by Bryan Smith
Alicia didn’t like that.
Not at all.
This house was a few very small steps removed from being a prison. She was here against her will, and she couldn’t leave. The stark reality of it shook her. She wished she’d probed King for personal information when she’d had the chance. They’d all been too wrapped up in their own problems to give him much thought, but it suddenly seemed very important to know who he was and what he did. Why, for instance, did he live in such isolation? He was a man of obvious wealth, given the size of his home and the fine furnishings in evidence throughout its interior, but how did he generate the money?
But the isolation bothered her more than the mystery of his wealth.
A person with certain inclinations, a fondness for the taboo things civilized society shunned, would find it easy to indulge those appetites here, far from the prying eyes of law enforcement and media.
A disturbing thought sent a chill through Alicia. He could kill people and get away with it. Take the case of Alicia and her friends, for instance. Days had passed since they’d communicated with anyone back home. Nobody knew where they were, a situation exacerbated by the unplanned detour from the interstate and the subsequent bewildering path they’d taken through the winding back roads. If anything happened to them, how would anyone ever find them?
The answer was obvious.
No one ever would find them.
Fear galvanized Alicia. She got out of bed, pulled on a white robe, and went to the window that overlooked the front yard. Ground lights faintly illumined the driveway and front porch. The burgundy Accord was a rich red in the semidarkness. A black Bentley was parked behind it. The elegant luxury car hadn’t been there before, and the sight of it made Alicia frown.
The frown deepened when she realized the night sky was clear and the ground below was drier than Death Valley.
What the hell happened to the inclement weather? she wondered.
She was contemplating this when she heard the sound.
Shrill but abrupt, it might have been a scream. A woman’s scream. Alicia spun away from the window and went to the bedroom door. She placed an ear to the door, held her breath, and waited to hear the sound again, but the only thing she heard was her heart kicking into overdrive.
Warring factions of her mind debated.
That was a scream.
No, you’re imagining things.
She hoped she’d imagined it.
Then the sound was repeated.
Alicia was propelled by instinct, with no regard for her own safety. She cinched the robe shut around her with the sash, pulled the bedroom door open, and stepped into the dimly lit hallway.
Which way?
The next scream, longer in duration and more anguished, provided the answer. She went left, her bare feet scampering across the cold floor. The sound grew louder and was punctuated with sobs. Though there were no words, something in the tonal quality was recognizable. One of her friends was making that sound. She came to a stop outside a room several doors down from her own, grasped the doorknob, started to turn it-
-and hesitated.
Karen was on the other side of this door. Something horrendous was happening to her. Alicia wanted to come to her friend’s rescue, but the mystery of the situation gave her a moment’s pause.
She was weaponless.
Karen wailed again.
Fuck it.
Her bare hands would have to suffice.
She turned the knob and stepped into the room. She was several feet inside before her mind registered the reality of the insane thing she was seeing.
A previously ordinary wall composed of drywall and paint had been flipped around to reveal manacles set in stone. Karen was suspended above the ground in these, her legs and arms spread apart in a Christ-like pose. A neck bracket kept her head flat against the wall. She saw Alicia and sobbed.
Ms. Wickman’s whip hand paused in mid-lash, and she turned around to greet Alicia with a wide-eyed grin of pleasure. “Why, it’s your little Negro friend. Come on in, dear. We don’t discriminate here.”
Alicia wanted desperately to take the old bat’s whip and insert it firmly up her tight fucking ass. She would have done it, too, if not for the specter of the thing crouched at the end of the bed.
Dark, matted fur covered its foul-smelling flesh. The thing looked at her, and the enormous nostrils at the end of its long snout flared. A rumbling snort emanated from somewhere deep within it. Its mouth opened, leathery lips peeling away from gleaming rows of razor-sharp fangs.
It growled at her.
And loped off the bed.
Alicia wilted, the sense of righteous fury spiraling out of her like dirty water down a storm drain. She backed away, but her shaking legs betrayed her, and she tumbled numbly to the floor. The thing loomed over her, dripping saliva on her face.
Too late, she believed.
Monsters exist, she thought.
They really do.
And I’m just another goddamn dead pragmatist.
A spine-scraping sound sputtered out of its hideous mouth.
Lupine laughter.
Alicia fainted.
Dream had somehow known there would be no drawn out process of seduction. The chemistry between them was so powerful, their desire so obvious, that an unspoken conclusion was reached-they would dispense with the niceties, forgoing even the merest pretense of accelerated courtship, and get right to the fun part, the enthusiastic exploration of each other’s body.
Even so, she was shocked by just how swiftly this developed. There were a handful of one-night stands in her past, though not nearly as many as other people believed, but she hadn’t fallen into bed with any of them quite as hastily.
She supposed she should feel bad about it.
Perhaps feel cheapened, an easy lay.
But she didn’t care.
Not now.
And maybe never.
Dream screamed into the mattress.
