Dark Desires (Dark Romance Boxed Set)

by Cerys du Lys

  I laughed, giggling and snorting. “Hi!” I shouted to him. I hadn’t seen his face yet, I was too caught up in laughing, but I saw his hands. They looked strong and firm. Good hands. Hands that I wanted on me, all over me.

  Yes, I thought. Touch me. Dance with me. Feel our bodies close together and let the rhythm guide us. Today was a day of many changes, and I didn’t plan on sleeping with him, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t have a lot of fun on the dance floor with him.

  He smiled down at me and I saw a glimmer of his white teeth. “Hi there, love,” he said. His voice sounded smooth, faintly British, but not quite. Was it because he called me “love” or was there more to it?

  “We’re dancing,” I said. “How’re you?”

  “We are,” he said. “I’m fine. Yourself? You look a bit tipsy.”

  “I jusht--” I started to say, but my voice became lost in a sudden throng of heavy beats and pounding feet. My dance partner leaned down so I could speak into his ear. “I turned twenty-one today!” I shouted. “I drank a lot!”

  “Fancy another?” he asked. His smile was more intoxicating than any drink I’d had that evening.

  I shook my head fast, wobbling from side to side. “No,” I said, but not loud enough to be heard over the music. “No, I... I don’t feel good. Can you help me? Can you bring me to the restroom? I think I...”

  “‘Course I can, love,” he said. He pulled me close and I rested my cheek on his shoulder. He felt so warm and safe. “Let’s move you over here. Come on.”

  I didn’t think about my friends as I left with this man to go use the bathroom. I needed to vomit or sit down or splash water on my face. I needed something, but it would only take a moment to get it. After he helped me, I’d come back, I’d keep dancing. I could dance with him. He seemed like a very nice person.

  He guided me down a dark hall, helping me walk. I turned my head to the side and saw a symbol on a door. It looked like a stick figure character of a woman wearing a dress. Something seemed strange about that, but I couldn’t figure out what. We kept going and the hall stretched onwards, darker. At the end there was an emergency exit door with a flickering exit sign overhead. My dance partner pushed his shoulder against it to open it and helped me through.

  The cool night air washed over me. It felt nice and refreshing.

  “Thish isn’t the bathroom,” I said, slurring my words. It didn’t matter if this was any sort of room, though. I fell to my knees and threw up on the pavement outside. My stomach heaved, hurting, and I covered the ground and the tips of my shoes with half-digested noodles, teriyaki, and warm alcohol.

  “Let it out, love,” the man above me said. “That’s a good girl. Let it all out.”

  I did. I retched once, twice, and tried another time, but nothing came out. I felt better now. A little queasy, but better than before.

  “Here,” the man said, holding something out to me. “Wipe your mouth with this.”

  It was a handkerchief. What a nice person he was! I smiled at him, hoping I didn’t look atrocious. You didn’t usually meet nice guys in clubs or bars, you know? It was just guys trying to get laid, trying to bring you home, trying to...

  I took his handkerchief and wiped my mouth with it, cleaning up. It smelled a little strange, almost like rubbing alcohol, but I didn’t want to say anything. Maybe that was me. Maybe it was the smell of my vomit and bile rising from the ground. I stood, trying to get away from it, trying to be myself again, trying to pretend I wasn’t drunk.

  The rush of blood to my head and the smell from before caught up with me, though. I wobbled, tipsy, vision blurring, drifting, sleeping...

  *** Noah

  While finding a “Chastity White” was difficult, actually getting her was one of the easiest things I’d ever done. It was always the same with college girls, though. Most were easy to acquire. Figure out their schedules, find out if they went out drinking now and again, then go collect them there. If they were promiscuous, all the better, since I could pretend I was picking one up, then do my thing.

  The hard ones are the librarian-types. Not actual librarians, but those stuffy chicks who stay in and read books all the time. Oh, I can’t go out to a bar, I’ve got to read War and Peace for the eighth fucking time, alright?

