by Renard, Loki
“Tell me everything. Every. Thing,” she emphasizes and repeats, both her hands curling around my forearm and giving it a squeeze and shake. Blaze is a little demon with her dark eyes, half shaved head, her clothes slashed and cut in a stylish way. She’s punk as they come, and today more than ever. Her pants are more absent than they are present. Her hair has enough product in it to be flammable. She has her boots up on the covers, her legs crossed. Blaze isn’t what you might call domesticated. She doesn’t give a shit about anybody’s rules. Not even those Vicious sets in place. He is not a man to be messed with, but she doesn’t care. Flaunting Vicious’ rules just makes this more fun for her.
“What’s there to tell?”
“Have you fucked him yet? I mean, has he fucked you?” I know Vicious is going to be the one doing the fucking in this situation,” she smirks at me.
“No,” I say truthfully. “We haven’t had sex.”
It has been seven days since Vicious grabbed me off the street, saved my life and ruined it at the same time. One week is not nearly enough time to adjust to being the… what am I exactly? Not his girlfriend. Sort of an employee. An employee he makes orgasm on a regular basis. He’s looking after me, and I’m not used to it yet.
“He’s made you cum though, hasn’t he?” Blaze’s red smirk is vicariously carnal.
My blush tells her everything she needs to know. Yes, he has made me cum. He has made me orgasm in the most devious, twisted ways. He has made punishment and discipline synonymous with climax. If Blaze had any idea the things Vicious has done to me, she’d probably explode.
As it is, she lets out a little whoop of excitement. “Oh my god, Kitty. You’re finally getting laid!”
“I am not getting laid. It’s not like that.”
“Yes it is. He wouldn’t be keeping you here in this luxury apartment if he wasn’t going to have sex with you.”
“Well he hasn’t and we…” I splutter to a stop. “It’s not like that.”
“What is it like then? He obviously wants more than just work out of you. Have you given him a blowjob to thank him for saving your ass?”
“No!”
“Ungrateful,” she teases me. “If a man saved my life, I would suck him so good his eyes fell out.”
“That’s good to know, Blaze.”
The man at the door is tall, blonde, and his lips are twisted in a smirk. HIs name is Slick, and he’s Vicious’ partner in crime. If they were a cop pair, Slick would be the good cop. He has natural charm, but he’s no less twisted than Vicious, at least, I’m pretty sure that’s the case. He’s kept it low key, but I’ve learned to sense fucked up instincts in a man. His Nordic good looks have a striking effect on pretty much everyone in his orbit, throwing some people off the scent, but I suspect that in the depths of his heart, Slick might even outshine Vicious in the twisted stakes.
Anyone else might blush at being caught talking about her oral skills, but not Blaze. She smiles broader. “You save my life you’ll find out how good I am.”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he reminds her. Blaze isn’t allowed in Vicious’ apartment. He doesn’t approve of her as a friend and he definitely doesn’t trust her. But Vicious isn’t here right now, and if he’s going to make me live here, then I’m going to have my friends over - as long as they’re game for the consequences.
“What are you? Hall monitor?” Blaze smirks.
She loves giving Slick shit. I think Blaze has developed a crush on him. I can tell because she’s extra obnoxious when he’s around.
“Time to go,” he says. “I let you two have your fun, but Vicious is going to be back soon and…”
“Oh dear,” a deep, English voice drawls from behind Slick’s back. “What a pity if Vicious were to arrive home early and find certain young ladies defying his wishes. Why, that could end up very painful for all involved…”
Slick raises his brows at Blaze and steps aside to reveal Vicious standing behind him.
My stomach drops and does a flip. It’s impossible to describe the full effect he has on me. My blood pressure rises, my pulse charges. It’s like a switch has been flipped somewhere deep inside me. The reasons for that are many, but beginning with the aesthetic, Vicious is tall. He is dark haired and possessed of devastatingly handsome hard features. He has green eyes which light up my soul. The last week with him has turned my world inside out, and still every time I look at him, I can’t quite believe he’s chosen to save me. Right now he’s wearing deep gray slacks and a white shirt open a couple of buttons at the neck. He could have stepped right out of a fashion catalog, especially with the way his displeasure sharpens and hardens his features.
