Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  On the highway, I shifted my baby into fifth gear and let loose. Don’t you just love cars? Depending on your mood, ride them slow or hard, there ain’t gonna be complainin’, not even when you trade her in for a for a newer, younger model.

  Carina’s family had a dwelling on the North Shore, about a forty-minute drive from Boston, right in the middle of the quaint town of Manchester-by-the-Sea. This heavenly location allowed for bruised dawns and breezes that were sharp with the scent of salt.

  The six-liter engine of the DB9 swallowed miles and miles of highway with sublime ease, and was now purring contentedly in the heart of the fog-filled coastal town. My knuckles were tightly clamped around the steering wheel, evidence that I hadn’t slept well the night before. Upon reaching the exact address, my iPhone vibrated. I took it out and read Jerry’s text.

  Today, I wrote back, contemplating the gruesome image before me. The three-story appeared to be an outrageous thirty-thousand-square-foot neoclassic colonial, the kind of Xanadu that had a Hilton Vacation Club feel to it. I felt shy and drawn up. I’d ordered pastries—what else do you bring to an intimate playdate?—to nurse Carina’s sugar levels. The box with mini—two apiece—tiramisus, charlotte russes, napoleons, and rum babas I brought along had her name written all over it, but the delicacies seemed too small. With every step I took, it felt like I was shriveling up, the way a scrotum takes to cold water and cold air, retracting into a useless ball of flesh.

  Parts of the garden had boxwood shrubs in animal topiary. Carina could have given me a heads up about this wannabe Hearst Castle. I was quite old-fashioned. I found it all right for a man to invite a woman to his mammoth abode and foster a surprise, but for a woman to do this to a man—can I say blasphemy? Worse even, when I made a quip about the number of fluted pilasters, Carina lectured me about Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian columns. Oh, sweet, sweet punishment for her it was.

  Trust me, riding crops are sinful. I disliked the implement, I only liked what it birthed. Toys and implements were on my list of kinks, and Carina wanted to satisfy her needs, so she’d taken liberties with purchases.

  At this point the words you’re a sinner weren’t stuck in my craw. I couldn’t be bothered. I believe that faith and religion were cruel gifts to bestow excessively, heavily on a child. In a way, the statement itself was the gist of why I was who I was. To instill in a child that in spite of the watchful eyes of adults there was also a looming gaze of a being that extended far beyond our reach wasn’t only cruel, it was repressive. I’d had so much guilt associated with pleasure that for years I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy one without the other. Guilt is a consequence, I was told. Pleasure had consequences. Rewards when you’re a good boy, punishment when you’re a bad one. The system kept me steadfast and in line, until my mother died. Then I seriously started to question my faith. I spent my early twenties wallowing in the conviction I’d been wronged. Elena made my mind sharp, focused again, and in my mid-twenties, I faced the reality of my denial.

  Either way, when I say I couldn’t be bothered, it’s because I’d outgrown some of the guilt, and learned to forgive myself for the rest of it. Before I began working Carina’s breasts with a wicked black crop, the tongue tip landed on my black-jeaned thigh with a surprisingly loud crack. A sharp jolt of pain seared through me. Whenever I was high on adrenaline, my wrist swung with purpose, so I had to practice the crop on me until I got the slap to be soft enough as to not hurt my playmate irredeemably. And this way I knew exactly what kind of pain it would cause my helpless prey.

  The first crop strike was so fast it barely registered in my mind. I only heard a tight snap against Carina’s skin. My hand twitched madly, I paused to chase away the darkness surrounding me. I swung thrice again to even things out, which elicited throaty yelps from her. That’s it, let go. It wasn’t the sound of the strike that satisfied me, it was the erotic percussion she emitted, the way her voice echoed with a gasp of pain and a hum of pleasure, both divinely woven together.

  I let the tongue tip dance down one breast then another, and alternated back and forth for several minutes. Her face inched closer and I took in the long breath she released. Its waft was diluted with fear; the kind of fear I enjoyed inhaling. An anomalous tightness spread across my shoulders, percolating down my spine. I resolved to give her ten little kisses—perfectly lobed marks on her behind. By the eighth rosy mark she was ready, and while I whipped the final marks, one by one, she drew the beads out of her. She was sobbing against the bedding, thanking me somewhat erratically, the repetition quite frantic.