  I’m not against well-read women or anything. Women can do whatever the hell they want as far as I’m concerned. I just don’t enjoy trying to figure out a way to kidnap them when they’re like that. It really pisses me off.

  Chastity White was simple, though. Not an actual whore or a book whore from what I can tell. Some nice, simple bitch, who did things now and then, went out, but nothing illegal. Good enough for me, even if she wasn’t what I would look for in a woman. Even better that she was turning twenty-one soon. I couldn’t be completely sure, but I thought she’d probably go celebrate her birthday somewhere with an excessive amount of alcohol like every other stupid college kid in the history of the world.

  She did, too, so that worked out great. I followed her, waited for her friends to separate a little, moved in when two of the girls she was with weren’t paying attention, off dancing with some random, boring looking guys, and...

  In for the kill. Target locked. Whatever the fuck you wanted to call it.

  Then out. Drunk was easy to deal with. I knew how, and I liked how easy they made it. Couldn’t think, couldn’t realize what was going on until it was too late. Offer to help them to the bathroom so they could throw up, then be the nice guy who helps them clean up after, too. I’ve done it before, and I like how easy it is. Give them my handkerchief laced with chemicals to knock them unconscious, carry them to my car, and done.

  This stupid bitch threw up on my shoes, though. Yeah, I could clean them, but it really pissed me off. I was planning on really enjoying myself with her once she woke up. I always enjoyed myself because otherwise it became depressing real quick. It worked easiest when I had a grudge.

  Training would begin soon.

  *** Chastity

  My head throbbed and my eyes refused to open. I stood, or I was trying to stand, but I didn’t know how to anymore. My body slumped forward, weight and gravity pulling me towards the ground, but something held me up.

  I remembered something. Just one thing. I’d danced in a club on my birthday and I almost fell then, too. Someone helped me, though. His strong hands held onto me and kept me from falling. Maybe this was him again, holding me now, keeping me up.

  I didn’t want to be up anymore, though. I wanted to lay down in my bed and go to sleep. He... he could stay with me, if this was him. If he slept, too. Nothing else. I didn’t want to have sex with him, I just wanted to sleep.

  I opened my mouth to say something, to tell him all of this, but my dry lips and parched throat refused to make a sound.

  “Awake, are we, love?” he said.

  I opened my eyes, blinking past the blinding bright lights. “Where...”

  Coherent thought escaped me. I only managed one word, but it made no sense, even to me.

  “Drink up,” he said.

  He held a glass to my mouth and tipped it so I could drink. Water crashed against my cracked lips and into my dry throat. I gulped, swallowing hard, but he only gave me a few sips.

  “More,” I said. “Please.”

  “Sure thing, love,” he said. “‘Course.”

  All of a sudden, water splashed against my face. I spluttered and my eyes snapped open again, even though I didn’t remember closing them. I stared forward, growing accustomed to the light much faster now. Water ran down my nose and dripped down my cheeks like tears. I licked it from my lips, trying to quench my thirst.

  Where was I? Fog consumed my mind, but even still this didn’t look like my college dorm room, or an apartment, or anywhere.

  My hands hung at my sides, up near my shoulders, held there by shackles. Hard leather bit into my wrists, keeping me tight in place. I looked down and saw shackles and chains on my feet, too. I could move my feet and legs a l
ittle, but I could barely move my arms at all.

  I still wore my clubbing clothes, tight pants and a v-cut shirt showing off my breasts.

  I was in a room. It wasn’t as bright as I first thought, but the lights kept shining directly on me. The rest of the room was shadows and darkness, malicious intent hiding in the dim outskirts. And in front of me stood the man from the club. He stared at me, grinning. He looked mean now, not nice. I didn’t know why I thought he looked nice before.

  Beside him was a table, and on top of it was a pitcher of ice water and a glass. The glass was empty now, because he’d just thrown water in my face.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Who are you? Why am I here? Let me down please. Let me go. I don’t want to do this.”

  The man picked up the pitcher of water by the handle and poured himself a glass of water, then drank deeply.

