Beautiful Things Evil People Do

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  Not even craft.

  She lifts her hand to swat at my cheek, but I swiftly back away. “Not going home with me now, Bella.”

  She gasps, shocked. “You know my name…”

  “I’m not deaf, nor am I dumb,” I sternly reply, catching her off guard. “Just disciplined.”

  I walk to the car and drive to my hotel where I will stay the night. I reserved it for two, but after Bella’s outburst, I doubt I return tomorrow. She’ll be lucky if I don’t call up Tilda and complain about the harassment. Not every Dominant who walks into the club wants to get their rocks off.

  The subs have a choice, and so do I.

  My hotel room is an upgrade, but not a suite. I order room service and take a quick shower before the food arrives. I watch the news while eating my medium-rare steak and scanning the latest on the dark web.

  “What the fuck?” I mutter, setting down my fork and wiping my mouth. I pull the machine closer and reread the title of the ad—thinking my eyes must be messing with me. Rapist Wanted. I click the link and stroke my chin. “What the fuck are you thinking?”

  I grab my phone and call my brother. “Hello! How is Azi—roner?”

  “Did you see this ad on Gray Market?”

  “You mean the twenty-something wanting to get alley ripped?”

  “Yeah,” I say, reading the ad over again. “Any idea who she is?”

  “Not a fucking clue,” Axel replies. “I can dig if you want me to. You going to do the deed for her, bro?”

  I might.

  But I don’t need to confirm that with Axel. He knows what a bad guy I am. “Nah, I got this,” I contend, looking up her profile. “Do you think she is serious?”

  “In Northern Cali?” he quizzes. “Anything is possible.”

  Scanning over her name—D4RK4NG3L—I snicker. “How is life on the farm?”

  “Disgusting,” he groans. “I’m hiring some of the Ag boys from the high school to do this shit. I don’t know why we don’t sell the livestock, have an estate sale, and put this place on the auction block.”

  I type away and casually mention, “Because we spent all of our childhood there.”

  “And you’re a sentimental schmuck.”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I cackle, studying her profile and contemplating the best way to break into her account. “As I ponder violating this poor girl.”

  “Softy rapist.”

  “I will be keying your car for that one when I get home,” I joke, chuckling. “I’ll make sure the lines are nice and straight. You can have them filled with 24-karat gold paint.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Trust me. If Dad ends up selling the business off, you don’t want me to be anything but…” I suddenly stop as a feminine voice fills my ear with more than I needed to hear—my disgusting baby brother is getting his dick washed in her mouth while on the phone with me. “You enjoy the skank of the night. I am out. Bai, perv!”

  “Later, J.”

  I lean back and stare at D4RK4NG3L’s profile. It could be bait, but Gray is reasonably good about cross-checking. Still, it’s not worth the risk. “Who the fuck are you? And why are you so stupid?”

  I send a text message to Wang. “Where is Theodore Dower’s son’s wedding at?”

  “At their farm, about an hour out of San Francisco,” he quickly replies. “Why?”

  “When is it?”

  “Four weeks.”

  “Send an RSVP,” I peck with determination. “J.A. Monroe will be in attendance.”

  “Cool. So will Wendlin Rile. Champagne servers…”

  “You. Are. So. Bad.”

  I set down my phone and grab my laptop as I walk over to the bed. I click off the light and hit the link for the live feeds. I scan over the names until I find Christy.

  The night will end up costing a pretty penny, but I won’t have to wake up with a random girl asking a thousand questions and hoping for more…

  Because that will never come.

  Unlike me—who is about to come several times—with Christy writhing naked on my screen. With obscene thoughts of my whip lashing skin, my hand fists around my dick.

  3

  Lazy Days

  Echo

  By late April, I expected my research to be completed.

  It wasn’t, and I ended up writing The Paper on Women’s Fantasy of Sexual Assaults, an in-depth case study of giving up.

  My professors loved it.