“I’m not here,” Blaze whispers, falling backward and pulling the bed covers over herself.
There’s an element of a juvenile prank to this that I can’t ignore. It’s almost funny, but Vicious doesn’t tolerate immaturity, or pranks for that matter. The last time Blaze got me into trouble like this, I ended up tied to a coffee table and… my pussy quivers at the memory.
“Slick, escort our uninvited guest out,” Vicious says. He’s not looking at Blaze. He’s looking at me. His eyes haven’t left me since he walked in. Vicious has a way of making me feel like I’m the very center of his world. Other women don’t exist. Other people don’t exist. It’s just me and him.
“I’m not going,” Blaze mumbles. “I’m also not here.”
“She wasn’t uninvited. I invited her.”
I speak because I want to save Blaze some trouble, but I know in my heart it isn’t Blaze who is in for it anyway. I’m going to be the one who wears his displeasure.
Blaze manages not to mouth off as she slips out of the far side of the bed, and out of the room, sidling past Vicious as if he’s made of TNT. He still doesn’t pay a single scrap of attention to her. As she and Slick make their exit, he steps into the bedroom and closes the door behind him.
“Disobedience will not be tolerated,” he says, in that bristling English accent which makes his every word elegant. “You know I don’t want that girl here.”
“Well I couldn’t go out and see her, could I? You wouldn’t let me!”
“That’s right, I wouldn’t,” he agrees. “Because she is a bad influence, and worse, a known associate of yours. We are trying to keep you low profile. That means avoiding the people and places you usually frequent. Do I truly need to explain this to you, Kitty?”
He doesn’t. I know he’s right.
“Nossir,” I mumble.
“It’s fortunate you’re barely dressed,” he says. “Strip for your punishment.”
That’s all the warning I get before he begins rolling his shirt sleeves up over his arms, geometric tattoos covering the thick muscular ridges. God. Those words. Those actions. I’m totally at his mercy, and right now I feel as small as I ever have. Vicious is older than me by more than a decade. He is a fully grown man, master of his domain. I am entirely too small and helpless when it comes to him.
“Okay, I know she wasn’t…” I try to start talking my way out of it, knowing that it isn’t going to work.
“Strip,” he repeats curtly. “We have somewhere to be shortly, and I have no intention of leaving this place without thrashing you first.”
“I…”
“STRIP!” He thunders the word, his voice rich with disciplinary intent.
I tremble as I obey. In spite of the raised voice, he is cool and collected. I don’t know if he is actually angry. I don’t see it in his eyes, or detect it in his body. That makes this almost worse. He is doing this because he thinks he needs to, because I have behaved in such a way that he has decided I need another demonstration of his authority. There are so many sides to Vicious. He can be calculated and cool, possessive and aggressive. He can be as much an animal as he can be a man.
A part of me knew this was going to happen the moment Blaze walked through the front door. Maybe even wanted it to. Now, as I peel off my underwear and slip the tank top I h
ad been wearing over my head, I regret the urge to test him.
I should apologize, but it’s too late to say sorry. It’s too late to say anything. He makes a rolling gesture with his finger, indicating that I should lay down on my front. Again, I do as I am told, biting my lower lip to stop potential whimpers of fear.
Being face down allows me to hide myself, but I feel heat flushing across my bottom, a light sweat emitting from my cheeks out of pure fear as I I lie across the bed, my naked body vulnerable to him.
I expect a lecture, but this time he doesn’t bother with words. He slips his belt off, doubles it in his big hands, and puts it to immediate use.
CRACK!