She moaned. “Oh … God …”
Her face was pressed sideways against the tangled bedsheets. A sheen of sweat covered her sun-brown body. She panted. Strands of blond hair fell into her open mouth, and she spit them out automatically, not thinking about it. Her fists knotted handfuls of bedsheet. She cried out again as another precise thrust pushed her forward. She turned her mouth into the mattress and loosed another muffled scream. Her knees wobbled on the edge of the bed, but King’s hands were firm at her waist, holding her in place.
He stood poised behind her, rigid behind her upturned ass.
Making her wait again.
“Please … ”she breathed.
So he gave it to her again, one more swift, brutal shove. She felt faint. White light crowded the edges of her vision. She was sure the next thrust of his cock would rupture her vaginal walls, maybe pierce her uterus. He was that endowed. That powerful. It was incredible. No man she’d ever had could compare. It was like being fucked by a god. Each stroke was like an exorcism, banishing forever the ghosts of Dan Bishop and Chad Robbins, rendering them meaningless. He earned her adoration for that feat alone. He looped some of her blond hair in a hand and pulled her head back.
He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “What would you do for me, sweet Dream?”
She struggled to form coherent words. “Any… anything … you want. …”
He pulled her straight back and his other hand, so muscled and strong, roamed over her hanging breasts, pinching her nipples, squeezing. “Would you kill for me?”
He arched up into her and tears rolled down her face. “Yes.”
She meant it as she said it. It was insanity. It was sinful. It was wrong. A part of her even felt an echo of shame. Later, when she was no longer under the spell of Eros, the memory of the exchange would horrify her. That didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered. All she cared about was this extraordinary thing he was doing to her.
Because it was extraordinary, of that there was no doubt.
Dream c
ould think of no legitimate comparison with anyone from her past. The whole experience was a series of erotic revelations, exploding epiphanies of carnality. She’d been fucked a variety of ways by her former lovers. Gently. Roughly. Passionately. She’d had beautiful experiences, indifferent experiences, even some fairly exotic experiences. King was a different species of lover altogether, a man for whom the word “exotic” seemed barely adequate. No word was adequate. He used his organ to manipulate her, punish her, and she loved it. It wasn’t like making love, with that term’s connotations of intimacy and rhythmic, gentle coupling.
It was just fucking, proffering herself as an object for his pleasure. And being extravagantly, acutely pleasured in return. It was as if she existed only to perform this act. There was something dehumanizing about that, a depersonalization.
She loved that, too.
Losing herself.
It was raw, animalistic, primal.
She didn’t want it ever to end.
He pulled out of her, relinquished her hair, and flipped her over. She spread her legs wide, and he climbed on top of her. She ground her teeth and ripped the flesh on his back with her nails as he reentered her.
His voice was hoarse. “Will you kill that black bitch for me, Dream?”
Her mouth opened wide.
She couldn’t say anything. She was entranced by the sight of his magnificently muscled torso looming above her. The way it looked, the pecs and biceps flexing as he moved against her, was beautiful. So fucking beautiful.
He stopped moving. “Answer me, Dream.”
She cleared mucus from her throat. “Yes.”
What?
How could she say such a thing, even during the altered state of consciousness induced by lust? It was awful. She was troubled, in a detached way, that he was even asking her such creepy questions. He couldn’t mean them literally. He had to know she would never hurt her friends. She knew, though, that some people got off in strange ways. Asphyxiation, for instance. Slapping. Biting. Bondage. This was just his version of that.
His kink.
She decided there was no harm in playing along.
He slid slowly in and out of her. His brow furrowed and his mouth twitched. She loved the way he groaned and twisted his neck. He was so turned on. Being able to do that to him thrilled her, heightened her own already elevated state of arousal.
“And what about the Asian slut?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes. His voice seemed far away. “Would you slit her throat, Dream?” His head arched back. “Would you drink her blood for me?”
She felt it coming.
Saw the muscles in his shoulders tensing.
Her eyes went wide with anticipation.
His voice was barely audible. “Say it, Dream.”
“Yes!” she cried. “I’d drink her blood.”
He opened his eyes.
And smiled.
Then his body spasmed against hers, rocking the bed, threatening to push her through the mattress. She locked her legs around him and held on for dear life. It went on far longer than any normal male orgasm should. When his body finally stopped pistoning and settled on top of her, she felt the way she imagined champion bull riders must feel at the end of a grueling tournament.
Her voice sounded frail when she said, “Oh my God.”
He rolled off her and beckoned her to the head of the bed. She felt weak, enervated, but she managed somehow, curling her small, toned body around his muscular frame. Their bodies meshed perfectly together, like two halves of a whole. Dream realized she was smiling. She knew why.
Who wouldn’t smile after having the best sex of their life?
It was true.
She had never felt this drained, this completely satisfied, or more inextricably linked to a partner. She didn’t think anything in her life had ever made her feel this good. No food, no emotional experience, no professional accomplishment-nothing. It was nice beyond words to finally feel fully alive, to not hurt, to not want to die. The suicidal impulses were quiet again, and she felt their absence like the lifting of a heavy physical burden. She suspected they were only lurking somewhere in a dark corner of her psyche, biding their time until she was vulnerable again, but that was okay. They wouldn’t trouble her while she was in the arms of this amazing man.
