Kink

by Nikki Sex

  The whole scene is an ugly, bloody mess.

  For a long moment, it seems as though time stops. In that eternal instant, my senses become hyper aware as every sight, smell, and sound is clear and distinct. I hear a robin sing, somewhere in a tree behind me, I feel dampness rising from the concrete after an overnight rain. A weak early morning sun filters through the clouds and warms my face. Slowly, another car passes – its occupants craning their necks to see what’s happening.

  Merlin isn’t going to make it.

  The cat can’t move. He’s making an awful mewing sound. The poor thing is in terrible pain, and he isn’t going to live. Pain for pleasure, or pain for punishment, I can understand. Suffering for no purpose at all is an abomination.

  An unexpected savage part of me tightens every one of my muscles with unreasoning anger. This pointless suffering is a transgression against basic laws of right and wrong.

  What I do next is automatic, without conscious decision. It’s primal. Instinctive. I order the weeping mother to take her traumatized child away. Can she please knock on the home two doors up, and speak to the neighbor? Will she tell them that their cat has been hit by a car?

  When they leave, I point up the street and ask Emily, “Who is that? Can you see?” As she turns to look, I quickly break poor Merlin’s neck.

  Crack.

  It’s a soft sound, more of a pop. Emily doesn’t hear it. Merlin painlessly sails off to cat heaven. By the time she looks back down, the cat is still and silent. I’m lucky to have achieved this with one quick attempt. Thank you, Lord.

  Contrary to popular belief, and the ridiculous make-believe in TV shows and movies, the bones and muscles of a throat provide a lot of resistance. Breaking the vertebra is possible, but necks are built with flexibility. It’s not simply caused by an act of twisting; it’s a matter of pressure at a higher, specific point, combined with a twist and pull. This breaks the hyoid bone.

  I know exactly how to break a neck.

  Mainly, because I’ve never wanted to do so. Until now.

  I’ve studied anatomy, because I’m drawn to air restriction and breath play. It’s the ultimate, in terms of having total control over another. Contrary to popular belief, there’s really no absolutely safe way to strangle someone to unconsciousness during sex. No matter how much training a person achieves, they can’t reduce the odds of death to absolute zero.

  An animal part of me thinks that the thrill is worth the risk.

  The logical part of me tells the Beast to fuck off.

  If I do mess around with it, I do so only with young, healthy subjects, and never try for unconsciousness. I always use a special belt for that purpose, since throttling a throat with fingers is much more dangerous. People who die from breath play don’t die of a broken neck or asphyxiation. They die from heart attack or stroke.

  It’s not as uncommon as one would think.

  For a moment, I recall Glen, a Dom at my last club. He’s a nice guy, who loved his sub and had been happily married. He’s doing jail time for manslaughter, after the accidental death of his wife through breath play. How did he explain the loss of their mother to their three grown up children?

  Talk about lose-lose.

  The woman and her daughter have completed their mission, because Merlin’s family arrives, distraught and tearful. Emily tells the mother the details, soothing and consoling. They’ve brought a box and towel to collect him. I don’t feel like staying for that.

  I bring Emily close, into a hug. “Are you ready to go?”

  She nods, and we go back to the car. We have a quiet ride to work, while we both get our thoughts together. Emily just lost a friend, because Merlin used to visit her often, before her mom got a new dog.

  I remain silent. Nothing I say will help.

  I don’t want to tell my kind-hearted girl what I’ve done. It’s not that I feel bad about killing Merlin, because I don’t. I committed a humane act of mercy in a shitty situation. What if Emily looks at me differently?

  I don’t want her to see the savagery inside of me, that dark part of who I am.

  Not yet.

  I tell myself that I’m not lying to her and I’m not. If she asks me what happened, I’ll admit what I did. I’ll probably tell her later, in any case.

  Right now, I just don’t feel like talking about it.

  Chapter 9.