  “Sorry to say, but it doesn’t matter what you want, love. It hasn’t mattered for a few hours now, but you weren’t awake to realize it.”

  *** Noah

  I almost feel bad for poor Chastity White. Not that bad, but a little bit. It’s not everyday you get kidnapped, so I doubt she expected this. It’s not everyday you get kidnapped by me, either. She should feel lucky about that one. It could have been someone else. It could have been someone worse.

  I don’t even want to imagine someone worse than me, but there’s always someone. I’m one of the best now, but there’ll be someone better. That’s just the way life works.

  I don’t want to fucking stare at her anymore, though. I sat here for a couple hours after shackling her to the wall in my training room. She’s not going to stay here forever, but I need her here for now. This is where it starts, where it has to start. That’s the way it is.

  I could have stripped her first. Fuck. I should have done that. I thought about it, but then I stopped. I sat there instead, watching her listless, almost lifeless body writhing softly, trying to fall to the ground but held up by my restraints. Her arms will be numb when she wakes up, but she’ll be fine.

  I know this. Don’t ask how I know this, I just do. You’re better off not knowing everything about the specifics. This isn’t the kind of job you’d want.

  I don’t want it, myself. I fucking need it, like oxygen. I’d die if I didn’t do this. I’m probably already dead, I just don’t know it yet.

  My poor Chastity White stirs and wakes. That’s my cue. I got bored of watching her awhile ago, so I went to get some water while I waited. Might as well give her some. The stupid bitch threw up on my shoes, but I can be nice to her for one temporary moment before showing her what an asshole I really am.

  Her throat’s probably dry now, anyway. It’ll be hard for her to talk like that. If I give her some water, it’ll be easier for her to moan and scream and plead with me while I fuck her hard. I want to know exactly how much she hates me at that single point in time. It makes me hard just thinking about it.

  It disgusts me. I disgust myself. That’s fine, though. If I didn’t hate myself, I’d think there was something wrong with me. It’s good to know where you stand with yourself.

  I give her enough water to quench her thirst and then throw the rest in her face. She says some bullshit, like anyone would say. What’s going on? Who are you? Why am I chained to the wall? Let me go, please? I didn’t do anything, I won’t tell anyone.

  Blah fucking blah blah.

  They never say it. They’ve never said it. I know no one ever will, either. If they said that one thing, I’d stop. Forever. I’d give up. I’d have nothing else to live for.

  Good thing she didn’t say it then. Now how do I want to remove her clothes? I go to a dresser nearby and open the top drawer. My tools. It doesn’t look like much, but you don’t need a lot to do what I do. You just need the correct tool for the job. Right now I need a pair of scissors. I grab some that are made for cutting fabric. I get a piece of cloth and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I’m a dirty fucking jerk, but that’s just my personality. Everything else about me is clean. I hate to admit it, but I’m kind of obsessed with it.

  She stares at me when I come back with my tools. I clip open the scissors, then close them, relishing in the sound of sharp metal against sharp metal.

  Snick. Snick. Snick.

  I unfold the cloth, then open the bottle of rubbing alcohol. I drench the cloth with alcohol, savoring the sickening fumes. I open the scissors, but I don’t clip them shut this time. Instead, I rub the cloth against the blades, making sure everything is sanitized.

  I don’t want to. Look, I’m not a nice person, but I don’t want to cut her. I’m going to cut her clothes off, but it’s not as easy as that, so there’s a few precautions I need to take. She’s going to fucking squirm and moan and beg me to stop. I don’t know why. I’m not going to stop, and I’m going to make that quite obvious to her right from the start.

  If she didn’t move, we’d get along fine. I’d be happy, and she’d be safe. She’s going to do everything in her power to fuck that up, though. I’m sanitizing these scissors so she doesn’t get an infection or some shit when I inevitably make her bleed. Do you know how difficult it is to treat that? You’ve got to go to shady doctors who do shady shit, and I barely trust regular doctors as it is.

