Twisted Tales of Mayhem: 2019 MMM Special Edition Anthology

by Sapphire Knight

  "… You a fighter?"

  "Not generally. The only time I ever exhibited any signs of reckless behavior was with Boudreaux's violet wand fascination."

  "Impressive," Sal complimented, stripping off his Henley. "You play."

  "I have a high pain threshold."

  "… Safeword?"

  "Blackberry."

  Kicking off his shoes, Sal parked his rump on the edge of the table. Deacon propped against the cabinet and looked on, learning from the one Master he had yet to have lessons with. He was secretly thrilled, even by the makeshift opportunity as the rumors about his best friend surrounded his Dom training.

  "Here is the deal," Sal contended as his years of experience shone. "You be honest with me. Don't lie. Don't hold back. Don't give me one-word answers. I like talking in scenes, and I appreciate having a conversation. If you cannot agree to that, this will not work for either one of us. I enjoy providing the subspace high as much as I enjoy the Domspace high. So, tell me why you aren't enrolled in Juliet?"

  "I'm a single mother. I have a five-year-old son and cannot just up and leave him for months at a time."

  "What did you do at Boudreaux's?"

  "I served the house during the day as a maid when Finn was a baby."

  Lighting a cigarette, Sal asked, "… Is the baby his?"

  "No," she swiftly replied. Upon dropping a one-word answer, she elaborated, "Paternity tests were conducted, and Master Boudreaux was cleared. The conception occurred during a party."

  "Why did you leave his service?"

  "I was removed because I didn't wish to further our relationship."

  Exhaling a thick cloud of nicotine, Sal stated the obvious, "You didn't want to marry him."

  "Yes, Sir," she answered, screwing the lid on her water bottle. "That would be correct."

  "Why? He has plenty of money and a great house."

  With a look of fear that her answer may not be enough, she hesitated, "Love, Master."

  Polishing off his beer, Sal praised, "Damn, you're a rare find."

  "I try."

  Cracking his neck and knuckles, Sal asked, "Do you live in Sugargrove now?"

  "I live in Little Bee and work as a secretary for the Mayor."

  "You sound normal," Deacon remarked, flipping his long bangs back. Crossing his left foot over his right, he said, "I would never have guessed."

  "You are Chief Cruz," she alluded to his badge and blue uniform. "You certainly don't look the role."

  "That's fair."

  Clasping his hands together, Sal asked, “Do we have your consent for anything but anal?"

  "Yes."

  Bounding from the table, Sal offered his hand to Megan and escorted her to his former—now warmed—spot on the table. "Ever done shibari?"

  "Not in the true sense. I've been bound, gagged, and blindfolded, but never artistically—erotically—tied."

  Something in the way she said it sent a shockwave through the men as they caught each other's tempting gaze. Megan hadn't brought seduction into it until now, but it was clear she had not just a scene, but sex on her mind.

  "Interesting way of putting it," Sal said, taking a generous length of the rope and threading the loose loops around her wrists. "I like it tight, but this rope is thin, and it will be a nightmare to undo."

  "… You have a knife?" Megan asked as Sal and Deacon laughed.

  "I do, but that's edge…"

  "I play with electricity, Master Raniero," she respectfully informed. "I think I can handle your sharps, providing they are, indeed, sharp."

  "She's going to one-up you," Deacon teased from the sidelines. If anyone else had said that during Sal's scene, there would have been a severe punishment. But Deacon was special, and he knew he could get away with pushing Sal's buttons.

  "Get your ass over here," Sal commanded, not forcing the issue of his unruly mouth, but putting a stop to it with his tone. Deacon knew how to behave. And behave well, at that—as a submissive.

  Megan remained free to move with only the taut bindings securing her wrists. Her healthy physique offered subtle curves accented by stormy grey blue eyes and long wisps of chestnut hair that teased the top of her ass cheeks. Not all submissives possessed her figure, and it was clear to Sal that she had been previously owned as her little nuances gave her away. This girl had been worked over and understood how to present on the floor before a Dominant.

  The silence in Sal provided no clues as to what he had in mind, but one thing was clear—he was distracted. And without pushing too hard, Megan inquired, "What are you thinking about?"

