by Nikki Chase
My feet start to pound the pavement. Take it slow and don’t rush into it, I remind myself.
There are only two things in life I get this obsessive about: my art, and my addiction.
I used to weigh nugs precisely too, and I always, always brought my own syringe. I was a drug user, not an idiot. Some would insist a drug user is automatically an idiot, but I’d beg to differ.
The thing is, most people are addicted to something. Sex. Porn. Movies. Video games. Books. Work. Religion. Fucking sugar. Salt. Oh, and here’s a good one: gadgets.
Most people have ignored their families in favor of something else. Most people have an obsession or two.
The trick is to direct the focus of that obsession on something that won’t fuck your whole life up. I check my speed on my smartwatch. The clinic’s signage should come into view in a few minutes.
Peter made the mistake of using nicotine to replace the harder drugs he’d used to enjoy. In the end, it took more than a decade of smoking for the toxins to poison his body with cancer.
If I were being optimistic, I’d say he could’ve died even younger if he’d stuck with the other kinds of drugs.
Twenty-eight.
Damn. Peter died young.
Funny how when I was a little boy, twenty-eight seemed ancient. But now, at thirty-one, I look at any twenty-something and see someone who has a lot of life to live.
My chest burns as I put one foot in front of the other. That’s it. Left. Right. Left.
Life’s a lot like running. A personal apocalypse may have obliterated your world, but time doesn’t stand still. It never does. You still age the same, and to the rest of the world, nothing’s changed. All that’s left to do is keep going.
As Ellis Animal Clinic comes into view, I stare at the front door, remembering the first day Peter and I talked.
We were at my shop, and I was giving Peter his first tattoo. Sarah wasn’t too happy about it—but that was exactly the reaction Peter was hoping to get.
I did feel weird talking to Peter after having just banged his sister on the same tattoo table he was sitting on. But I also thought he was pretty cool. And then he started showing me pictures of his artwork, and he became the coolest person in town.
He may have worked as a veterinarian, but that man was an artist through and through. His confident strokes and bold colors were intriguing, even though I was just looking at tiny versions of them on his phone.
I remember saying, “These must look amazing in person.”
“Want to see them?” Peter asked right away. Later, I learned that he’d been trying to find someone who shared his interest in Ashbourne, to no avail.
“Yes,” I said, as quickly as he’d made the offer. I didn’t realize Sarah was glaring at me until it was too late.
Still, I didn’t think it was going to be a big deal because Sarah had made it clear she’d only wanted a one-time, no-strings-attached thing. It wasn’t like we were going to ever bang again.
Besides, I was just going to see some art, right? Peter and I probably didn’t have much in common beyond that.
There was very little chance I was going to keep either one of them in my life, or so I thought at the time.
I chuckle as I slow my pace, my gaze fixed on Ellis Animal Clinic with its white, back-lit sign and a Peter Ellis original as the logo. It’s a clean, simple, black-and-white design, incorporating the silhouettes of a dog, a cat, and a horse.
Sarah was telling me the truth about having to take care of some stuff at the clinic. The light upstairs is on, which means she’s home.
It looks pretty safe here, of course. As usual.
I wonder if she really bought the bald-faced lie about my security concerns. The truth is, I’m probably the only person in town who’s trying to break into her clinic.
Sarah
I stare at the little black silhouette of a cat on my right wrist.
I’ve gone through a whole slew of emotions related to this tiny tattoo, and it’s not even two inches across.
When I first got it, I loved it. Even though the design was cutesy, I thought the inherent bad-ass quality of being tattooed would give me a little street cred before I went to college.
It also reminded me of a particularly naughty night when I’d had my first one-night stand. With a tattoo artist, no less.
Somehow, a little bit of ink made me feel powerful, like I was in control. It felt pretty bad-ass for a while.
Until my brother, in his usual non-confrontative way, gave me a little lesson.
“Peter, are you seriously doing this?” I asked incredulously. “This is so uncool.”
“If you think being uncool is a deterrent for me . . . think again.” Peter chuckled like he was a villain in a superhero movie. He didn't even slow his pace as he headed straight for the tattoo parlor where I’d gotten inked the previous week.
“You can't do this,” I protested as I scampered past the colorful display window of a toy shop to catch up to him.
“I’m going to repeat to you what my very grown-up sister told me this morning: ‘I’m an adult, and you can't tell me what to do.’”
Okay, maybe I’d been feeling smothered by Peter’s overprotective ways. He was doing a great job at being both my mom and my dad, but what can I say? I was technically an adult, but as an eighteen-year-old, I was still technically a teenager, too.
I laughed nervously. “That seems like a rather . . . black-and-white way of looking at things, don't you think?” I asked in a desperate attempt to sway his mind, even though I knew I wasn't going to. “There's room for compromise between adults, isn't there?”
“Nope,” Peter cackled. “You're new to this whole adulting thing so let me tell you something: everyone around you can do whatever they want, and there's nothing you can do about it.”
“I agree completely,” I said quickly. “Lesson learned.” I put my hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Great parenting, Peter. Well done. Let's go home now.”
