“Sex, I'm good at. Great even. Perfect.
I am a God.”
C.M. Stunich
Sarian Royal
Taboo Unchained
Copyright © C.M. Stunich 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 1863 Pioneer Pkwy. E Ste. 203, Springfield, OR 97477-3907.
www.sarianroyal.com
ISBN-10: 1938623770 (eBook)
ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-77-6(eBook)
Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal
"Optimus Princeps" Font © Manfred Klein
"Boycott" Font © Flat-It
"PhontPhreak's Handwriting" Font © PhontPhreak
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.
when the last leaves of autumn have broken free of limbs and the frost of winter teases the edge of your heart, remember that darkness is simply a facet of life. dark is as important as light; night is as important as day.
this book is dedicated to the darkness inside of all of us.
****WARNING: This is a dark romance erotica - meaning lots of violence, sex, and emotionally disturbing inner dialogue. The main character does not, however, kidnap or force himself on women. The entire book is told in his point of view. This story does contain murder, tough choices, and strange sex.
***This book is entirely fictional, and the sexual techniques described within can be extremely dangerous. Read Lucas' story to spice up your sex life, have a little fun, and watch a man consumed by darkness grow into a different person. Please don't take any of the acts described within as instructional and always remember, safety first.
~CM
My name is Lucas Carter, and I am a fucking God.
I slide my hand down my cock, gripping the base of my shaft with sure fingers. A smirk lingers on my lips as I work my body like a machine. I know what gets me off – oh, who am I kidding? I know what gets everyone off – so it doesn't take long to milk pre-cum onto my fingers.
The blonde lying across my bed watches me with hungry eyes, sliding her tongue across her full lips. They're already swollen from my ministrations, bruised by my kisses. Marked. Sealed. Stamped with my name.
I smile.
“Tell me you want this,” I command, watching as her gaze rakes down my body, begging silently for me to fuck her, to slide my cock into her folds and own her. Little does she know, I already do. I don't need to touch a woman to possess her; I can reel in souls with a simple look, a light touch, a well-timed smile. It's not magic. This, this is simple biology.
“I want your penis,” she says, and I cringe, releasing my dick and stalking across the room towards her. She cowers back, but I don't touch her. Lucas Carter never hits women – not unless they want him to. I do not believe Mrs. Braxton ordered that particular service. From the corner of the room, I hear her husband shift uncomfortably. I've already asked him twice to keep his mouth shut. I don't do men, but I do allow them to watch, provided they keep quiet.
“My … penis?” I ask, trying not to grit my teeth. Mrs. Braxton has pushed me to the edge of my sanity today. She's attractive, much more so than my other clients, but she has a bad habit of dulling my excitement with her squeaky clean little mouth. Not even the bright red of her lipstick is helping. “This is not a sexual education class, Clarice. This is not your mother's living room. If you're going to refer to my body, you're going to use the words that I choose.” I pause and stand up straight, sliding my sticky fingers back down my shaft. Pleasure pricks my body, helping to soothe my ire. “Now. Repeat after me.” I pause, watching as Clarice's pink nipples stand at sharp attention. Her stomach muscles tighten as she sucks in a deep breath. “Dick.”
I take a step closer, letting my eyes soak in her rounded curves and the sweep of her pale hair across the white linens. Her blue eyes break from mine for just a split second, sliding over towards the corner where her husband sits. I reach my fingers out and grab her chin, guiding her attention back to my face. Make no mistake here: Mr. and Mrs. Braxton may be my clients, but I am the one in charge.
“Say. It.” If there's one thing I hate more than the mollification of genitalia, it's having to repeat myself. My hand tightens on my cock. Clarice swallows hard as her eyes flutter and her lips part softly.
“Dick,” she whimpers, and the smile returns to my face. I trail my fingertips down her throat, watching the jumping pulse of her heart as I drag my hand towards her full breasts.