  I started changing positions, implements, and toys.

  All done, Carina gave a loud, pitched gasp, as though delivering an aria of desperation.

  I chuckled, mustering my most tender voice for the calm-before-the-storm treatment. “You were saying, little one? I thought I heard something about a safeword again.”

  She didn’t respond. In all fairness, it was considerably hard to reply with a gag stuffed in her mouth. Her hands were now tied over her head to bondage shackles, her feet parted by a spreader bar, tits and clit clamped.

  The next lash left a big red streak on her back. I took the opportunity to circle around, and every so often, I cracked the flogger against some furniture. Carina shuddered at the sound each time. Orbiting closer to her, I watched intently as beads of sweat rolled off her skin. I stepped beside her and let the twisted leather make contact again. Taking a step back to admire my handiwork, I saw unblemished flesh turn pink. I repeated the swat with a mere flick of my wrist, over and over again in rapid succession until a deep, angry shade of red covered her posterior. Every strike was precisely aimed at hitting the back of the butt plug, jarring it inside her.

  Carina grunted something.

  “Did I pose a question?”

  She shook her head.

  The barrage of shots continued in a staccato rhythm. Each calculated swing of the flogger caused its tails to curl upward and swipe at her skin, most likely making it numb. My movements were more deliberate now, sweeping between her legs and smacking directly across her inner thighs and the rear end of the inserted device.

  I maneuvered the tongue of the crop uphill and angled it under her chin. “Listen to me, you are what you are, there’s no point in crying about it. More, honey?”

  She merely nodded. I took some distance and rained down a series of lashes across her chest. Top to bottom, left to right, the flogger continued smacking her delicate flesh with a resounding thump. All throughout it she kept her eyes leveled with mine. I didn’t so much as blink, and worked my way down. Splotchy red patches appeared on her pale thighs.

  I really got into it as time wore on, every lash coming after I wound up my arm. I was gasping with effort, watching her skin react to the last lash before adding a new welt. Finally, I put the flogger down and reached above her head to free her. I pulled the gag out of her mouth and tossed it away, then went to work on the spreader bar. Carina was panting, saliva dribbling off her chin.

  “Imagine if daddy were to find out? Imagine if he walked in on us in this ego-monument? His baby girl, who reads Trollope and Wilde and who happens to be engaged to a Senator’s son, caught play-acting in his castle? Caught enjoying S&M dressed as a French maid? Imagine the abject humiliation, the rancor. Between the radical feminists and the redneck conservatives in your family, I think this might do the trick. He’ll drop cold.”

  “Sir…please don’t, sir.” Her gasps were like spasms, hiccups really.

  My eyes met hers as I pulled her hair back. I searched her face for a while before twisting my lips into a lopsided smile of approval. “Such a polite girl. I won’t be calling your father, after all, little one.”

  “Thank you for making a concession, that’s very kind of you, sir,” she forced out between gasps. “But…I’ve been a bad girl. I’m a sinner. A s-slut.”

  “That’s exactly what you are. Masquerading as a good girl, aren’t we?”

  Her voice was ripe with a
musement: “That’s what I am.” I liked the way her tendons stretched her skin, forming lines at the corners of her mouth when she smiled. “Masquerading.”

  “And this is what you deserve, right? Sinners need to repent, don’t they?” The flogger collided with the chain between the nipple clamps, detaching them. “Am I right?”

  In the aftermath of my brutality, her eyes gazed at the wrist that had flogged her so thoroughly.

  I put my arm by her side and let the flogger rest again. “I think you’ve had enough, baby girl.” I placed my palms on her cheeks and brought her face close to mine. “Let’s get some sugar and water into you.”

  She snapped against me like a string that’s been plucked too hard, writhing around in parallels like a snake. “I want…I want you, sir. This feels too much like strange bedfellows.”

  This was an Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s situation. She refused to name her cat so she wouldn’t get attached to it; I hadn’t consummated because I didn’t want to take an unbendable liking to Carina.