  I adhered to the basic formulas; up to half or more of women’s sexual fantasies involved being taken in some form.

  With the burden of guilt and shame during fantasy dub-con/non-con scenes placed on the male, the female is finally free to explore her sexuality. Few women wanted to admit it, let alone discuss the fantasy versus reality element.

  Blah. Blah. Blah.

  The paper was a disheartening personal let down, but I managed to get an A and planned to graduate with honors in May.

  I was putting in extra hours at the shop, and soon, I was promoted to maintaining inventory, shipping, and receiving. I wasn’t responsible for stocking but ensuring the guys who did the stocking handled the bottles with care.

  I was about to complete a Masters in Psych with a Bachelor in Gender Studies, and yet I was counting wine corks and printing shipping labels.

  I slipped into a bit of a mental slump, but I needed the job, which paid remarkably well, to pay for the six years of college loans. Nonetheless, I was quickly approaching the point where I needed to determine whether or not going for my Doctorate was even worth it.

  Another two years at the wine store, I—Dr. Abigail Maines—would end up managing the damn thing.

  Selia was beyond busy, taking an apprenticeship at a physical therapy place, along with keeping a few clients that she did personal training for. All-in-all, life was good, and while I hadn’t forgotten about the ad, I didn’t fret over it.

  As for the naughty little bit of words, I hadn’t gotten any stalkers—at least that I noticed—but plenty of anonymous-no-way-I’m-revealing-myself likes on the site and a few personal emails, mostly asking—“Are you serious?”

  Immediately, those went to the trash.

  If they had to ask, they didn’t have it in them to know.

  I received two from irate sexual assault victims—and I do mean victim by the wording of their letters—and one from a survivor.

  Through a series of emails, I discovered she was a former student bullied by her gang of assailants. She praised my efforts and wished me good luck, but not before informing me of all of her fantasies centering around that night.

  She was brutally hurt, but she admitted to craving the attention she received during those hours. Her reality had evolved to the primary subject of her fantasies. I wanted to further our conversation, but after her last email, she never responded again.

  I followed up but still nothing.

  She proved the case and point of the problem—expressed control becomes like a drug—and cravings begin, which can never be duplicated.

  It wasn’t Stockholm Syndrome, but a replication to seize the loss of control, thereby regaining control.

  She didn’t want to befriend her attackers or meet them again, but the feelings of free-falling generated by their will over her body proved insurmountable by her psyche.

  She longed for the loss of control.

  Her answer was found in the confines of subservience, under a Master, as a house slave, but that did little to provoke my thought.

  Our correspondence ceased around the time I received another email—“Do you want to be a house slave?”

  I didn’t want to be a submissive.

  Submissive equated the delinquent word of consent—and it indeed was delinquent to me. I didn’t want to negotiate a contract, define limits, or discover my triggers to avoid them. I wanted to be pushed—hard, unapologetically for hours.

  The sting of my teeth bites my lip as I watch the porn video. There are plenty of good ones out there, but I�
�m a bit particular.

  I don’t like the circle jerk assaults in the bathroom or girls who look like they put every ounce of makeup on that they own. I prefer the innocent victims—the unassuming, shy ones—the ones who look like me. I also don’t necessarily need a guy buffed to the max on steroids.

  A penetrating pair of eyes will work just fine.

  The rustle at the front door causes me to jump and drop the vibrator against my ass cheek. I pause the video. My bedroom door is open since Selia is gone for the night at a family gathering in San Francisco.

  All of the safety latches on the door are fastened, including the deadbolt, but I hear the key flip over the mechanics with a distinguishable thud.

  I wonder why she is home when I hear her try to open the door. “Hold on. I’m coming.”

  I was about to, too.

  In my oversized shirt, I toss on my panties and rush for the door. “I’m so sorry, Selia.” I spot the door open a few inches with only the two chains securing it. I peer out the crack and see nothing. No signs of Selia. No signs of anyone. “Selia?” I call out, shutting the door and throwing the deadbolt. I run back to the bedroom and grab my phone from the nightstand. I check her GPS location—she’s in San Francisco. “Fuck…”

  This is it.