“Cock.” The word jumps sharply off my tongue at the same moment I clamp my fingertips on Clarice's taut, pink nipples. She groans deeply, relaxing back onto the bed and spreading her legs wide for me, opening up that pretty pink pussy like a flower in bloom. I ignore the slight murmur of Mr. Braxton's moans from the corner by gritting my teeth. We're not even through the first course yet and already the buffoon is gasping and spilling his seed into his own hand. More than likely, he'll retreat to one of the other nineteen bedrooms in this sprawling monstrosity of a home and fall asleep, leaving me to deal with his wife alone. Not that I'm complaining – I much prefer it that way – but I can only imagine what kind of a man would be comfortable leaving his pride and joy to find solace in another man's arms. More often than not, my clients' husbands know nothing about what goes on behind closed doors. If anyone asks, I'm simply the 'interior designer'.
“Cock,” Clarice moans, letting her head fall back and bending her legs at the knees. The head of my dick presses tight against her opening, sliding slick cum over her heat. But I don't enter her. I'm not here to pummel her pussy and roll away satisfied. If Mrs. Braxton simply wanted a stallion to ride, there are a hundred other men in this city that she could've called for a fraction of the price. My phone only rings when there are darker desires to satisfy, cravings that delve much deeper than simple sex.
I pull away and let my smile morph into a grin.
“No, please,” Clarice whimpers, much like she always does. “I need it. Just … have sex with me, please.” My mouth twitches and my hands clench tight at my sides. She can't even say fuck. After all these sessions, all these dirty romps, these forays into the depths of darkness, and she can't say the Goddamn F-word.
“Fuck,” I snap, sliding my withering cock back into the confines of my slacks. Clarice sits up quickly, brushing her French tipped nails through her blonde hair. Trophy wife. The term was coined to describe this woman, this twenty-something beach bunny married to a fifty year old man. Disgusting. I have had it for today. Clarice has had me over before – she knows better than to piss me off. “Fuck me, Clarice. We have had this discussion.” My dick is soft now, flaccid and useless. “So I'm going home.”
I turn around and grab my briefcase, laying my suit jacket over my arm. One quick glance at Mr. Braxton shows that he's already asleep in the ostentatious wingback chair that sits near the window. I try desperately not to roll my eyes.
“W-wait!” Clarice calls out, scrambling off of the bed and chasing after me. I ignore her when she tugs on my arm and tries to stop me from heading out the door of her bedroom. “I can say it. Fuck me. Fuck me, Lucas.” I slide easily from her grasp and manage to step into the hallway before she gloms onto me again. My scowl feels permanently etched into my skin at this point. I'm an artist whose medium is flesh and blood and sex.
“I am not a whore, Clarice,” I tell her as we move past the open door of a bedroom and the blasé stare of one of the Braxton's many maids. They've seen it all and
more, I'm sure. Not once have I ever seen a single one of them blink at my presence, not even when I'm ramming Mrs. Braxton in a sex swing dangling off the edge of the balcony overlooking the foyer. Heights. The danger of falling is one of the few things that really gets Clarice off. That, apparently, and my utter distaste for her personality.
“I know, and I'm sorry, please. Lucas, come on.” Clarice follows me halfway down the curving staircase before I stop and turn to her, her chest heaving, breasts full and admittedly quite tempting. I lean over and whisper in her ear.
“Stop begging like the desperate little slut that you are, and maybe I'll consider fucking you next time.” I watch out of the corner of my eye as her lashes flutter and her breath comes quicker. Insults. A fairly tame breed of naughty, but one that Mrs. Braxton likes all the same. I step back and continue down the stairs, debating on whether or not I'm going to stop in the gaudy gold and white marble bathroom near the front door. My hands are still sticky with my cum, and the sensation is making my teeth hurt. I'm a meticulous man, and I like to be clean.
“You're seriously leaving?” Clarice wheedles as I hit the bottom stair and pause with one foot on the ugly travertine floor. I spare her a quick glance over my shoulder and find a frown plastered across those red, red lips. “The check cleared, didn't it?” she snaps when she sees me make no move to turn around.