  I heard a sudden, low-pitched wahaha noise. Turning my head, I saw the TV was on, playing an episode of Spongebob messing with The Strangler. She watched Nickelodeon? How could I have missed that? Maybe I would have realized it earlier if the muscle between my legs didn’t feel like a block of wood.

  “Sir?”

  Losing the grasp of the thought, I snapped back to reality and willed my brain to return to normal. “It’s the endorphins, don’t worry. I’ll elucidate one last time, I’m not going to blow my load inside you.” My voice was harsher now. “This is a pastime, Carina. I gave you the rules the first time, told you I’m not interested in a romantic relationship. Am I not correct?”

  A strangled, almost insignificant mumble came my way.

  I pressed a remote control button and the egg vibe started humming within her. “Only play—adult playdates, okay?”

  She didn’t say anything. She closed her eyes and smiled, licking her lips. Her smell, that nutty scent of arousal, was exquisite. I divined her taste would be too, there’s nothing better on a woman’s skin than arousal turned to salt. I don’t give pointers, but I feel like I owe you an explanation. Sadistic play and fucking have nothing to do with each other. For those who can only get off while under the influence of some BDSM application, well, dearie, they suffer from a serious mental illness.

  I set to work ridding the room of toys and implements, laid out some towels on the bed and started icing Carina’s handsome bruises. I wiped off the secretions, blotted, and inspected her skin for possible further treatment. I watched her limp a little, and wince when she sat down. Jesus, we were head-over-heels happy. I kept smiling, she kept giggling, we talked over Spongebob, and we even laughed for no known reason. I broke out the small but perfect pastries, and the atmosphere lent itself to more laughter and lots of cute jokes. Despite it being a sort of awkward moment—I remained semi-hard, I had a great time.

  We chatted in the his and hers master bathroom, took separate showers, then chitchatted some more before I got down to business.

  “I need you to do something for me, baby girl.” I planted a cursory kiss on her forehead.

  “I’ll do anything.” Carina curled up against my body, let out a yawn and resumed watching the Spongebob marathon.

  “Nolan hired a reporter who’s writing a piece about my family.”

  She hummed into my neck and nodded.

  “I need details.”

  Visibly confused, “I cannot tattle, that’d be a low-blow,” she said proficiently.

  To the extent I could blame her for, I had to hand it to her for remaining loyal to her employer, but not her fiancé. Even with a family-money spigot that had an unstoppable flow, a career was high on her priority list, which is the main reason why I liked her.

  Every way you look at it, my bullshit meter told me I’d already stepped on my dick. So, I gave Carina my Daniel Craig poker face as I announced devilishly, “Have it your way.”

  She rocked against me and lightly bit my chin, her voice cracking, “Why?”

  “Generally, I get concise reports of all the thrilling events that occur in this city. Nolan Corp is well on its way to becoming a media conglomerate. Your significant other promotes nepotism, has a harem of cronies, discriminates, lower class gets short shrift with him. Want me to elaborate further? Scandals are bad for business.”

  “It will put me behind the eight ball, Alexander.”

  “The odds that Nolan finds out are insuperable. You only have to allow one of the interns access to his office for one minute.”

  She leaned her forehead against my chest and began sobbing like a schoolgirl. It was high pitched, stuttered with full-throated hiccups. From the dry sound she produced I knew it was for show.

  Enunciating each word with deliberateness, I asked, “Have I not made myself clear, little one?”

  Definitely a predominant social class exists, and vassals simply obey. Carina wiped the slender trickle of tears with the back of her hand. “C-clear, sir. Just tell me w-when.”

  Stuttering was her tell, so I had to follow up. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re done with me, aren’t you?” Her soft tone was clogged with emotion.

  The narcissist in me was too proud to hold out the olive branch and tell her that I needed a serious outlet as much as she needed one. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart.”

  “I want us to continue. May I please have a kiss, sir?”

  Her husky voice was blowing away all my other thoughts, but I managed to refuse. “No. Punishment for being recalcitrant. Next time, think before you say no to me.”

  She pointed at the TV screen. “Stupid! I’m stupid like that Bikini Bottomite!”