The leather comes down hard, leaves a thick line of painful sensation in its wake. I scream into the duvet as a second lash lands, and then a third. Vicious brings the belt down time and time again, many of the strokes overlapping one another until the entirety of my bottom is a welted mass of heat and pain. His punishment is calculated and harsh and it leaves me gasping for breath. I knew what he was capable of, but he has never treated me this way before, without any tenderness or sexual pleasure to take the edge off the pure discipline. Usually, when I piss him off, I get to cum. Not this time. This time I arch and roll my blazing hips without any of the approval or tenderness he is capable of giving.
A dozen strokes later he tosses the belt down on the bed next to me. When he speaks, his voice is curt and hard.
“Get up and get dressed.”
Vicious
My eyes feast on the stunning bottom wearing my hot red marks. God, what I could do to that sweet little ass, and the soft sex which hides between her thighs. Kitty lowers her head, but I see the hurt in her eyes, and more than a little confusion. It’s because I have spoiled her.
She knows better than to sneak her friends into what is supposed to be a secure location like some teenage brat. And she knows that we have important business to attend to. I will not spend my time coddling her if she is going to make such reckless decisions, to challenge my authority and think that it will always end in orgasm.
I am sure her ass hurts, but the true cruelty to both of us is that I did not spread her cheeks and plunge my cock into her pussy. I know she is aroused by the rough disciplinary treatment. Almost as much as I am giving it to her. This is a cruelty to us both, and my cock is rock hard inside my pants, but sometimes one must deny one’s pleasure in the short term for long term gain.
Maybe my methods are barbaric. Or old fashioned. But they are a great deal kinder than most of the discipline which gets handed out on the streets.
I go to the wardrobe and change my shirt. Behind me, I’m aware of her sniffling on the bed.
“Get. Up.” I snap again. I have no time for her to feel sorry for herself.
Her feet hit the floor. She drags herself almost pathetically across the floor and begins to dress herself. If she’s trying to make me feel guilty, she’s nearly succeeding, but I will not give in to that feeling.
I have killed for her once. I will not tolerate her risking her own life, and those of others because she believes that she is still in a battle of wills. The battle is long won. Sometimes she needs reminders of that, and of what will happen if she tries to reignite it.
“What do you want me to wear?”
Do I detect attitude in that tone? I turn around and give her a look. She’s standing there, eyes wet with tears not quite cried, arms folded over her breasts. My poor little kitty.
“It doesn’t matter. Your clothing will be changed when we get there. You're getting a complete makeover.”
She lets out a little grunt of disdain. Brave for a girl who must know how much a second thrashing will hurt over the first one she has already received.
“What was that?” I ask the question smoothly, wondering if I should bother doing up the buttons of my shirt sleeves.
She’s defying me again. I can see it happening before she even does it. There are certain cues which are dead giveaways when Kitty decides she doesn’t want to obey me. Her chin tilts up a fraction. Her hands go behind her back. She covers her ass literally, though it never does her any good. Her eyes narrow and her face reddens.
“I don’t want a makeover. I like how I look.”
“Your life is in danger. You are being hunted. You’ve taken on new identities before. It’s time to take on a new one. There is no reason for this defiance.”
“I take on new identities that I choose. Not ones that you choose.”
“What difference does it make?”
We both know the difference. Kitty is still unaccustomed to being mine. She’s come to accept that she needs my protection, but her obedience still needs work and her defiance needs to be obliterated.
“Do you need another thrashing?”
“No!”
“You’re going the right way for one.”
She presses her lips together, grabs something out of the closet at random. She pulls a little black dress over her head, and in an instant, she is transformed. Funny how a woman can look so put together in a matter of seconds with the right dress. She has gone from being a petulant little brat nude for my punishment, to looking as if she’s about to ask me which account I’d like my deposit to be put into.
“You might want to put underwear on.”
“Sadist,” she mutters under her breath as she picks a pair of panties out.
She’s cute. But there’s no way in hell I’m letting her know that.
2
Kitty
“Oh. My. God. You are STUNNING!” The stylist emits a screech at a pitch only dogs can hear.
It’s a heck of a greeting as I enter the salon Vicious has picked out for the makeover. He says this is to keep me safe, that I need to learn the art of disguise. I say this is another way he puts his mark on me. By the time he is done with me, I don’t know how much of me will actually be left.