My scowl returns with a vengeance.
“I already told you: I am not a whore.” Fuck. I hate repeating myself. I continue towards the front door, pausing only when a vase smashes into the ground next to my feet, shattering into a million white and blue pieces. I don't bother to look back when Clarice starts screeching at me.
“You are a whore. An overpriced one at that. Get over yourself, Lucas. You have sex for money!”
Okay, now that does give me pause. A smile replaces my scowl as I turn around and give Mrs. Braxton my most evil look.
“Then you and I, my darling, are one in the same. Next time Mr. Braxton is busy riding your ass, think of me to get through it. I'll consider that a freebie.”
A small angel statue comes flying over the railing of the balcony, crashing into a gilded mirror not six feet from where I'm standing.
There is a demon inside of me.
Not a literal one, of course, because such things don't exist. Not that I've ever seen anyway. But there might as well be because I can feel something deep down that doesn't belong in this world, a darkness that permeates my being and shadows the world around me. I don't usually let it hurt anyone – not intentionally – but it is ravenous. It demands to be fed. Sated. Set loose every now and again. Most people can't handle my demon. Trust me, I've tried. I was once even engaged for a brief period in my life. That wasn't the problem. The problem was the wedding night when my beast emerged and demanded sacrifice. Obviously, something is very wrong with me. On an intellectual level, I understand that, but it doesn't change things. It doesn't change my needs, doesn't satisfy them, so I make do the best I know how.
Currently, the best involves a woman named Leslie Catsitch. She doesn't know I'm here to see her today, but she will as soon as she opens the door. Leslie lives alone, so unexpected drop-ins are not only encouraged but required. I usually only visit Leslie when I have a cancellation, such as today. Otherwise, the demon is generally too satisfied to be of much use to Ms. Catsitch.
I grit my teeth and curl my fingers into my palm. Clarice and her husband will be lucky if they ever see me again. The money is nice, but like I stated before: I am not a fucking whore. People don't pay me for sex. They pay me for a chance to visit with the demon, to find themselves in the arms of a dark God. It's not about the carnal connection of flesh, the rapid bump and grind of a hard cock inside a wet pussy. If that's all this was about, I'd have a normal job. I'd work as a financial advisor or something, pick up women in restaurants or bars or at board meetings.
This is about the taboo, about rescuing the filthy side of the human soul, letting it come unchained for just a brief moment. If you exercise the darkness, you can put it to rest, you can pretend you understand what it's like to walk in the light. Or at least some people can. My clients claim to. Personally, I've never been able to see past the shroud around my soul, so I don't bother. I revel in the blackness, let it consume me body and soul. Sex is easy. Sex, I'm good at. Great even. Perfect.
I am a God.
I let myself smile again as Leslie opens the door nice and wide. This is our signal to proceed with the arrangement. If she opens the door only a crack, then I ask for somebody named Carol and leave. Today there is no Carol.
“Who are you?” Leslie asks, feigning surprise. She's a terrible actress, but I let it go. My hand comes out and slams into the wood of the door.
“Are you home alone today?” I ask, once again keeping to the script. When you travel outside the realm of the everyday, come to rest in the blackness of the profane, you should keep a road map. It keeps things nice and neat and tidy. As I've said: I'm a clean man. If you want to feel filthy, drown in dirty, then you keep clean. Contrast is the spice of life after all. Darkness – light. Night – day. Ugly – beautiful. I don't judge Leslie on her curved nose, her unkempt brows, her wide hips. She's at a stark contrast with Mrs. Braxton's looks, and that makes her the most beautiful woman in the world at this moment.
I desperately want to ravage her.
Good thing that, too, is in the script.
“Why, yes, yes I am.” Leslie swallows and lets go of the door while I take a step forward, letting my eyes trail down her small frame with hunger and rage. Clarice has thoroughly pissed me off, and I'm ready for an outlet. I've never once – read that again – once hurt an innocent with my demon. I keep my darkness chained until it's ready to be unleashed. Leslie desperately wants it unleashed on her.