  Slowly, I venture closer to the sliding glass door in my room, which connects to the balcony. I glance down and drop to my knees, trying to catch a sneak peek beneath the curtain. I don’t make a sound. I don’t touch the fabric. My heart races when I open my eyes to see nothing but the black frame.

  I anticipate having some horrific attacker behind the curtain, trapped behind the glass of our second-story apartment. He’ll smile wide, break his way in, and attack me. I wipe my clammy hands against my shirt, drying them.

  I never thought I would feel so…anxious.

  On edge.

  Fucking scared as hell.

  ‘Just do it, Abs,’ I think to myself as I rip back the curtain and see nothing but a few plants, chairs, and our small orb-shaped barbecue grill. I pivot fast and sprint back to the front door, madder than hell.

  I swing off the chains and pop the deadbolt before stepping outside. There are three other apartment doors on the landing. One is empty. One belongs to Spencer. And the last one is occupied by a little old lady, Lillian Nakamura, who stashes about ten cats in her overly decorated space.

  It’s lovely inside, really.

  She invited me in for tea once, but I know, she is in bed at this hour—this hour being nine at night. She is a person instilled with routine, gets up at three-forty-five, has a cup of matcha, runs either on her treadmill or the perimeter of the complex for an hour and a half. She also goes to bed by eight every evening.

  I look over the back rail, which leads to green space. There are plenty of lights, but no one is around. I spin and run into a strange man. “… Hello?”

  “Hey, girl,” he says, sounding as gay as the day is long. His turquoise suit is flamboyant and clashes horribly with the orange shirt. Style isn’t always sexual preference specific. “How are you doing?”

  I don’t bother with a greeting as I point. “If you’re looking for Spencer, he’s in that apartment.”

  Carefully, I tiptoe down the cement steps to the parking lot. Maybe Selia forgot her phone in San Francisco and had an armful of items. It wouldn’t be the first time the postman piled her brother’s packages from Hawaii in the mail room.

  I scout the lot in search of her car. She doesn’t have the reserved space under the awning; that is mine. But her older sports car is missing. There is nothing odd going on. A family across the way is piling into their minivan, probably going for ice cream. A few couples are out holding hands and walking their dogs. A car zooms fast toward the gate.

  With the building surrounded by lawn on two sides, I decide to go back inside. I’m halfway up the steps when I hear the rev of an engine in the lot. I turn around to see a motorcycle zipping past. Again, not unusual. A few of the collegiate boys have them.

  On the landing, I notice the apartment door ajar next to Miss Lily’s place.

  That’s odd.

  I cringe at the sight of my door left wide open. “I’m so stupid,” I whisper as I overhear the moans of Spencer and the man. “Well, at least one of us is getting lucky.”

  I jump at the sound of Lily’s door opening behind me. “What was all that racket?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone was next door to me, banging on the wall, and woke me up!” she angrily yells. “I called security!”

  “It wasn’t me,” I mutter. “I thought Selia was back.”

  “Damn, kids need to find something better to do besides ransacking empty units!”

  Sneaking inside of my apartment, I mutter, “Goodnight, Lily.”

  “Sleep well, Echo.”

  I quietly close the door and press my back against the frame. My heart pumps on the verge of exploding. I worry he may have snuck inside. I click on all of the lights and scurry from room to room, frightfully checking in closets and peering with worry under the beds.

  “No one is here,” I whisper on my knees as my phone rings, and I hop up. “Hello?”

  “Hi!” my mother says. “Just wanted to let you know we’ll be there for your graduation. We reserved our flight.”

  “That’s great, Mom!”

  “You sound tired,” she sympathetically remarks. “Did I wake you? I figured you would still be up with the time difference.”

  “Yeah,” I excuse. “I am up.”