  Under his goatee, the corner of Sal's lip puckered up as Megan embraced the role of submissive to the hilt and reminded him of his mistress. Finding and keeping a submissive was easy; discovering one who could switch between the roles of bottom, lover, therapist, and friend was a whole other level of depth that earned his respect. "The future."

  "And?"

  "You." His warm fingers glided along the edge of her breast causing a startled gasp to escape from her mouth. "If I ever return to Juliet, I'd like the opportunity to take you further—in a proper setting."

  The offer from Sal was almost as rare as the girl before him. Deacon interrupted the transparent passage between Dom and sub as he curiously asked, "… How do you know?"

  "There's unstated magic, I can't define it," Sal answered, continuing his teachings to Deacon. "Sometimes you know who is a good fit for you. A lot of people believe the top picks the bottom, but it flows both ways. Ideally, you want a good match on multiple points—personality, skills, even recreationally, lifestyle."

  Deacon applied the theory to his relationship. Immediately, he saw the problems he had been avoiding. His girl was so very different from him, and he began to wonder if they would ever align as well as these two strangers had done in mere minutes. The thoughts frustrated him, leaving him with a sense of melancholy, and that was a dangerous component in Deacon Cruz.

  "And me?"

  "What about you, Cruz?"

  "Give me your assessment," Deacon replied.

  "Your girl is good…"

  "No," Deacon interrupted, stopping Sal. "On us."

  Sal smirked. "We've always held an enigmatic nirvana. You and I are pure silver threads."

  The supreme compliment caused an upsurge of a smirk from Deacon. He realized the actual problem wasn’t in Sal's relationship with Iris, but with their own. The past led Sal further away from Juliet and Texas and… Deacon. And the very last thing the Police Chief of Sugargrove wanted was removed from the bad boy’s life.

  Deacon took the job as Police Chief to assist his club and Sal. Yes, it had been a childhood dream, but he never believed it would come to fruition. And when the offer arrived on the table, Deacon considered not only his motivations but Sal's feelings.

  Deacon understood what was on the line as he aimed to find the balance between where Sal's ground ended and Deacon's turf began. Deacon's mother, Trudy Diaz, had been the old lady of the Delirium MC and her love story with Saint Cruz of the Reckless Rebellion MC brought forth Deacon—the byproduct of two opposing clubs. The two clubs waged a bitter, violent war against one another for years until finally his biological father succumbed and left Delirium in control.

  No one imagined the life-changing impact on Deacon.

  He grew up fighting through horrific days in another man's club—Delirium, owned by his stepfather, Javier Diaz—and when a lone bullet took him off the playing field, Deacon did the only thing he could. He shut the doors on Delirium and resurrected his father's only dream—the Reckless Rebellion Motorcycle Club.

  And if Deacon's story was dark, then Sal's loomed pitch black, the terror in the night that never ended. Born the only son to the mafia lord in Boston—Cesario Raniero—Sal was expected to take over the family business and lead the Raniero's for generations to come.

  An impulsive but justified killing derailed Sal from the track, and when his father encouraged his disappearance while the dust se
ttled, he never returned home to Boston. Instead, a young agent—Kaci Hope—got a hold of him, trained him, and brought him to the world of righteous disregard with the society of Sibyl. He was a contract killer, an assassin, a paid hitman for a family of spec ops. And nothing infuriated his father more than Sal not taking his rightful seat in the criminal underworld.

  If Cesario couldn't control his only son, he would attempt to eliminate him. The game of cat and mouse between father and son had dragged on for ten years. More than anything, Sal feared to have relationships because of the dangerous shadows shrouding every step. With a target on his and his associates' backs, Sal did the best he could to protect, provide, and be the predator, not the prey.

  Deacon needed his best friend to stand by his side. To be proud of him. To be vigilant and watchful. The relationship felt lopsided like Deacon cared more than Sal, but sometimes, even friendships weren't equal. The scuttle with the MC leader had a deeper meaning, one which included keeping his best friend out of the crosshairs of the mafia.

  It was just that simple.