  “I have heard it said that damaged individuals with a history of sexual, psychological or physical abuse drift toward BDSM, only to experience more abuse. This is a foolish observation, by the unenlightened. Of course, abused individuals are drawn to BDSM. I encourage many to seek a path of resolution through the lifestyle. Why? Because BDSM is about honesty, communication, trust, sacrifice, service, and connection. This makes it not only something for the body, heart and mind, but also a great remedy for the soul.”

  – André Chevalier

  ~~~

  My father owns the local supermarket, ‘Jarman’s Food Mart.’ It’s an enterprise that brings in excellent profit. With my father in the hospital, I’m supposed to be filling my dad’s role. I do okay, but it’s Emily that holds down the fort. I’d be lost without her. She’s been running this place for years.

  Because I’m the boss’s son, she camouflages her orders as ‘suggestions.’ However, we both know what’s going on.

  My workday speeds by.

  I’m making this week’s payments for various business related accounts via the internet. It’s almost time to go home and all I can think is that soon Emily and I will be alone.

  I’m trying to keep my focus on work, but my mind keeps straying. I’ve been repeatedly adjusting myself and my pants, while my mind keeps wandering to more pleasant things.

  I have visions of Emily, bound, naked, and bent over the couch in my office. Moaning and writhing in pleasure, she’s making sweet sounds of ecstasy. In my mind that heart shaped ass of hers is burning red, as I apply each sensual stroke. I make sure that she comes again and again, while feeling the seductive kiss of my whip, lashing her supple skin.

  Women can have a number of orgasms for every one of mine. Making Emily climax repeatedly is my newest favorite thing. But when it comes to getting fucked? I intend to make her wait for it, to let the anticipation build.

  That way my cock remains a privilege that she’ll have to beg for – a pleasure she that needs to earn.

  She’ll appreciate it so much more when she finally gets to feel me moving deep inside of her. My cock needs to be the ultimate ecstasy. As does her being allowed to bring me to climax. This way, servicing me in whatever way I choose, becomes much more special than her own orgasms, which will be plentiful.

  Another benefit is that anticipation builds for me too. I love to toy with her body and use it in ways that please me. My own release is that much sweeter for the wait. It’s a win-win situation for both of us.

  Right now I sit fully clothed and erect, in front of my computer. In my mind, however, I hear Emily begging. Pleading for me to fuck her. Needing my dick inside of her.

  A light knock on my office door interrupts this vivid imaginary scene.

  I clear my throat. “Come in,” I call out. My voice sounds rough with lust, and I take a drink of water.

  Emily enters with a tentative smile on her face. When she anxiously worries her lower lip, I know that I’m not going to like what she’s got to say. “What is it?” I ask.

  “Security caught a shoplifter.”

  “So? Call the police.”

  She crosses her arms – I’m familiar with this body language. My little rabbit wants me to do something that I’m not going to like doing.

  “I’d like you to see him first,” she says.

  I push away from my desk. My leather chair squeaks when I lean back in it. Emily doesn’t even blink.

  This is her stubborn gaze and despite myself, I smile. She may be submissive in the bedroom, but by God, outside of it she’s a damned powerhouse. Quietly and efficiently, Em gets things d
one. Her dogged inner strength is such a turn on.

  People often associate a sexually submissive nature with being weak.

  I’ve never found this to be the case.

  When training to become a Dom, I underwent sub training. It was a required part of the experience and I hated it. Being restrained is not for me. I didn’t enjoy the loss of power, the feeling of vulnerability and that terrifying sense of helplessness.

  Anyone can be strong while in a position of power. But to be strong and powerful in oneself while in a position of weakness as a sub? That’s a tough one.

  Even if submission is in one’s nature and is a need, it still takes an enormous amount of courage to overcome one’s natural fear and give oneself to another. How do they do it? How do submissive’s allow themselves to be so completely vulnerable?

  I refuse to be vulnerable. I need control because trust doesn’t come easily to me.