I grab her arm roughly, taking note of our silhouettes in the mirror behind her head. I tower over her petite frame, my dark hair a stark contrast to her pale brunette, like an angel of death descending from above. I swallow hard and jerk Leslie against my chest. “Please leave,” she whispers against my suit jacket, her lips trembling. “You're hurting me.” I squeeze her arm harder. There's no need to be gentle with Leslie. We have a safety word she can use if it goes too far. Not once has she ever used it.
“Well isn't that a shame,” I say, pushing her backward and stepping into the tiny entryway of her townhouse. I lean closer and nip her ear with my teeth. “Because I don't give a shit.” Leslie squeals as I spin her around roughly and shove her over the table underneath the mirror. Picture frames crash to the floor as she cries out. I can't tell if it's in pleasure or pain, but it doesn't matter because Leslie is like me: she enjoys both.
“What are you doing to me?” she asks, still sticking to our script. I skip ahead a few beats and tear open the button on my slacks, shoving her skirt up her hips while she wiggles in mock struggle. “Stop it, Danny,” Leslie cries, calling me the name of some man she dreams about but won't explain. Danny. I'm always fucking Danny.
“You asked me who I was,” I say as I grab her panties and tear them off, throwing the loose fabric to the floor. I shove my cock roughly between her cheeks, searching for that hot wetness. “And now you know my name?”
“I've seen you before,” she whispers, real tears evident in her voice. I don't know what memories she relives during our encounters, and I don't care. That part of this arrangement is not my problem. We all have pasts that slither around in our nightmares, desperate to haunt us. “At work. Did you follow me home?” I grind my cock against her hot heat, letting myself meet my own gaze in the mirror. I look fucking wicked. A smirk bites across my lips. Green eyes sparkle with envy, like I'm simply made of sin, and I don't fucking care. Why fight my basic nature?
“I smelled a slut when I saw you. Tell me I'm wrong?”
“Why are you doing this to me?” she asks, her voice thick with desire and want, laced with old pain. A heady concoction. I thrust my hips forward and dive into her with a
long, sharp thrust. Leslie screams, her hands scrambling at the wood of the table. “Stop! Please!” She arches her back and pushes against me, fighting to get away. “Danny, don't! I don't want this!” I grab the back of Leslie's head and shove her face against the mirror, enjoying the reflection as I pound against her ass with violent thrusts. There's no foreplay here, no worrying about her orgasm, or what she'll think of me when we're done. I'll unleash the demon on Leslie, and she'll pay me for it. That's how this works. Sometimes, deep down, I get the urge for something more. Like if I found the right recipe, I might be able to pay the piper without robbing Peter to pay Paul. Or something like that. But those fantasies fade as quickly as they come, and I'm back to this. The taboo. I let my chains hang loose. “Get off of me!”
I hold Leslie down and continue fucking her while she bucks and screams, thrashing and flailing as her pussy clamps around my cock and draws that darkness out of me with a clench of muscles and the tightening of my fingers on her scalp. I don't cry out, don't make any noise at all. I usually don't, not unless they specifically ask me to.
When I'm finished pumping inside of her, I pull away and let her sag to the floor.
“You have my account number?” I ask, and Leslie nods, tugging her brown floral skirt back into place. She doesn't look up at me. “You can transfer the money then. It's the usual fee.”
I tuck myself back into my slacks and walk out the door.
I live in a house – not an apartment, not a condo, not a duplex. A stand-alone home with red shutters and white siding. It's in the most innocuous neighborhood with the most innocuous neighbors. It all goes back to my world of opposites and contrasts. I work in the world of the taboo, and I rest in pure normalcy.
“Hi Luke.” I smile at the shy girl from next door. She's sixteen at most, maybe seventeen. She flirts with me on occasion, when I'm tending the roses that border our shared fence, or when I'm washing my car. I never flirt back.
Taboo Unchained Page 1