  My parents live in Florida since leaving the family property in Alabama to my older brother when his longtime girlfriend wound up pregnant. They got married, and my parents gave him the house and land. She lost the baby, and two years later, they divorced.

  Now, Brandon has an enormous bachelor pad and a drinking problem. My younger sister still lives with my parents near Tallahassee.

  “Call me back tomorrow,” my mother replies. “Get some rest, Abigail.”

  I drop the phone on the nightstand and shut my computer. I double-check the door and click off all of the lights before flopping on the bed. My mother is right about one thing; I am exhausted.

  In the middle of the bed, I stare up at the ceiling. My skin tingles with nervousness as I tuck my fingers inside my panties and touch myself. I’m soaked by the fear as I arch and moan. My fingers clench the sheet as I hold out as long as possible.

  I think of waking to find him standing at the foot of my bed, staring at my bare skin, and stroking his cock steadily and slowly. He falls on top of me, pinning my hands with one of his, and guiding his dick to my wetness.

  He thrusts inside with ferocity.

  The fantasy is all about his wants, needs, and desires through every buck and pulse of his rhythm.

  I don’t fight because he feels too good.

  With my fingers circling my hardened bud, I need more and pull open the nightstand to grab the thick dildo. I shove it deep inside and close my eyes to pretend it is him.

  My fingers fall from my clit, hoping to extend my release a bit longer. I reach under my shirt and twist my nipple as I fuck my pussy with—his hard cock—taking and claiming.

  What woman hasn’t wished for more hands at this point?

  I’d have fingers on my clit, up my ass, and on both tits. I might even have a couple gagging my throat or cinched around my neck, choking me.

  More. More. More.

  My mind is on fire with thoughts of his jacket zipper sawing against my nipple with each thrust. The burn of my pinch comes on strong, and I drop my hands low. One hand rubs my clit, and the other pumps the cock without remorse.

  “I’m going to come…”

  And he’ll say, “Admit how much you like my hard cock, baby girl. Say it. Let me hear you say it.”

  “I love your dick…give it to me…take me…please,” I beg between pants. “Use me like your slut. Fuck me like your whore.”

  I’m going…to come…


  Within minutes, I erupt, gushing on my hand as tears drip from the corners of my eyes onto the pillow, and I whisper, “I saved it all for you. I saved it all for you.”

  I thought I had him. I thought he wanted me. I thought he would stay forever.

  I pull the fake plastic cock from my body and roll over with a nauseating feeling. And I cry myself to sleep, alone, again.

  4

  The ABCD’s of Me

  Echo

  The next morning, I rock back and swivel in the chair with my feet up on the desk as I ponder the ad. I tap the mouse, hovering over the EDIT button, with my toe. The cursor blinks on the screen at the letter R.

  I finish my coffee and mumble, “… Why won’t anyone respond?”

  Sitting up, I set down my cup and let my fingers hit the keys. I write what I want him to be.

  Considering my additional details, I shrug and pick up the phone to call Selia. “Do you have a minute?”

  “We’re on our way to an art exhibit,” she happily informs.

  “Just listen,” I warn with excitement. “Don’t say anything.”

  RAPIST WANTED

  Vibrant collegiate student, 20-something adult female seeks any race/age/profession of male for a sexual encounter.

  You are a:

  Dominant. Alpha. Male.

  I am a:

  Blonde. Hazel eyes. Looks like the All-American girl next door, cheerleader type. Physically active, runs the park loop in the evening. Social gatherings downtown every weekend. Works at The Village. Physical passed. No drugs/diseases. Psychological screenings passed.

  Obviously, due to the nature of the request, no references are available.

  If interested…

  If interested, please do not contact. Find me.

  “Get rid of the double if interested…”

  “I know, I know! Stop editing me!” I rebuke. “I was thinking and typing at the same time, but how does it make you feel?”

  “That’s kind of quirky, but you’re still fucking crazy,” she giggles. “But I mean, what could it hurt?”