  In the break room, Deacon couldn't fathom to watch Sal flounder one more minute in the sea of paralyzing emotions. The traumatic stress of Sal being on the run and losing loved one after loved one had started to break him. If Deacon could fix it, he would, even if it meant the biker knelt before the dark prince of the mafia.

  Suddenly, the grounds for the war dissipated as Deacon muttered, "What may I do for you, Master?"

  "Take her over the knee now."

  Deacon stripped off his shirt and eased into a chair as Megan's mouth gaped open. She had not only one, but two Doms at her disposal. She paced over to Deacon and spread out over his knees. His hand eased over the creamy white flesh of her ass. He studied the whimsical purple and teal octopus tattoo on her hip and butt cheek. With a glimpse to Sal and his approving nod, Deacon popped her repeatedly. She reddened quick.

  "More," Sal dictated from the edge of the table as Deacon continued his strikes. His eyes sparked with the tilting power shift and his mouth watered as his voice darkened with a growl, "Harder."

  Megan blinked at Sal, and when they locked eyes, there was no stopping the ride. "Here we go, Sir."

  Her mere acknowledgment of the chemistry between them pulled a smirk from his lips as he decided to reward the girl with the one thing she came to see. After all, he was Sal Raniero, known for his gloriously intimate, divine scenes and excellent aftercare. He wasn't a benchmark among the new generation of Doms, but the one to behold.

  Under his control, Megan was privileged and revered for her ability. The spanking wasn't only a spanking, but a holy rite of passage into Sal's realm. He didn't play with just anyone. And if she were in his dungeon, or break room, Megan would find the bliss she so desired.

  Flipping his belt off, Sal undid the top button of his jeans. "Tell me about Boudreaux."

  "What do you want to know?" she asked as Deacon didn't stop the rhythmic impacts to her flesh.

  Rubbing his hand over his chest, Sal rocked a sexy, deviant charm. "It doesn't make any sense. Why does a well-kept slave leave a prestigious house in New Orleans only to move to a spit of nothing town in the middle-of-nowhere? It's clear your game didn't change, so the game changed you."

  With a deep sigh, Megan confessed, “Finn’s father is Pharm."

  Breaking his melody, Deacon stumbled as his eyes met Sal's. "Stop for a moment."

  The men knew of the notorious drug lord—Pharm—and the kind of shit he liked to pull. Overdosing girls and marking their naked corpses with body paint, he left his calling card on park benches. He had been on the radar of the RR, the mafia, and the Sibyl agency for years, and the fact he was still breathing was somewhat of a mystery—the eighth world wonder.

  Pharm was sly, slick with his dealings, and avoided capture by staying on the streets. With no known address, he was a slippery shark waiting to take his next cannibalistic bite. He was relentless in his dealings, partnering or aligning with Pharm was a lifetime commitment. Any attempt to untangle from his wrath led to a vicious slaughter of unsuspecting associates.

  "How did you know we would be here?"

  Tears trickled from her eyes as Deacon's jeans soaked them up. "Research," she whispered, her face contorting with an embarrassment. "I heard rumors Alex was going to be married this weekend, and I asked around Juliet if anyone knew where the party would be at. I laughed when I found out it be here at Vue." She tried to offer a smile. "Great cover, by the way."

  "And what do you want from us?"

  "Protection," she replied, clutching her talons into the denim. "Help," she sniffled, distraught. "Anything. Just please don't let them kill my son."

  Skirting off the edge of the table, Sal paced closer and traced his finger across her cheek. He squatted low as his hands continued to brush over her calmly. "Where is your son?"

  "In Dallas, with a trusted family friend."

  "And what are you going to do for me if we agree to help you?"

  "Anything you want," she begged as the tears turned to wails. "If there is a price, I will come up with the money."

  "Why not marry Boudreaux?" Deacon asked as Sal flicked his gaze up. "Marrying him would have kept you safe…"

  "No, because he's filth," Sal answered as Megan confirmed his words, buckling in Deacon's lap. "And I would bet everything I own that he is working with Pharm."

  And then Megan said the one thing which solidified Sal's involvement in the matter he had no business getting into in the first place. "Pharm raped me while Giles Boudreaux and his two sons watched on."

