There were too many rules.
Too many protocols.
I bowed.
I scraped.
I abased myself.
I begged.
I embraced the cane.
When I thought I couldn’t take any more, he showed me how we had barely scratched the surface of what I must endure.
As the weeks marched forward, he inducted me into a treacherous hell I could not envision. My voice grew hoarse from screaming, and yet there wasn’t a moment when I lost faith. He hurt me, but there was one thing he never once did.
I remained undefiled.
My Monster disappeared beneath the vileness of a creature I did not understand, but My Monster did not abandon me. I sensed his hand, his protection at work. Something terrible drove him. Something he hated with undisputed fury. I didn’t understand, except the things he did to me were not his will.
But my faith weakened. The man I stupidly thought to care for disappeared.
Whispers of his agony sparked in his eyes as my screams rattled the rafters. Hints of his regret appeared in the gentleness of his touch. It glided in the rasping of the rope which contorted my body, forcing it to bend to his will.
This was somewhat new, although not unexpected. He mentioned his fascination with rope when he braided my hair. And in the long stretches between training sessions, my body bent beneath his will. He spent hours in silence, practicing his rope work, an erotic form of art. I became his living canvas, and somewhere in there I found peace.
After that kiss, he relaxed his stringent restraint about touching my body. More by necessity than desire.
Stripped bare, his hands roamed across my naked flesh, brushing against my most private parts as silken rope dragged against my skin.
He touched my breasts, acquainting himself with their heft and weight, using ropes to bind them, and nipple clamps to leverage pain.
The ropes threaded between my legs, and he used his fingers to position them as he liked, moving the tender bits of my sex so that they wouldn’t be pinched as he suspended me in the air.
His fingers traced every inch of my skin, but never once did he penetrate that final barrier, and when he touched me down there, it was at once deftly clinical and exquisitely sensual.
My Monster struggled, caged behind hooded eyes, snarling beneath a power I didn’t understand. In him, an avenging angel howled to be let free. He may have rained ruin down upon my body, but I sensed there was a purpose behind every strike, every lash, and every cruelty he visited upon me.
It felt like I was being prepared for battle, but what kind of war did he need me to survive?
I never gave up. Beneath the vileness rained down upon me, the man I had grown to respect, and reluctantly understand—perhaps mistakenly—did not fail me. I didn’t know how to describe my feelings, except to say I believed in a goodness within him.
In the worst moments, I sought this truth. I breathed in the absolute assurance I was not wrong. This became a daily litany because the man standing before me meant to deliver great harm.
During that week he spent apart from me, everything changed. I didn’t know what that might be, but vowed to bring back My Monster.
I refused to accept the devil who prowled around me was the same man who showed such compassion during the days of my heroin withdrawal.
That man existed. He gathered my hair and held it out of the way while I puked my guts out. He drew a bath for me, lowered me into it, and washed my hair, rubbed my tired muscles and cradled me in his arms while he put me to bed. He touched me with great deference, not once violating my most sacred trust.
I refused to believe that man was dead.
During our first terrible week together, a bridge formed between us. That connection remained. I watched. I bided my time. I desperately tried to understand.
But how did I reach him, other than to bend beneath his will?
That question plagued me for days.
Our sessions intensified. I groveled. I begged. I learned to be the most obedient slave. Not by choice, but rather out of fear.
I feared the pain he brought. The fury I must endure. I hated the rope, but then learned to embrace the stillness it brought. Those sessions could stretch for hours. Not a word exchanged. He didn’t speak when the rope ran through his hands. His concentration, laser-focused, never once wavered. But when he looked into my eyes, we exchanged a lifetime of words in a single expression.
As he learned every nuance of my body, so too was I learning about him. He hated what he was doing, and yet craved it too.
Be smart!
Those words became my mantra. Forces were at play which I did not understand, but I held onto one truth. We had been together for weeks and yet my innocence remained untouched.
The rope drew across my skin and my breathing hitched as he secured a knot over my spine. Another intricate suspension, it took hours to tie the knots, then he would hoist me into the air. Sometimes, he did nothing other than sit in his chair, admiring his handiwork. Other times, he set upon me with a crop, the cane, or his hands.
My screams filled the air. The heaving pulse of my breaths dragged through the stillness. My fear saturated the air, and he drank it all in. But I lived for the silent times. In those moments when he took to the chair, my thoughts stilled. A deep meditation overcame me as I slowly twirled before him, a living piece of art for his eyes only.
Chapter 25
Clara’s fate rushed toward me with the inevitability of a runaway freight train. Her innocence was at stake and there would be no way to shield her from what must come.
Smoke and mirrors. It didn’t matter what the truth might be. If there was smoke, there was fire, and it would be Clara who burned.
Deciding how to move forward ate at me for days. Wu presented me with two choices.
Get rid of the girl, or use her. I chose to use her, because getting rid of her meant killing her, or selling her to another. Either path led to her destruction. Not that keeping her saved her in any way, but at least only my hands would ruin her innocent flesh.
