Taboo Unchained

by C. M. Stunich

  Once she's strapped in, she starts to laugh, rather maniacally. I don't care, since I'm going to gag her soon, but I do have to ask.

  “Why no fight today? I thought that was one of your favorite parts?” I pull out a male chastity belt and look at it with distaste, sliding my flaccid cock from my slacks and cleaning myself with a wet wipe. I don't want any of Robbie here with me, not even in the loosest sense. “No roundhouse kicks? No chokeholds? I thought you liked to try and beat me up?”

  “Oh, I enjoy your pain, Lucas, but I have other friends now who enjoy submitting. Today, I have something slightly different in mind.”

  “Is that so?” I ask, pulling out a surgical needle and thread, a knife, a stainless steel Wartenberg wheel, and a violet wand. Normally all I feel at this point is excitement. The beast loves taking control, inflicting pain on others, fucking until he can't raise his head for another howl of agony inside my chest. But right now? All I feel is … strange. The darkness is still there, writhing and twisting inside of me, but it isn't crying out for the usual mind numbing fervor I give my clients.

  I close my eyes and drop the tools to the floor, leaning over and pressing my knuckles into the cement. I rest my cheek against my shoulder and try to breathe. Fuck.

  “Today, I want your dick inside my mouth, Lucas. In my ass. My pussy. I still want the usual, but I don't want to be gagged. I need you ready to follow my instructions.”

  “The only person giving instructions here is me,” I state, quite calmly actually, raising my head to look at Margarite.

  “Crybaby,” Margarite says, her safety word hanging heavy in the air between us. Huh. Not once has this woman ever used it, not even when I've used the Wartenberg wheel with the violet wand, rolled the metal points along her spine and jolted her body with small amounts of electricity. It might look like a slightly macabre children's toy, but it's not for the faint of heart. So now Margarite's decided to use her safety word? In an argument?

  “What is it that I'm doing, Margarite?” I ask, feeling my fingers scrape the floor. My nails catch painfully on the rough surface, but I don't stop, enjoying the dull pain that climbs my arms and shocks my brain. “What is it that you don't fucking like?”

  I stand up and grab the male chastity belt, an odd little invention of leather and chain that wraps around my cock like a harness, preventing me from using it or even stroking it. Think of it like a muzzle on a dog – only it's to keep my dick from biting. Margarite has never once asked me to touch her with my cock. I've pleasured her with a hand, a toy, my mouth, but never my dick. She's had me wear the chastity belt at every single meeting.

  “I want you to fuck me today, Lucas. Is that so hard for you? I know you do it for your other clients.”

  “That's beside the point, Margarite,” I tell her, hating the way she's smirking up at me, following my flaccid cock with her eyes, watching bemusedly as I put on the belt. How do I explain to a client that I don't feel like fucking them? That I'd rather take that surgical needle and slide it through their skin? Decorate Margarite's pretty back with thread and metal D-rings, lace her up like a corset? It's what she herself has requested for years, so why change things up now? “I feel as if I deserve an explanation.”

  “I told you that you were in love,” she growls, cackling low, like a witch in a black and white movie. I look down on her with a frown, unbuttoning my shirt and sliding it down my shoulders. The dark purple fabric gets folded up and laid atop my suit jacket. My movements are calm and controlled, my face neutral, my hands steady. Inside, I seethe. I rage. I bleed black blood from the rabid lips of ghoulish wolves. A slice overdramatic, maybe, but I feel as if I deserve some theatrics after the absurdity of the past few days.

  “That's simply … impossible,” I say with a gentle sigh. I don't like the way my thoughts go straight to Audra, to Robbie. Polar opposites taking up residence in the same corner of my twisted mind. But love? I've felt it only once and while I'm no longer capable of the emotion, I know what it feels like.

  “Then why are you so against fucking me? Hmm? Why are you so aghast at putting your dick inside my demon?”