  I don’t want to hurt her. I need to remove her clothes, though. The ball is in her court, if you will.

  Sure, there’s other ways I could go about this, but this is the easiest. I’m not unchaining her so she can do it herself, and I’m not going to unchain her so that I can rip her clothes off, either. We can be civil about this. Or not. Her clothes are coming off one way or another, bloodless or not, and there’s not one fucking thing she can do to change my mind now.

  “What are you doing?” she asks me.

  I sigh, then smirk for effect. “Gotta get those clothes off, love. Don’t move. We don’t want you to hurt yourself, eh?”

  To her credit, she considers my offer instead of screaming her head off. Screaming wouldn’t matter, since we’re locked in a soundproof room. It’d give me something to listen to, at least, like some fucked up death metal band. I hate that kind of music. Absolutely loathe it.

  “Do you promise?” she asks.

  That catches me up. Promise? What the fuck?

  “No, I don’t promise,” I say. “I do things. Here’s how this’ll go. If you don’t move, I can cut your clothes off without hurting you. Just so you know, I’m cutting them off either way, love. If you get cut, that’s on you.”

  “Alright,” she says. “I won’t move.”

  Taking it real easy, isn’t she? I don’t understand that, but I’ll go with it.

  “I’m going to fuck you after,” I say.

  “I don’t want you to,” she whimpers. That’s it. Who the fuck is this girl?

  “I don’t care what you want. I never asked you what you want. This is about what I want, love. This isn’t about you anymore. Life was never about you. This is your fate, as sick and sad as that sounds. I’m going to cut your clothes off, I’m going to fuck you, and I’m going to hurt you one way or another. At some point I’m going to make you fucking kneel on the floor in front of me and you’re going to open your mouth while I shove my cock down your throat. You’re going to hate it, love. You’re going to hate me.”

  “You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” she says. She’s trying to sound brave, but I can hear the whimper and pain in her voice already.

  She’s going to lie to me. She said she wouldn’t move, said she’d stay still so I could cut her clothes off, but she won’t. I didn’t expect her to do that to begin with, but the fact that she said she would surprised me. That’s all. It shouldn’t have. Nothing should. This isn’t that kind of job. This isn’t that kind of world. This isn’t what my life is about.

  Everyone gets hurt no matter what they do. If you don’t get hurt, you’re already dead. You were never alive to begin with.

  “I don’t want to cut you,” I tell her, and it’s true because I d
on’t. I don’t want to be cruel for the sake of being cruel, just like I don’t want to be nice for the sake of being nice.

  I’m not good or bad, I just am. I exist as Noah. For better or for worse. I’ll let someone else figure out which it is. I don’t have time for that.

  “I’m going to hurt you,” I say. “I don’t want to cut you, but you’re going to get hurt, and it’s going to be my fault.”

  She doesn’t say anything to that. I slice through her shirt first, but she doesn’t move. The shirt was the easy part, though. I leave her bra for now. She’s got nice breasts from what I can see. I thought she might be padding them up before, since that’s what half the stupid college bimbos do when they go out to a club. It’s false advertising for the idiot who falls for it if you ask me, but then again I always assume they’re like that, so maybe everyone else does, too.

  When I start to cut through the waistband of her tight jeans, I intentionally press the back of the scissors against her soft skin. She squirms. She’s going to. She’ll lie to me any second and start to scream and pull away and she’s going to get cut and hurt herself no matter what I do. Maybe I should lie to her first. Maybe I should prick her with the tip of one of the scissor blades just to see what she does.

  I don’t. I’m a lot of things, but I try not to be a fucking liar. I don’t always tell the truth, though. Sometimes I just don’t say anything at all.

  She doesn’t lie. I don’t, either. I slice through her pants, all the way down one leg, then I slice through the other. I don’t bother with her ruined clothes; I let them lay in a heap on the floor at her feet. I return the scissors to the table next to my pitcher of water. I pour myself another glass, drink it, and admire my handiwork.

  She stares at me, shivering. “I’m cold,” she says.