Peter stopped in his tracks—had I touched a nerve?
He stared at me quietly for a few anxious seconds before he burst into laughter.
Yeah, probably not.
“This is the single highest point of my experience raising you in the past five years,” Peter said. “This is happening.”
When we entered the tattoo parlor, Luca raised a questioning eyebrow at me. To Peter, he asked, “She’s eighteen, right? I checked her ID.”
As far as I knew, he’d never talked to my brother before. But Ashbourne was a small town, and everybody knew of everybody else’s existence.
“Yeah, I’m not here to cause any trouble,” Peter said. “I just like your work, and I want the exact same tattoo you gave my sister, in the exact same spot.”
Luca’s stare flicked between Peter and me until he finally chuckled. Shaking his head, he said, “Sure.”
And so, for the next half hour, I had to sit there and watch as Luca inked Peter. There was only one tattoo table in the shop—the one Peter was sitting on was the same one I’d gotten fucked on.
My brother had crazy ideas. But I’ll have to admit this particular one worked.
Before he got a matching tattoo, I wanted to get a full sleeve or even a massive, yakuza-style piece on my entire back.
After? Just hearing the whirr of a tattoo gun reminded me of his stunt and . . . I mean, I didn’t want him to also match my magnificent back piece and make me hate it.
So yes, I swore off tattoos forever. I even swore off the sexy artist who’d inked me.
Peter stole both from me, but it wasn’t like I was angry at him. I was glad he’d found a friend right before I had to leave for college, and I didn’t want to ruin it for him. Since Dad’s death, Peter had sacrificed so much for me already.
Besides, it wasn’t like I was dying for another round with Luca. Yes, I liked him, but I was also leaving town for college soon. I’d told him it was just going to be a one-time thing.
At that age, though
, I could’ve been persuaded to do it again, especially by someone as hot as Luca.
But now, I’m more careful. Methodical.
I don’t ever sleep with a guy more than once, and I make sure he’s not related to anyone I know. Just finding a stranger in this town would be a challenge, but there are always drifters passing through, and I’m willing to travel for the right guy.
I get up from the couch and straighten my legs. Walking across the living room, I draw the curtain aside and peer through the window.
There’s a lone form right outside. My heart skips a beat—could that be one of the junkies Luca mentioned today?
Peter never mentioned any trouble with drug users. But then again, he also insisted he was fine and told me not to come home because he was “just a little sick.”
Liar.
I lean forward until my forehead sticks against the glass, letting my shadow cover the faint reflection of my living room.
It’s Luca.
He still likes to run shirtless, I see.
He has his back to me, which means I can gawk at him to my heart’s content.
Luca treats his skin like a canvas, covering it with black, green, and red ink. He once told me every single piece was etched into his flesh either by a close friend, or by a famous tattoo artist at one of the conventions he frequented.
His tattoos seem to dance under the yellow street lights now, rippling as his body strains to maintain his steady, controlled pace.
I remember doing just this when I was a young, impressionable teenager. I’d run to the window at the sound of heavy sneakers pounding the pavement outside. On my luckier days, I’d see Luca outside, his upper body bared for me to see.
Not for the first time, I praise the god who sculpted that body into life. I’m not religious, but damn . . . the strong lines of his body, the ropes of muscles underneath his skin, the curve of his ass . . . Luca could convert a girl into a believer.
I lick my lips, wishing I could lick the salty sweat off his skin instead.
I don’t need to see him from the front to know he still has those glorious six-pack abs on that lean body. And I know his sweatpants hang low enough to expose the V-shaped ridge stretching from his hips down to his bulge, which no doubt is also outlined by the soft fabric.
I imagine myself on my knees, rubbing my face against his package, my cheek brushing over the soft cotton that covers the hot, hard man meat underneath. I’d worship that cock and let him toss me around, do whatever he wants to me, use whichever hole he wants.
Except, Luca’s off-limits.
Yes, my brother’s gone now, and there’s no friendship for me to potentially wreck. But, I don’t need any complications. And I don’t want him to feel like he has to step in and be Peter’s replacement, now that I’m on my own.
If it’s a warm body I need, I can get it elsewhere. I’ve just been so busy making funeral arrangements I haven’t had a chance to try.
I was planning to spend the night researching how security systems work and which companies to call in the morning, but the tingling between my legs demands my attention right now.
The past few days—no, weeks—have been rough. And I need some release.
I can’t get that from Luca. I have very . . . particular tastes now.
No matter how hot it was when Luca screwed eighteen-year-old me, that wouldn’t be enough to scratch this itch.
No, I need something darker. Something more dangerous. I need a bigger thrill to satisfy this craving.
I watch Luca until he disappears into the darkness. I think he might’ve turned his head around to look at me at some point, but that’s probably just my imagination.
Letting the curtain close, I walk back to the couch and make myself comfortable, sprawling back and pulling my legs up onto the cushion.
The browser on my phone displays the Google search results for “veterinary security.” That can wait.