  “Perhaps,” I say, sliding a bottle of alcohol from my bag, “I just don't fucking like you, Margarite.” I clean off the surgical needle with a cotton ball and then flick open my lighter, burning the end, my eyes caught on the dancing flame. I'd rather be anywhere but here. The thought punctures my psyche, like this needle in my hand has just pierced straight through my eye and into my brain. The beast is still riled up; I am still frustrated. But I don't want to be here. I think about my other clients: Pam, Leslie, Lauren. Not a single one of them sounds appealing. I do my absolute best not to think about Audra or Robbie – I'd rather not find out if they do.

  “I thought you hated most of your clients?” she blathers on. Today, of all days, is the only one in our sordid history where she doesn't want to be gagged? Dear God, what have I done to deserve this? Murder, perhaps? I ignore that thought as well. Even chasing down a scumbag sack of crap like Mark doesn't sound particularly exciting right now. Just do your job, Lucas. Feed the fucking need and get over your pathetic, little emotions. The problem with this is that my other source of intuition, my dick, is not particularly happy to be here either. Heh. I thread the needle, wishing we could use an eyeless one instead. Eyeless needles are one time use only, much more sanitary, but I'm not here to play to my own preferences. Margarite likes to reuse the same needles, over and over and over, so that's what I do. It's no skin off my back. The pun encourages my lips into a gentle grin as I kneel down next to Margarite, letting my chained cock slap against her side.

  I thread the needle, letting the suture dangle low, gliding the thread across her skin. Margarite sighs and shifts, the bindings at her wrists and ankles creaking as I set the needle aside, laying it on a sterile sheet of plastic from my briefcase.

  “Tell me what you're doing right now,” Margarite oozes, her voice like needles against my skin. She says she wants to suck my dick, but am I safe in letting her? If her voice is this rough, how are her teeth going to feel? There's a chance I could walk out of here with a serious injury or even sans dick. I shiver as I flick my finger against the stainless steel surface of the Wartenberg wheel, watching it spin gently in front of my face. The tiny spikes catch the fading light from outside, like some sort of monstrous ferris wheel.

  “I'm thinking about the violet wand kit I have, how dangerous it could be for you.” I take the wheel and run it along Margarite's skin. If this were an ordinary Wartenberg wheel, it wouldn't hurt in the slightest. The points would be dull, stimulating her nerves and drawing a strangely pleasant sensation along their path. In fact, the wheel was invented for the purpose of testing nerve reactions and sensitivity, and definitely not for what I've done with it. The points on this particular wheel are sharpened to fine points, like little knives, leaving dots of blood as I graze them across Margarite's sunburnt flesh. She giggles maniacally as I do this and once again I'm reminded how terribly badly I'd like to gag the bitch. “How you could die from an electrical jolt to the heart.” Margarite sucks in a whispered breath, joy evident in the simple sound. Make no mistake: Margarite wants to die. She simply doesn't want to do it herself, so she puts herself into situations where it's possible, even likely, to happen. I've had this niggling feeling for years that one day, she'd ask me to do it, to kill her. I'm not even certain that I could, and so far, she hasn't asked, but I always feel like it's on the tip of her tongue. Granted, the violet wand kit I have isn't very dangerous, but we pretend that it is, that the little wand with its glass tubes and champagne bubbles of electricity hurt. Yes, we take more risks than some, using it on Margarite's back, her arms, her nipples, but so far we haven't had a single incident. I'm very, very careful with my clients. Every once in a while the demon asks for more than it can reasonably handle.

  “And then you're going to fuck me, aren't you, Lucas?” she asks, licking her lips with an audible slurping sound that makes my ches
t tight with irritation. I hate Clarice Braxton, yes, but not in the same way I hate Margarite. She makes me … uncomfortable … like a gazelle lying prone near a lioness that's just eaten. Yes, she might be sated for the moment being, but there is nothing on this earth stopping her from snapping my neck. “Until I'm nothing but a drooling, whimpering heap on the floor?”

  I ignore Margarite's question, pressing the wheel into the side of her neck, her cheek, moving around to her lips and enjoying the slight blush of blood across her mouth. She locks her eyes on my still flaccid cock, staring hard, like she can make me stiff with the look of a serial killer gazing upon her victim.