  Being a Pulitzer-winning novelist, and a damn fine journalist, she was far from being stupid, but manipulation is a bitch, anyway. Realizing I liked her more and more, I pressed a tender kiss on the top of her head, refusing to let her go. I was severely fatigued, sleep deprived since days, so I napped for an hour or so.

  We went to Mass later, and, to my chagrin, this town had the hottest NILFs. Why not move to Boston? Ever attended a ceremony at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross? Someone should tell them how many naughty Catholic boys needed to be set straight in Beantown. Spell it out on an aerial banner, perhaps. When I got home that afternoon, I jerked off to the mental image of a threesome involving Elena as jailbait, me dressed as a priest, and Carina dressed as a nun. Guess who confessed?

  Alexander Turner

  The Final Goodbye

  Moving through traffic lanes with ease, my Porsche Panamera hopped on Interstate 90. The car knew the route as well as it knew my taste in music. I’ll remind you that Boston’s role in the American Revolution had led to the nickname: the Cradle of Liberty. Once considered bleakly conservative, Boston developed a progressive culture, becoming one of the most exciting places in New England that had excellent educational institutes and culinary hotspots, an abundance of attractions and sights, but mostly, Boston had the nation’s best hospitals. Many historical buildings, parks, and cemeteries were considered national landmarks, and let’s not forget that this city boasted the birthplace of countless famous patriots, and presidents.

  I got off on Essex Street where traffic thickened and slowed. Frustrated drivers overtook like cowboys but continued their zip even as they approached their painful work places. Expectedly, Boston’s version of Wall Street was less animated. The Financial District had fewer bars, delis, and food carts. Nineteenth century rehabbed brick-and-beam buildings and twentieth century granite-fronted buildings comingled. These narrow streets mostly hosted consulting firms, accounting firms, luxurious private banks, and real-estate agents. I, however, wasn’t here on business. The last week of August was all about tying up loose ends.

  The click-clack sounds the leather soles of my cap-toes made were impeccably in sync. This unimpressive office in the heart of the cold metropolis of Boston felt suffocating.

 
Standing nearby the giant plasma screen, Pierce was touching a stylus to his iPad to advance the PPT slides. I’d half-expected to be confronted to cardboard and thumbtack. He looked homely handsome in navy blue, filling the room with his personality as much as his body. I watched him and as he waved his hands around, left to right, right to left, the deliberate motion reminded me that even though the limp-dick bastard had poor motor skills, I shouldn’t fuck his wife.

  Because Pierce wanted to see me, I’d responded in kind. What couldn’t be ignored is that he sat on the board of a number of companies such as Ferrari, Maserati, LVMH, and had bought the English football club Chelsea. Once the room had been emptied, he looked lost like a turtle that couldn’t locate its shell and was pissed off about it.

  “Spit it out. Don’t be shy,” I initiated. “Shall I take a pew?”

  “Do you want her?” The sheen of sweat that covered his sun-freckled forehead made me uncomfortable.

  “Absolutely not.”

  He paused to fill his water glass and then quickly drained it. “No tears, we’re big boys, right?”

  I actually bit my lips as I stared down at my shiny shoes, trying not to betray myself with an afterlaugh. One of us was a member of the big boy club, all right, and the other one was a skitty.

  “Exchange adieus, Turner. She’s never coming back to this wet-bone hellhole.”

  Bile rose to my esophagus. I could have cleaned his clock out, broken one of his limbs, easy and clean, no splatter on my Salvatore Ferragamo suit. I understood the concept that in civilization there had to be restraints, there had to be a certain control of impulses. Because if there weren’t we’d be surrounded by psychopaths.

  I forced friendliness into my voice that I was sure sounded false. “Good luck, git.” I left, middle finger in the air. Neat, right?

  This meeting—if you can call it that—should have closed the Valerie chapter, but when she sent me a message that she’d embarked on a shopping spree at Saks Fifth Avenue, Nordstrom, and Neiman Marcus, I knew I had to see her one last time. Generous as I was, all her purchases got charged to my accounts. I couldn’t really give a shit about how much she spent, that’s the beauty of having enough resources to match expensive tastes.