CHAPTER ONE
Lucas
I don’t want to hear her scurry through my room, so I start pacing. My bare feet on the damp floor mask the sound of her retreat: stride, slap , stride, slap , stride, slap . I try to let it occupy my mind.
My heart beats harder, faster—till it’s throbbing in my chest.
Her words swim in the ether of my memory.
“I think we would be good together.”
“Please don’t make me go. I’ll do things your way.”
“I want to do different things than you do. Things to give you pleasure.”
I don’t need her...what is it? Her care? Consideration? Judgment?
I don’t need her fucking kindness.
Who the fuck does this Leah knock-off think she is?
“I’ve been fucked before. Just not in a while. A long while.”
*
“It might hurt you, too.”
“I don’t mind. A-at least I…don’t think so.”
I stop pacing, look over at the bath.
“I’m trying to bathe you, the way you did me. Unless you think you’re not a dirty man?”
I can see the way her lips tilt, the way her eyes crinkle behind my mask as she teases me. As if my domineering manner and my fucked up desires don’t bother her at all.
I’ve got her dressed to look like Leah—covered up her face and barking orders at her—and this girl climbed onto my lap and tried to just…be normal.
Again, my mind screams: Like Leah.
If Leah were here, she wouldn’t keep a safe submissive distance. I don’t think I could convince her not to bathe me. She would do it just because she wanted to. Because she cared. If she cared , a little voice points out. Deep down inside my chest, I know she wouldn’t—not anymore; not ten years later—but this isn’t real life here. It’s fucking fantasy.
I fuck girls who look like Leah. Dress them in her favorite color—royal blue—and make them bend to my sick will so I can get off. I need pain; I need control. It keeps me breathing.
And while they whip and claw me, while they let me tie them up and torment them with pleasure, I dream them into Leah. Every fucking one of them is Leah. Leah would whisper if I asked her, never speaking at full-volume. Leah would wear my mask. Leah would make me bleed if I begged.
It isn’t true. She’d probably run screaming. But I need the delusion. I require the ruse. Without it, life is…so hollow.
I stop pacing again. I tuck my chin to my chest and look down at my pecs. I can see her hand dragging the bath cloth down my six-pack.
“You don’t know how to listen to my orders.”
“I can do better.”
I lunge for the bathroom door and fly into my room.
“Hello?”
I look around: empty.
I take long strides into the living area, where I turn a circle. “Are you here?”
I run into the bathroom, closet, kitchen, and I’m darting to the chair wedged in the counter, where she left her bag. I pull the garments out and smell her fruity scent. I pull the garments out, but I don’t see her mask.
I turn around and open up the top, left cabinet on this end of the kitchen. Inside is my security monitor. I turn it on and flip hastily through camera views, my body stiffening each time I see a lone female.
“Be here, be here,” I whisper.
I fucked up—I see it so clearly now.
This one isn’t wrong at all; she reminds me too much of Leah. On first encounter, it was too damn, much. Her kindness burns, but isn’t that the point? I don’t take them on for pleasure. I need the subs for pain, so she was perfect.
I take a deep breath as I spot her, walking briskly down Hall 4.
I don’t question how I know it’s her; the swing of her arms, the length of her stride, stand out to me on instinct.
I glance frantically around the living area for pants and find a pair of leathers tossed over the coat rack. I only wear them on stage—usually. I jerk them on, and out the door I go.
My private hall is empty, so I fly through it. Rush into the hall that’s parallel: Hall 6, and move like lightning.
I have to catch her. Long strides, two turns, one of
Lucas
I don’t want to hear her scurry through my room, so I start pacing. My bare feet on the damp floor mask the sound of her retreat: stride, slap , stride, slap , stride, slap . I try to let it occupy my mind.
My heart beats harder, faster—till it’s throbbing in my chest.
Her words swim in the ether of my memory.
“I think we would be good together.”
“Please don’t make me go. I’ll do things your way.”
“I want to do different things than you do. Things to give you pleasure.”
I don’t need her...what is it? Her care? Consideration? Judgment?
I don’t need her fucking kindness.
Who the fuck does this Leah knock-off think she is?
“I’ve been fucked before. Just not in a while. A long while.”
*
“It might hurt you, too.”
“I don’t mind. A-at least I…don’t think so.”
I stop pacing, look over at the bath.
“I’m trying to bathe you, the way you did me. Unless you think you’re not a dirty man?”
I can see the way her lips tilt, the way her eyes crinkle behind my mask as she teases me. As if my domineering manner and my fucked up desires don’t bother her at all.
I’ve got her dressed to look like Leah—covered up her face and barking orders at her—and this girl climbed onto my lap and tried to just…be normal.
Again, my mind screams: Like Leah.
If Leah were here, she wouldn’t keep a safe submissive distance. I don’t think I could convince her not to bathe me. She would do it just because she wanted to. Because she cared. If she cared , a little voice points out. Deep down inside my chest, I know she wouldn’t—not anymore; not ten years later—but this isn’t real life here. It’s fucking fantasy.
I fuck girls who look like Leah. Dress them in her favorite color—royal blue—and make them bend to my sick will so I can get off. I need pain; I need control. It keeps me breathing.
And while they whip and claw me, while they let me tie them up and torment them with pleasure, I dream them into Leah. Every fucking one of them is Leah. Leah would whisper if I asked her, never speaking at full-volume. Leah would wear my mask. Leah would make me bleed if I begged.
It isn’t true. She’d probably run screaming. But I need the delusion. I require the ruse. Without it, life is…so hollow.
I stop pacing again. I tuck my chin to my chest and look down at my pecs. I can see her hand dragging the bath cloth down my six-pack.
“You don’t know how to listen to my orders.”
“I can do better.”
I lunge for the bathroom door and fly into my room.
“Hello?”
I look around: empty.
I take long strides into the living area, where I turn a circle. “Are you here?”
I run into the bathroom, closet, kitchen, and I’m darting to the chair wedged in the counter, where she left her bag. I pull the garments out and smell her fruity scent. I pull the garments out, but I don’t see her mask.
I turn around and open up the top, left cabinet on this end of the kitchen. Inside is my security monitor. I turn it on and flip hastily through camera views, my body stiffening each time I see a lone female.
“Be here, be here,” I whisper.
I fucked up—I see it so clearly now.
This one isn’t wrong at all; she reminds me too much of Leah. On first encounter, it was too damn, much. Her kindness burns, but isn’t that the point? I don’t take them on for pleasure. I need the subs for pain, so she was perfect.
I take a deep breath as I spot her, walking briskly down Hall 4.
I don’t question how I know it’s her; the swing of her arms, the length of her stride, stand out to me on instinct.
I glance frantically around the living area for pants and find a pair of leathers tossed over the coat rack. I only wear them on stage—usually. I jerk them on, and out the door I go.
My private hall is empty, so I fly through it. Rush into the hall that’s parallel: Hall 6, and move like lightning.
I have to catch her. Long strides, two turns, one of
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