  Crap. I don’t want to have a ‘meet and greet’ with a thief. Why would I? But Emily’s strong moral compass can make her stubborn as hell. Do I waste my time arguing with her, or not? We can do the back-and-forth dance all day, but there’s really no point. I can see that my girl’s mind is made up.

  With all of this running through my thoughts, I sigh. It really isn’t worth a battle of wills, so I give in. “Fine,” I say. “Send the bastard in.”

  The happy smile Em gives me makes any annoyance worthwhile. She’s a kind, compassionate woman and I figure that she must have her reasons. She probably wants me to give the criminal a break.

  “Thank you,” she says, with an appreciative nod.

  Our security guard, Joseph Ferreira, has a good grip on the culprit, a young African-American boy. He pushes the scruffy adolescent into the room before him, and sits him down on the chair across from mine. This kid’s been caught red-handed. But does the little bastard care?

  There aren’t that many people of various minorities living in Lincoln City. I’ve never seen this kid around the neighborhood at all. I wonder if he’s new to the area.

  The offender is a skinny boy of about thirteen. His dark eyes shift about nervously for a moment, and then focus on me. He has black buzz-cut hair, jeans and T-shirt, with expensive Nike shoes. I bet the latest in phone technology in his pocket.

  Unsmiling eyes and a grim mouth, the kid doesn’t look happy. In fact, he may as well have a neon sign on his forehead broadcasting two main notices: ‘I don’t give a damn,’ and, ‘fuck you.’

  Suddenly curious, I sit forward in my chair. “What did he steal?” I ask.

  Our security guard tips the boys backpack, pouring its contents out onto my desk. An MP3 player, a couple of sandwiches, some candy bars, a Coke, and a large kitchen knife fall out. I can see that everything except the MP3 player was taken from our store. Hmmm. What the hell does he need a knife for?

  “Thank you, Joseph,” I say. “You can go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I smile and nod. I can’t imagine that this streetwise little turd is any sort of match for me. Joseph leaves, and the little turd in question defiantly crosses his arms across his not yet developed chest.

  Why does Emily want me to talk to this belligerent little delinquent? I wish she’d given me a clue. I suppose that she wants me to cut him some slack. Or maybe talk sense into him?

  For a few minutes, we just stare at each other from across the desk. At least he isn’t a sniveling little punk. The kid has guts. I lean back in my chair, and stretch my legs out. “Well?” I say.

  “Well, what?” the kid says with a snarl. There’s a ball of fury behind that ‘I don’t give a damn’ and ‘fuck you’ attitude. He looks as if he’s ready to chest up to me – a David and Goliath scenario. I like him for it.

  “Did you steal this stuff?” I ask, gesturing to the little stack of booty.

  He gives me an untroubled shrug. “You can’t keep me.”

  “But I can call the cops.”

  His eyes flicker. I can tell he’s had dealings with cops before and he clearly had no joy from it. A young Black kid? If he was hanging out in North Portland late at night he’d likely be shot. Some stupid racial shit has gone down there recently. Why does mentioning cops freak him out? Does he have a juvenile record already?

  I use my most intimidating Dom glare, a hard, narrow-eyed stare. It doesn’t seem to touch him at all. Damn. A lot of adults wither under that look. I have to admit, I admire the kid’s pluck.

  We stare at each other some more, my hazel eyes clashing up against his dark brown ones. It’s like a contest. Neither of us blinks.

  What kind of environment does he come from? I wonder. Does someone, somewhere, take care of him? Or does he fend for himself? He looks as stubborn as Emily can be. Maybe more so. Maybe that’s what she saw in him. Yet, something about this kid, reminds me of myself.

  “Do you want a job, kid?” I ask. What the hell am I thinking? Have I lost my mind?

  The question throws him. He didn’t expect that, did he? Surprisingly, for the first time, I see a glimpse of the young boy that lies behind all of his protective walls and masks.

  Working with submissives I’ve learned to zero in on any tiny thread of vulnerability that I can find. It’s one of the first things that I look for, and become acutely aware of as a Dom. Why? So that I can use it to expose a sub’s true self. I make sure that my subs don’t hide any weakness from me. It’s part of the freeing and trusting process, when working a scene.