  “You're not a real man, are you, Lucas? Do you want to know why I held off on the fight today? Because I knew that if I tried, I would win, and I only like to fuck real men, Lucas. Men who can take me on, physically and mentally. You? You're nothing but a puff. A Goddamn, fucking cream puff. A pussy. A wimp.”

  I slap Margarite across the face, hard, enjoying the crack of flesh on flesh. The beast cackles, the demons howl, but my cock stays soft. I grab my client's chin and turn her gaze back to me, ignoring the smirk on her bloodied lips.

  “If you don't shut your mouth, Margarite, you won't get the chance to find out.”

  “Oh, is that a challenge?” she asks as I rise to my feet and throw the wheel onto the floor. It skids across the concrete, spinning in a slight circle before hitting the damaged drywall. “Are you going to prove something to me with that stringy dick of yours? Maybe slap it against my wet pussy? I'm sure that'll feel nice, Lucas. Don't worry if you can't get it up.” Margarite starts to laugh again and my vision narrows to a single focus. I drop the chastity belt to the floor and wrap my hand around my cock, pumping furiously, begging my body to respond to my touch. The sound of Miss Simmons' voice makes me crazy inside, drawing my motions into a frenzy of anger and frustration, but it's only when I let my mind wander to other faces, that I'm able to get hard.

  I snatch the knife from the ground, moving around in front of Margarite so she can see me full and gloriously erect. I spin the knife around between my fingers and kneel in front of her hungry gaze, making full eye contact, so she knows I'm serious.

  “You are a menace, Margarite. You're dark, yes, but you're also twisted. And I find you obnoxious, even more so than my other clients. You're in pain, and you're suffering, and you also are interestingly perceptive.” My mind immediately flashes to Audra, giving me a moment of pause as I trace the tip of the blade against Margarite's lips. She flicks her tongue out against the sharp edge, purposely cutting herself. “But not perceptive enough. I'm not in love.” I draw the knife away and rise to my feet, tucking my erection back into my pants. I can see the moment Margarite registers the situation.

  “Lucas,” she warns, her voice taking on a dangerous edge. “Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare. I stare down at her frizzy blonde hair, her lime green eyes, her angry grimace.

  “I'm not in love, but I also don't want to be here. I don't know why, but I do owe it to myself and my clients to find out. Until then, I won't be scheduling anymore sessions.”

  “Lucas.” Another warning. I walk around Margarite and slice the bindings on her ankles first, and then her wrists. The second that tape is undone and she's in the process of wiggling free, I walk out of that house and I don't look back.

  After all, I have a mystery to unravel.

  Lucas Carter isn't ready to die just yet.

  Tonight at six. Don't bother coming if you're late.

  This is the text I send to Audra the next morning; I get no reply. It doesn't matter though because I know she'll come. She's too interested not to. I still haven't the faintest idea what her request is going to be, but that doesn't matter either. I'll get to it when I get to it.

  I set the cans of paint on the floor and let my head fall back with a sigh. The front door is open, not as an invitation, but because I'm unloading supplies onto the tarp in my back bedroom. Oh, stop. Fresh paint, a tarp. It certainly sounds like the future scene of a crime, but I'm not quite that stupid. If I planned on killing anyone, I'd find a garbage strewn alley somewhere. Right now, I'm simply … remodeling. The menial tasks required for installing new hardwood floors, painting, putting in baseboards and crown molding, these take the beast and force him back a step. I need that right now, time to think. Besides, if I'm not visiting clients, I need to be careful he doesn't get out.

  I shiver and turn around at the sound of soft footsteps.

  Robbie Carrell appears in the entrance to my hallway wearing a gingham print dress in black and white. The sleeveless slip of fabric shows off her gently sloping shoulders and lightly muscled arms, tightening over her chest and hanging just low enough to be tasteful. Mmm. Audra Holiday could certainly use a lesson in fashion from Robbie Carrell.