  Sal's eyes shuttered closed as his head tilted back, and he looked to the ceiling for an answer. Nothing came. Scumbags would always be scumbags. This girl crossed his path for a reason and to turn her away now would be another unremovable stain on his already tarnished soul. He couldn't walk away from this one.

  With the stranger between them, the war of Sal and Deacon dissolved into nothing but a memory. Flexing his jaw in anger, Sal fumed as his body tightened and filled with rage.

  "What's up, Nero?"

  "Nothing," Sal passed the notions off as he cut the excess rope from her wrists. "Let's get out of here. Get up and get your clothes on Megan."

  "Yes, Sir," she said, obeying as Sal grabbed his and Deacon's things. "I'm sorry."

  Sal raised his hand and warned, "Don't."

  * * *

  Behind the building, the parking lot sat with one bright spotlight as the three headed to the bikes. Deacon tapped Sal on the shoulder, and they stopped walking. "What was that about back there?"

  "Simple," Sal said with a distant, glossy haze shielding his feelings. "Boudreaux is on the Raniero books in Boston. He is one of the top distributors of my father."

  "Oh my God," Deacon mumbled, covering his face with his hands and taking a deep breath. "Where are we going?"

  “Follow me," Sal said to Deacon as he grabbed Megan's hand and led her to the bike. "Get on."

  "I've never been on a bike."

  "It doesn't matter," Sal informed, holding her steady. "Trust me."

  The moon shone on the blackened rain glossed streets as they rode the backroads out of Austin. Without needing to explain his actions to anyone, Sal took Megan to the safest place he could think of—his farmhouse on the outskirts of Sugargrove.

  Megan clutched around him tight at first, and then slowly released her death grip as she basked in his ability. He wouldn't hurt her, on a bike or in a dungeon. If anything, Sal would be her savior.

  The act of trusting seemed like such an easy concept.

  Despite their different issues, Megan and Sal were both perplexed by the ultimate riddle—who to trust?

  Dust kicked up around the motorcycles as they tore through the midnight air. With nothing but mayhem and mischief on their mind, the mayhem of an unknown future and the mischief in partaking of her flesh became paramount.

  The backcountry roads were dangerous dry, with loose gravel and pack, but wet they w
ere deadly. Sal and Deacon were cautious and aware as they escorted their surprise heist to a hidden place. Turning into the driveway of the old Victorian farmhouse, Sal parked the bike and undid the gate. The rusted hinges complained with a creak as Deacon pulled through, and then Sal did the same. He didn't bother to shut it; this wouldn't take long.

  With pent-up anger, frustration, and lust pumping through his veins, Sal organized the tasks in order by priority. Retrieve the kid, get them both to a safe house, and send a team in to interrogate Megan for further intel.

  But before anything else, he needed to get off.

  His throbbing erection wasn't helping his thoughts at all as he bloomed with pure hate. Hatred for his father. Hatred for the man who hurt the innocent girl latched to his back. With a hard cock restrained by his jeans, Sal only wanted to kill them. Strategy be damned. Fuck and kill. Easy.

  Logically, Sal knew it wouldn't help. He needed an in-depth outline for which to attack Boudreaux. Hit the financials. Analyze the data. Rinse and repeat. And then, after depleting his assets, the proverbial cherry on top would be maiming him for his crimes.

  But first—his Dom needed a visit with her sub.

  "Where is she?" Deacon asked, referring to the house's primary resident, Mistress Serene, Sal's former trainer.

  "It doesn't matter," Sal barked, hopping off and picking Megan up from the bike. His hand grasped hers as they walked from the driveway down the hill to the outbuilding, resembling a metal barn. Without another word, Deacon followed. "This fucking house is mine. This fucking land is mine. And soon I'll be fucking this girl, and she'll be mine, so if you got any issues, Cruz, take them elsewhere."

  "No, Sir," Deacon replied as Megan shifted her gaze to his sad blue eyes. Leaning in slow, she delicately kissed him. "What was that for?"

  "He plans on sharing…" Her fingers laced into his as the three trekked through the doors to the main dungeon. Sal clicked on the lights to the elaborate structure he built years ago, "Oh wow… they weren't lying."

  Scanning over his phone, Sal tossed it down, turned on some music, and lit incense. "Neither are you."