this isn’t a mistake.
The thought flees my mind when I see him standing on the walkway outside. He’s wearing a black tuxedo with a velvet jacket and a wine-red shirt and pocket square. He looks like the next Bond, and my heart skips a beat. “Oh, my.”
I can't resist wrapping my arms around him, kissing him before he even makes it through the doorway. It feels so right, but at the same time . . . The Club? “You seem ready,” he says. “And the skirt looks even sexier when you’re wearing it than not wearing it.”
I nod, but when he steps back, I don't follow, and he gives me a questioning look. I swallow before I can find my voice. “Rafe . . . are you sure about this?”
Rafe's eyes crinkle as he smiles an enigmatic smile, and he reaches out, taking my hand. “Trust me, Shawnie.”
The way he says it gives me the courage to step out of my apartment and lock it, taking his hand again as we walk down the stairs. “Nice place, by the way.”
His joke helps cut the tension some more, and I laugh, wrapping my arm through his. “Yeah, well, if you had to wait much longer, your Jag probably wouldn’t have wheels.”
Rafe laughs. It's not that bad of a neighborhood. It doesn't matter, though, as we drive toward San Francisco, winding our way down toward The Club. As we get closer, my nerves get more and more jangly, and twice, I have to stop myself from asking Rafe to turn around, from saying that I was just starting to feel like I didn’t need to go there.
We park, and at the door, the doorman gives me a mysterious look while stopping Rafe. “Excuse me, Mr. Museveni. My records show that your membership is currently listed as out of date.”
Rafe nods, turning to me. “This isn't a problem. Go on in. I'll be there in a minute.”
The doorman lets me in, and I head to the bar, trying my best to ignore everything that's going on. It's a Friday night though, and as soon as I walk in, the smell of sex hits me in the face like a pheromone boxing glove. My demon howls in eagerness to get out. Even the music is dirty and nasty. Exactly what I don’t need. I go to the bar, and
the bartender gives me a nod of recognition. “Scotch and soda?”
“Yeah, could you make it a double?” I ask, and the bartender nods. He's just putting the drink in front of me when I feel a man's presence next to me, and I turn my head to see Mr. Robinson standing there, his face a stony mask. “What's up?”
“You declined my invitation,” he says, his voice cutting through the music and the sounds of sex. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” I ask, not wanting to be put off. “I'm no whore. I won’t be someone’s sugar baby. By the way, so not cool calling me by my real name on the phone. Calling me at all was bad enough.”
Mr. Robinson's expression goes stormy, dark and threatening, and he raises his voice. “Could’ve fooled me. I extended a special invitation to you—”
“Which I politely turned down,” I counter. “Why do you care so much?”
“Why do I . . .?” Mr. Robinson asks, his voice quaking with anger. “You made me look like a damn fool with the . . . it doesn’t matter who. I try to help you, and you start acting like a stuck up bitch.”
Mr. Robinson's hand clenches, his eyes blazing, when Rafe finally shows up. “Is there a problem here?”
Mr. Robinson turns, relaxing his hand a little but still looking pissed. “No. I was just about to teach Miss Eagle here some manners in the way she likes it here in The Club.”
“Not tonight,” Rafe says, stepping between us and staring Mr. Robinson down. “Tonight, she's with me.”
Mr. Robinson looks like he's about to start something, but then he stops himself. “You haven’t been here in a while.”
Rafe ignores any attempts at conversation, his eyes and face stone cold. “And I’m here tonight. By the way, I've reserved the Black Room for the evening. So if you'll excuse us.”
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