I did the only honorable thing. I took advantage of my power over her.
And into that abyss, I fell.
But how to touch her without defiling her? It posed a unique problem, one solved with a strangely satisfying solution.
Not that I was a master at rope play, but I literally had a captive audience. I could perfect my craft as much as I wanted and Clara had no choice but to be a part of it.
Rope play placed us in physical proximity, an intimate space where we breathed the same air while a sensuous energy crackled between us.
Slowly, I attuned myself to her every movement, predicting what she needed before the thought had a chance to materialize in her beautiful head. Not only was I learning how to touch her, but she learned to anticipate where my hands would fall on her body.
Fantasies took over, and hallucinations. I swear she leaned in to my touch, almost as if she craved it as much as I did.
Shibari freed me from forcing the issue of sex. I could touch her, breathe her in, and satisfy my needs to control her, all without the savagery of rape.
The rhythms of the rope, the cascading fall of the coils, and the soft hissing as it dragged over her buttery smooth skin, soothed me with their hypnotic sounds.
We made music together. Her soft breaths, the deep pounding of my heart, and the gliding of rope over skin created a sensual symphony of the senses.
Silken strands ran across the palms of my hands, and the concentration it took to tie the knots put me in an intense headspace.
I controlled everything about Clara, from whether she kneeled, stood, or was suspended in the air. She was at my mercy, and the best part was that none of it physically harmed her.
It brought us into sync with each other, established an odd form of trust, and created an unusual dependency. The bond which grew between us was at once spiritual and something more. I felt her deep in my soul, like she was becom
ing a part of me, but she was an ache which could never be soothed.
Shibari solved another problem. The intricate latticework of silk rope required a willing subject.
I could use this to show the depraved men I must work with two things. First and foremost, Clara fully submitted to my will. An unwilling victim would never surrender her body the way Clara did when I brought out the rope.
She caved to my every demand, her body bending beneath my will. It was magical how deeply she submitted.
Secondly, those rabid beasts might feast their eyes on what didn’t belong to them, but the artistry of the rope would keep their filthy hands off my dearest Clara.
As a piece of art to be exhibited and admired, no one would touch her. She would be protected from their filth. Not to mention, I didn’t share well with others. If any of them touched her, they would suffer the same fate as the men I killed at the auction house.
I tightened the last knot on the metal ring.
“Check in, Clara.” I modulated my tones, deep rumbling sounds which she responded to best. “Anything hurting? Pinched?”
I did this every time before hoisting her into the air. It was a safety check which had been drilled into me from the man who taught me everything about Shibari.
“No, Sir.” Her lashes fluttered over the sweep of her cheek and a quick check revealed dilated pupils. She wasn’t aroused, but there was something sensual at work. A soft breath released from her chest, not of tension, but the gentlest surrender. She knew what I intended.
“Give me the sign.” We’d worked on safety signals. If I was going to do this to her, it would be safe and sane, if not consensual.
“Green, Sir.”
With the figurative green-light given, I put my weight onto the rope and hoisted her into the air.
She would dangle, maybe even slowly rotate, while I admired my artistry and read aloud from our latest murder mystery. We were getting to an action-packed scene.
I was beginning to think she enjoyed these sessions as much or more than I did because she slipped into a near hypnotic state. But that couldn’t be right, could it?
From the tranquil expression on her face, I yet again wondered if it might be true. But then I swallowed that thought. Clara was not a willing subject. None of this was real.
My throat clogged with all the things I wished to say, apologies Clara deserved, explanations which would justify the vileness of this world, and most importantly, why I would bring her into this damnation.
Her gentle breaths fluttered against my ears. Soft, tremulous sighs escaped her lips and whispered to the desire I barely restrained. She swung from the ropes tied tight around her body, a web of the most intimate embrace.
She didn’t know it, but I made love to her as I wrapped her in silken threads. It was my way of saying I was sorry and how I begged for forgiveness.
Rope.
Her trust came slowly, ripples at first. Her eyes conveyed her fear, but as our sessions intensified, I faced a tidal wave of her trust. I didn’t deserve it and found myself wholly unprepared as she swept me away.
Rope work took time and concentration, and I found myself wholly unprepared for what came next. There was a meditation involved I didn’t expect, and I was hooked.
I thought it would be a simple matter of tying knots, but the proximity of our bodies, and the constant sweep of my hand across her skin, heightened my senses and amplified every sensation; for me as well as for her.
My touch heated her skin. Her flesh burned my palms. The shivers racing along her arms lifted the fine hairs on mine.
When my fingers tripped and stumbled over the goose bumps of her arms, a fine sheen of perspiration beaded my brow.
We became attuned to each other with the slightest touch, and the most fleeting of glances communicated an intricate web of emotions more complicated than the latticework of knots.
The compliance with which she endured my attempts made my guts twist, but what other choice did she have? What other choice did I have?
My lips turned up into a sneer. Neither of us had the luxury of choice.
I could do this, kill her, or sell her to another.
This whole situation was fucked.