She traced a finger along the edge of his rib cage. “Mmm, I want to do that again. …”
He chuckled. “As you wish. …”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh, shit, no, not now.”
He was smiling. “Why not?”
She sighed, her face flush with perfect contentment. “I don’t think I could survive another round of… that… so soon.” She kissed his chest. “You’re … my God, there’s no word for you … you’re like nothing else on earth.”
He laughed. “You’re right about that, Dream.”
Dream rolled her eyes. He had a healthy ego. Well, what else would she expect? Any man who could do the things he did had to be brimming with confidence. A lot of guys out there came on like God’s gift, but Ed here was the real deal. He knew it, too, which was sickening on one level, but also pretty thrilling.
She sprinkled his chest with soft, slow kisses. She was content for the moment to enjoy a period of serene afterglow. And what a wonderful place to wallow in postcoital bliss. The bed was massive, big enough for an orgy. The soft feather mattress was deliciously pliant under her, creating an illusion of being adrift on the open sea. A fire crackled in the fireplace, warming them and providing the room’s only illumination. The flickering flames looked far away, like a campfire on a distant shore. A marble bust of Alexander the Great sat on an ornate pedestal next to the fireplace. The spacious room was enormous, bigger than many luxury apartments in their entirety. As in the living room downstairs, bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes she supposed were ancient and valuable. The hardwood floor was dotted with throw rugs; they looked hand-loomed, the work of artisans of various ethnicities. French doors opened onto a long balcony, which overlooked a panorama of mountain and trees that would be beautiful by daylight.
It was just heavenly, a wondrous sanctuary from a coarse world.
She thought it might be very nice to stay here forever. The notion should have been alarming. How smart could it be to consider that level of commitment to a person she’d known only hours? She knew what Alicia’s answer to that would be.
Shit.
Thinking of Alicia was a jarring dose of reality. She’d managed to keep the memory of King’s kinky interrogation at bay for several minutes, but now the perverse words resonated in her head, making her skin crawl. She turned her head to gaze into King’s dark, soulful eyes. “Ed … can I make a request?”
He ran a hand through her hair. “Of course.”
Be like Alicia, she thought.
Get right to the point.
She sighed. “I loved everything you did to me. I loved surrendering my will to you, letting you have your way with me, and you can have me again any time you want, any way you want, as much as you want, but, please, don’t make me say that sick shit about my friends again. That was awful.”
A flicker of some indiscernible emotion passed over his face. “Was it?”
Dream nodded. “Yes. Hey, I don’t care what you’re into, Ed. Any kind of freaky shit you like, cool, go for it. I’m yours to do with as you wish.”
Hearing the words replay in her mind, she shuddered-yet she knew they were true.
She took a deep breath and continued. “I only ask that you leave my friends out of it, and that you not make me say things that offend my heart.”
His arms encircled her, drawing her closer. “Then I will honor your wishes. Your willingness to surrender yourself to me is humbling, but it is profoundly unnecessary. I don’t seek your submission.”
An odd flicker of disappointment made Dream frown. “You don’t?”
He smiled. “No. Quite the opposite. I’ll tell you
something I believe, Dream. I believe your arrival here was no accident of fate. I believe destiny brought you here. Your destiny. My destiny.” He laid a hand upon her face and stroked her cheek. His gaze never wavered as he said, “It’s like a fairy tale, Dream, though not of the sanitized, storybook variety. I’m a King. King of this place.” His arm swept away from her in an all-inclusive gesture she supposed was meant to indicate his home and the surrounding mountain region. “But I was a lonely King, A tired, sad old King.
A King who had grown weary of life, weary of existence itself. Then, on a dark night full of magic, a miracle happened, a Queen arrived at the King’s door.”
Dream swallowed hard. It was hard not to be entranced by King’s words. What woman wouldn’t enjoy being likened to a fairy-tale queen?
She smiled. “But how can a King be a King without subjects to rule?”
The vaguest wisp of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, but there are subjects. A great many of them, in fact. I want you to take a trip with me, Dream. A great journey. Are you up to that?”
She nodded, murmured against his chest.
“Good.” He kissed her mouth. “Now I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to close your eyes, Dream. Close them and imagine yourself far away from here. Envision yourself floating on a cloud, weightless, insubstantial, a free spirit soaring high above the earth. Glory in that freedom, Dream, revel in it.”
She closed her eyes.
She listened to his voice, let herself be captivated by the imagery it described.
At first what she was experiencing was very similar to the kind of visualizations therapists had tried on her as a way to reduce stress. Her mind filled with an image like the one King described. She was high above the ground, soaring through the clouds over East Tennessee. She was a nude figure, a winged goddess, an image worthy of fantasy tales. It was nice. Soothing. Relaxing. A great way to escape the mess she’d made of her life. And King’s droning, sensuous voice only magnified the sense of exhilaration. Still, she was always aware of it as an exercise-while she swooped over mountains in her mind she nonetheless remained conscious of the mattress beneath her, of King’s arm around her, of the shifting of logs in the fireplace.