  Right now, for just a moment, one small moment, the barriers are down and the real boy is exposed. A flash of hope shines in his eyes.

  That light is quickly extinguished. His ‘tough guy’ façade returns. “It’s not legal. I’m too young to have a job,” the kid says with bitter disgust.

  “Jarman’s Food Mart can’t employ you, but I can personally hire you to run errands and do odd jobs for me.” I consider the going rate, and figure, what the hell. I can afford it. Why not pay him a decent wage? “I’ll give you a twenty dollars a day, with you working two hours each day, after school. Weekends off.”

  “Seriously?”

  The kid looks at me in disbelief, like I’m crazy. He’s probably right. His eyes narrow, and his head tilts slightly. I figure that he’s trying to work out my angle. It’s obvious that he’s had a tough, albeit short, life. He doesn’t believe that I mean what I’m offering.

  “Why not?” I say. “If you screw up, I won’t pay you.” I pull a ten dollar bill out of my pocket. “Here’s an advance,” I say, handing him the money.

  The look on his face is priceless. I wish I could take a picture. Disbelief, shock and excitement. You’d have thought I just offered him a million bucks, instead of just ten.

  The boy’s obviously been hardened by threats and punishment. Those things he’s had experience with – it’s written all over him. But having someone be nice to him? That he didn’t expect. This is new and unfamiliar territory. He has no natural, or learned behavior to fall back on.

  His tough guy façade collapses, and for a moment the boy’s emotions become transparent. He’s just a kid for Christ’s sake, but right now it’s like Christmas morning. Excitement, interest, hope, and the possibility of happiness cloud his consciousness. These emotions look so pure, that right now he looks his age. Like a normal boy, without the burdens and baggage that make him seem so much older.

  With a visible effort, he returns to his practiced, sullen expression. No doubt, life has taught him not to trust anyone.

  Smart kid. Again, I can relate.

  He’s like a wild animal. I’m curious. Can I train him? Maybe he can be useful. He seems bright, except for being caught stealing. That’s pretty stupid. If he isn’t a practiced thief, that can only be a plus.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Reggie.”

  “Okay. What’s your last name, Reggie?”

  “Turner.”

  I stand up. Reggie immediately follows suit, jumping to his feet, while keeping a wary eye on m
e. He’s sizing me up, trying to read me. He’s not frightened, even though I’m twice his size and weight. He’s just prepared. If he needs to, I’m sure he can dodge a kick, or a blow.

  What a feral little creature, I think, wondering if he can be tamed.

  It’s funny, but I really like this kid. Why is that? Except that there is an anger burning inside of him that I can identify with.

  I was going to shake his hand to seal our agreement, but I can tell he wouldn’t like that. I make no move to touch or approach him. Instead, I gaze out over the supermarket. Dad’s office is on the second floor. The view through the glass window is excellent, but I don’t turn my back on the kid.

  I find myself smiling at him. “Okay, Reggie. You can call me Mr. Jarman. I’ll expect you here, right after school, tomorrow.”

  The boy nods. He grabs his backpack and MP3 player, and backs toward the door, while watching me intently. I idly wonder what sort of tunes the kid listens to. Hip Hop? Pop? I suppress an impulse to grin, while imagining Reggie singing along with his favorite western music.

  “Wait a minute,” I say. “Aren’t you going to take your stuff?” I gesture to his little pile of ill-gotten goods, sitting on my desk.

  Astonishment shows in his face, but he’s not going to miss an opportunity like that. He quickly scoops up everything, tossing it in his backpack. I watch him hesitate, look at me, and then throw the knife in. I should stop him, but honestly, if he wants a knife, he’ll get one anyway. I’m sure not going to be able to prevent him.

  “Hey, I don’t know anything about the knife. Right kid?”

  “That’s right,” he says.

  “Try not to kill anyone, okay?”

  He stares at me, unsure if I’m making a joke, or if I’m serious. I add, “Because, you know,” I give him a casual shrug. “It may make you late for work.”

  This is the first real smile I get out of Reggie. It’s a sheepish grin, but genuine. I nod my goodbye and he nods back. He opens the door and slips quietly away. Without words, strangely, we seem to understand each other. We have a connection, but it’s not based on trust.