The trip over here was not pleasant. Sitting on a belted ass hurts, physically, as well as in terms of pride. I glanced over at Vicious a few times, trying to work out if I hated him as much as I possibly could, or if there were still a few more grams of loathing to leech from the situation. I couldn’t quite decide, and now our destination distracts me from my pouting.
I expected a high-end Manhattan salon, but we’re at a smaller place in Brooklyn, a little hole in the wall hair dressing place which is dominated by a striking woman whose blown up headshot is on the wall, beneath which the words HEAD STYLIST AND PROPRIETRIX are printed in large lettering.
“Kitty, this is Coco. Coco, Kitty,” Vicious makes the introductions, but apparently, not to her liking.
“Coco Philomena Ariana Alta Vista Shantay,” the woman introduces herself, extending her hand with a clattering of bangles. “At your pleasure. You can call me Coco, or Ms Shantay if you’re nasty.” She makes ‘shantay’ and ‘nasty’ rhyme.
Coco is an easy six foot tall with near iridescent platinum hair and a voice which is halfway between an angle grinder and a spokesmodel. She has grace, presence, and a faint air of stale cigarettes. Her eyes are blue and bloodshot, ringed with thick mascara and an eyeliner wing big enough to provide lift to a jumbo jet. It looks like she has made liberal use of the all cosmetics which are hers to command, to the point I am a little concerned for the fate of my own face. She’s wearing tight pants which conform to the length of her well-shaped, rather long legs, and a tank top so low cut Jesus would avert his eyes.
I tear my eyes from the vision in front of me to try to take the greater picture in. The walls of the salon are cluttered with snapshots and sashes. There’s something ever so slightly out of the ordinary about the entire affair. Things start to click into place when I see Coco displayed in a sequined gown, wearing a crown and sash and holding a scepter while surrounded by half dressed muscular men in very short leather shorts. She’s a beauty queen of the alternate kind.
This is what Vicious thinks I need? Maybe if I was in the running for Ms Fabulous NYC, but I tho
ught this was supposed to be serious.
“Vicious! She’s so cute. Ugh! I just want to eat her little face right off and feed her to the rats!” Coco’s squeal implies that this is supposed to be a compliment.
Vicious smiles. “We want the works.”
“Oh yes, absolutely, don’t you worry about a thing. We are going to make this girl fierce!” Coco smiles broadly and extends her hands toward me. Gripping me by the shoulders, she draws me toward a hairdresser’s wash basin. I find myself leaning back prone in the chair, my head being aggressively massaged, follicles foaming in the water as pendulous yet firm breasts get ever closer to rubbing in my face.
Coco keeps up a stream of chatter the whole time, most of it utterly banal, none of it making any sense. Occasionally Vicious’ deeper rumble carries to me, but I can’t hear him properly, not until I am pulled upright, my head swathed in a towel, and guided over to a chair.
I may as well be a doll for the attention that is paid to me personally as Coco’s long fingernails run through my hair, her eyes locked on me critically as she turns my head from side to side like a plastic surgeon working out which bits to lop off.
“Okay, now I’m thinking short,” she says. “Short means you can wear wigs if you need to, and they’ll sit nicely. We could try bald…”
“Hair to her shoulders,” Vicious interrupts. He’s taken a seat nearby and is pretending not to pay attention to proceedings, but those emerald eyes are locked on me.
“Do I get a say in this at all?”
“No.” The answer comes from both of them at the same time.
“You gotta trust me, sweetheart” Coco says. “This hair, it’s too long on you. It draws your face down. Makes you look like a horse, and you gotta cute face. You want to be a pretty pony, not a horse.”
These compliment-insults are starting to get under my skin.
“Okay, so, that’s rude.”
“Settle down, Kitty,” Vicious rumbles from nearby.
Coco smiles at me in the mirror, flashing big white teeth. “I’m not meaning to be rude sweetheart. You’re so lucky to be so young! You’ve got your whole life ahead of you to be washed out by your hair color.”