During this past week, we spent our days in this solemn space. There were no conversations about books from my childhood or her thoughts about me not being a monster. Those were intimate bridges I needed to burn.
I refused to speak, needing all my thoughts for the rope. Or maybe, I used the rope as a shield. It definitely hid the agony I endured.
My fingers skated across her body as I checked on her safety.
“Is the rope too tight?”
“No, Sir.” Her response slurred as she drifted in and out of awareness.
Did I put dangerous pressure on her joints?
I worked a finger beneath the rope, checking the gap.
Was there too much tension placed on her tendons?
I ran my hands along her shoulders and traced the row of knots down her arm. The harness secured her and supported the weight of her body. I checked her hips and knees, ran my finger between the ties around her ankles.
The entire time, her delicate fragrance filled my senses, making me bite back a moan. I pressed my lips to the tip of her shoulder, closed my eyes, and sank into the moment while wishing I could linger here forever, but I moved on. I tested the rope, checked her joints, and touched everywhere.
Clara became my world, and somewhere in the silence, I found peace.
In two days, we would leave our private world.
Biting down my frustration, anger rose within me.
Chambers existed in the periphery, cooking our meals, cleaning what got dirty, and remaining out of sight as best he could.
After the long hours I spent with Clara, I joined him in what we dubbed the War Room. It was there where we plotted the next steps with a man I knew only through a computer screen.
I was due there soon, but didn’t rush. These moments with Clara were precious things to be treasured. It took twenty minutes to extricate Clara from the rope.
My skills had improved over the past few weeks, and I gave a nod at the finished product. I could pull this off. We could pull this off together, and Clara never needed to know the truth.
Once I released Clara, I carried her to the shower where I allowed her to transition from whatever headspace it was that she retreated to during our sessions. Despite our physical closeness, a distance grew between us. She thought I was a good man, not the monster I claimed to be. For her safety, I had to remind her of her place.
It would be vital to her survival to believe the worst of me.
When not bound in my web, I subjected her to rigorous training. Hell, brutal would describe it better. Her responses needed to become second nature, like breathing, and the fear within her, which had subsided with her damn epiphany, needed to reemerge.
I hated the man I became: cold, harsh, demanding, and severe in the punishments delivered upon her delicate flesh.
But it worked.
Clara retreated as I destroyed the beauty that was her inner light. My hope was for her to hate me as much or more than she feared my wrath. To do that, I became cold, calculating, and sadistic.
Except when I bound her in rope. In those hours, I worshipped her sacrifice, and she became the altar upon which I begged forgiveness for the vile horrors she would soon endure.
After depositing her in the shower, I left Clara to face the rest of her night alone. I stormed out of her room, hating myself for what had to be done, but determined to complete this insanity.
I stalked down the halls of the estate and raced down two flights of stairs to the War Room.
Chambers spun around and gestured to a plate of finger sandwiches. I gave a low groan.
“More finger sandwiches? Seriously?”
“They’re good.” Chambers reached for one and made a show of shoving the whole thing in his mouth. “You said to make them.”
&
nbsp; “For Clara.”
“I did, and they are fucking delicious. Have you tried one?”
I had not. Instead, I spent the last hour hand feeding Clara as she hung from a hook, arms, and legs beautifully arranged in a graceful leap. The ropes bent her front knee and extended her other leg behind her. Her arms spread outward, like the wings of a swan, and her long hair swept back as if she flew through the air.
“No.”
Chambers gestured at the tray. “Well, you should try them.”
“I want a steak.”
I didn’t want to remember the gracious nibbles she’d taken from my hands or the way the pillowy softness of her lips made me hard as a rock. Later tonight, I would ease the ache in my balls. A temporary reprieve, the cheap release wouldn’t scratch the surface of my hunger.
I wanted Clara with every fiber of my soul, yet I could never have her.
Not like that.
“Well, we don’t have steak, but I can get some for tomorrow.” Chambers shifted in his seat. Leaning forward, he tapped something on the keyboard.
“What about a burger?” I asked.
“Eat the finger sandwiches. They’re good.”
“That’s not real food.”
Chambers grunted, suppressing a laugh. “Seriously?” He stood and flexed. At six foot two, he was an inch shorter than me, but where I was lean and muscular, the man was built like a tank. “What does this look like?”
“It looks like you’re spending too much time in the gym.”
The expansive chateau had a huge gym in the basement, professional quality, it gave me ideas about gutting it to make it into a dungeon. Only, I didn’t own this house. Chambers’ boss, Xavier, held the deed, and evidently some rather impressive connections to the criminal world.
Yet, Chambers worked for the FBI?
I didn’t understand the connection, but what little digging I had done revealed a more concerning hand at play.
A ghost in the works.
Someone commanded a vast wealth and a tech empire which blew me away. Despite my inquiries, Chambers refused to reveal who that might be.
“Is your boss joining us?”
Xavier was expected tonight, but I struggled for small talk. My skin itched from my session with Clara, and I rubbed at my arms and needed something to refocus my mind.
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