  I cross my arms over my chest and lean back, watching her with a focused gaze, waiting for her to speak first. After kicking her out last night, I have no clue what her attitude towards me might be. And I should have no desire to find out. I like Robbie, I do, her innocence is appealing, and the brightness of her soul is a shimmer against the dark splotch of this world, but nothing can ever come of it. She likes me; I like her. That's all there is to it. I'm a dangerous mind with a horrible job and even worse hobbies. I've killed many men and lost an only love. Robbie Carrell needs someone who can give her that ordinary life that so many crave, that simple lull of days that fades into an easy end. A life with me would be nothing of the sort. In short, I digress. Robbie Carrell. Here in my hallway. What on earth does she want?

  “Hi, Luke.” Goose bumps eat across my skin. Luke. Why does she have to call me Luke? I let my eyes flutter closed for a moment before opening them and looking back in her direction.

  “Hello, Robbie.” My voice garners a similar reaction from her, making her skin ripple as if I've physically brushed my fingers down her arms, put my mouth to hers and tasted that honied sweetness. Fuck. I can feel my cock rising to the occasion. Never one to let an opportunity pass him by, is he? Unless you count Margarite Simmons and before that, Robbie's second offer of sex. Perhaps you're not as sexually motivated as you once thought, Lucas? “What can I do for you?”

  Robbie snorts, like I've said something amusing, and holds up a blue flyer covered with terrible black and gray clip art. The words BLOCK PARTY stand out from the rest of the poorly designed stationery like a bleeding flesh wound. My mouth tightens as I push away from the wall.

  “My parents sent me over here to invite you to the next block party.” Robbie pauses. “Even though you never come,” she adds, casting her gaze away as I approach and reach out for the paper. I make sure our fingers touch, so I can see her reaction to me, so I can feel better about the fact that she didn't come over here of her own volition. Silly, Lucas. And you're upset about this? You should be overjoyed. Most virgins would be here clinging to your chest and preaching love and marriage. The thought makes me shudder, so why does the fact that Robbie's not doing that bother me so much?

  “Is that the only reason you came?” I ask, reaching up to brush some hair away from her pale face. Robbie's blue eyes look everywhere but at me before she pushes past me and starts down the hall, venturing further than any woman before her, diving deep into the heart of my house. Like a bear whose cave is being encroached upon, I slink after her, baring my teeth.

  “I saw the paint cans in your hand,” she explains as she swings around the doorway into the spare bedroom. From the day I moved in, this room has been underutilized. I've always called it my office, but what use do I have for one? I've got a laptop that travels and a career that requires absolutely zero paperwork. There's a mahogany desk against one wall, a pair of white gauze curtains left by the previous owners and a bookcase filled with senseless fiction novels – the only kind I'll read. Robbie spots them right away, and my hackles raise as her fingers brush the spine of the only book I give two shits about. Aliyah's book, my mind screams at the same time my body freezes in place. W
hy can't I move? Storm across the room and rip the text angrily from her fingers? That would send Robbie running again, I'm sure of it. Instead, I do nothing, and Margarite's words begin to etch themselves into my brain. Pussy. Wimp. Love. I swallow and know that I'm nowhere near that last word, but that I almost … want to be. How dreadful.

  “To Luke,” Robbie reads, her words like the fragrant blossom of lilies, staining the air with sweetness that I know will never last. I close my eyes and try not to let the sound carry me into the past. “May you know the dual blessings of choice and opportunity. I love you. Stay perfectly imperfect for me, 'kay? Aliyah.” In my head, I see brown eyes and long, dark hair. I see bow tie lips that smile too much, cheeks carved by Greek gods, and skin like mocha. I see Aliyah's teeth, bright in the darkness of the driveway, smiling at me as I pull away. I see a coffin, its shiny white surface an affront to everything I ever loved and believed in.

  My lips pull back in a snarl, like I really am this metaphysical beast I'm always going on about. Robbie pauses briefly before glancing over her shoulder at me. When she sees my facial expression, her entire body goes still.