I open a new tab and start to type the URL. As soon as I enter the letter “k,” a bunch of drop-down options appear at the top of the screen. I tap on the top one, and a familiar page loads.
As I write my post, dark desires fill my chest thickly, almost choking me with their intensity. It only makes me hope someone will choke me for real. Just thinking about it makes my core clench. I can feel wetness leaking out of me, pooling in my panties.
I smirk as I click the “submit” button—normal verbiage for websites these days, but it takes on a new meaning here.
A chill runs down my arms.
It’s been so long since I indulged. I’ve actually been clean for a couple of years now, but I guess I don’t have what it takes to deal with my brother’s death and also keep my addiction under control.
Based on past experience, it shouldn’t take long now until I get a response from someone.
I’m not choosy. Anyone will do, as long as he’s willing to act out my fantasy.
Luca
Jesus.
When I installed the monitoring equipment at the clinic, I didn’t expect to stumble upon something like this.
This is a landmine I’m stepping on by accident. This is a nuclear bomb.
It’s not clear yet if it’s going to blow me into pieces, though. I hope it won’t.
But it’s not like I have a choice. There’s no time to think. I have to jump into action now.
I lean forward, closer to my computer screen.
There’s no mistaking it. That’s her. She has a quarter-sized birthmark at the top of her left thigh, and a dark spot at the very top of her lower lips, right on the hood of her clit.
I remember because I must’ve had my face on that pussy for a solid half hour. She tasted so sweet. Also, with her spread on my table like that, I didn’t even have to strain my neck to eat her out.
No doubt about it. That’s Sarah on the screen—her dainty feet, her long legs, her flared hips, her perky tits, and her seductive, full lips. I can’t see the part of her face above those lips, but it’s like I’m staring at Clark Kent’s dumb glasses and wondering, why the fuck haven’t people realized you’re Superman yet?
Holy fucking. . . is she stupid? Why would she put herself at risk like that?
As I pull away from the bright screen, my cock stirs in my boxers, despite the storm raging in my chest.
What the fuck is this?
Am I concerned for a friend’s sister? Am I lusting after an old lover? Am I exhilarated to find a kindred spirit, a fellow broken soul, a damaged, beautiful body for me to ruin?
Yes, yes, and yes.
Talk about confusing.
My heart pounds as hard as it did when I was in the middle of my run. My dick pulses to the same rhythm.
I re-read the text that accompanies the pictures Sarah’s posted.
Username: RealLifeDoll
Sarah’s pretty as a doll, but that’s not what she means here. Not on a site called “KinkChat.”
If that username leaves any doubt, the next couple of lines offer some clarification.
Description: Female Slave
Seeking: Dominant Male
Blood rushes to my cock, making it twitch and strain against cotton. Keeping the monster inside me caged was easy when Peter was still around and Sarah was living in the city. Now that he’s gone, and I find out she needs a master, my self-control is quickly eroding.
I imagine her kneeling in front of me, my fist in her hair while I fuck her face. Or maybe I’d bend her over and fuck her in the ass while she stares at her own reflection in a mirror, confronting her shame. I could also tie her up to my bed posts and repeatedly tease her to the brink of orgasm before leaving her alone, frustrated and helpless.
I can almost hear her begging me to make her come, her voice soaked with desire and desperation.
So many things I could do with a girl—no, a woman—like Sarah.
But . . . no. No. I can’t.
I promised Peter I’d take care of her. And I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean in that way.
City:
State:
At least she’s smart enough not to post her location. With the kind of pictures she’s posted, I’m sure she gets messages from all over the country anyway.
My chest burns, but not the kind I get when I really exert myself during a run. It’s blazing hot, and it makes me want to grab my computer monitor and smash it against the floor. I want to destroy those pictures—but not before I save them to my own memory. I want her nakedness for myself.
What the fuck am I thinking? What is wrong with me?
That’s not the plan. The plan is to keep an eye on her until I make sure Peter’s secret is safe.
I read on.
I’m ready to be your doll if you want me. You can tie me up, shove me down, and do anything you want to me. Push me around, and I’ll worship you. Treat me like an object that exists purely for your pleasure, and everything I am is yours.
I only have one condition. Throw me out after one use. Consider me a disposable sex toy.
Send me a message if you’re interested.
How the fuck am I supposed to just stay still and do nothing when she posts something like that on the Internet for the whole world to see? That’s a literal invitation for any random Joe not just to fuck her, but to fuck her up.
I can’t pretend my outrage has a noble cause, though, because my cock is hard as stone. It’s tenting the front of my boxers.
I want her for myself.
But that wouldn’t be right. The depths of depravity inside me . . . I can’t do those things to Sarah. She says she wants it now, but what if she changes her mind? What if I push her so far over the edge that I permanently damage something inside her?
Sure, maybe it’ll be fine, but what if it won’t?
If I were to inflict that kind of pain on Sarah, I wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt. Peter’s ghost would haunt me for the rest of my life.
Still, I can’t let her do this, can I? It’s dangerous. She could meet an axe murderer. Or more likely, she could meet a sadistic master who goes too far—that’s almost just as bad.