Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  I went to my desk, opened the top left-hand drawer and pulled out the pouch containing noise-cancelling headphones. I plugged them into the top of my iPad, positioned the headphones’ soft leather pads over my ears, and settled myself in my office chair. The attachment finished downloading within seconds.

  It all went into a tailspin when Mitchell Christiansen’s voice purred at Elena, “I can’t wait to kiss you. To taste you.”

  My nails dug deep into my palms. I hadn’t realized I was making them bleed as I listened to his words, watching him touch my girl. In seconds I was lost in the madness, nerves all jumbled up. She’d refused him plenty of times, why go on a date with him now?

  I’m so going to shake her until her teeth rattle!

  “Fucking bastard!”

  Without prior warning, my mind became a blur, uneasiness settling in. I saw red and heard the music from Kill Bill in my head. Remember the scalping scene in Inglorious Bastards? Remember the speech? That came to my mind too. I saw more red as it created a depraved kaleidoscope of all the ways I could make Mitchell bleed to death, the only other color being the silver of a blade carving, mangling the redness.

  Suddenly, I heard Elena slurring, “K-k-keepsake. Jus-jus-just wrong. A human is not a thing,” and for an instant, I was confused. I had to rewind to fully understand who or what they were discussing. I saw that after the first shot, the smooth and controlled tone of her voice began losing its poise. I listened and watched carefully, pressing the headphones tighter to my ears when I heard Mitchell questioning the emptiness within her eyes.

  I wondered if I would be as sweet and calm in my inquiry if I were there with her. I couldn’t imagine myself being patient, I could see myself being unstoppable in my need to control every bit of her. I would have selfishly ordered her to give me the answer, or else made her suffer the consequences of childish stubbornness. She, I convinced myself, would immerse herself in a lavish reward, not a severe punishment.

  There was a gleam in Mitchell’s eyes, like a knowing and having-it-all sparkle. He’d obviously caught wind of the city’s prettiest girl. No surprise; he was the kind of person who had Boston’s elite in his pocket. In what looked like a worsted wool crepe suit, proper side vents and all, Mitchell had great appeal. I’d have preferred seeing him in something fuglier, like a cotton two-button jacket with shawl lapel, or an outmoded double-breast jacket. Then again, his net worth was a mere pittance compared to mine, and he probably hadn’t been able to call the chef and secure a table at the newly opened Menton. Top of the Hub, I mean, seriously, was he kidding or clueless? They might as well have gone to The Capital Grille.

  Mitchell made a joke about kidnapping her. If the limp-dick was looking for a shocked reaction, she didn’t give him one. Her tongue tip darted out to lick at the salt-rimmed spot between her thumb and forefinger before sipping another shot of the colorless liquid. Curbside, Elena nodded too vigorously and laughed too loudly at something Mitchell whispered in her ear. Things got worse when she conjured up a sunny smile. “Yes, my good prince, I want coffee.”

  I felt a viscous fluid rising within my throat at the thought of what was going to happen. What, possibly, had already happened last night.

  “I’ve never been inside a penthouse,” she laughed soundly, as though she was in the room with me.

  Jesus, I’ll buy you all the penthouses in the world, just don’t go into his. Watching them take the private elevator made my heart thud and palpitate in equal measure. I pictured Elena sprawled across crisp white sheets, diamonds of perspiration glistening across her slender body in the semi-darkness as Mitchell plundered her essence.

  I waited for Elena to come down, the tick-tockery inside my head driving me insane.

  She spent the night with him.

  She spent the fucking night with him!

  Closing my eyes, I lost myself in evil imagination once more, following the liquid redness down into the vortex, as far as it would permit, leaving me on the edge of insanity. When I opened my eyes, I had successfully shunned the urge to kill Mitchell. Elena had to explore sensibilities. Robert had been instructed not to inform me about one-night-stands, and this was no different. These two had no future.

  There was a faint click as the recording stopped.

  I sat back in the chair, removed the headphones with the tips of my fingers and put them down atop the tablet. Conversely, my palms weren’t bleeding, it was all in my head. Nonplussed, I didn’t know what to do with myself. The day that’d been rich with the promise of marriage and kids and happiness seemed grey and bleak. At once, I felt empty, and very alone.

  I glanced back at the tablet. Just as I reseated the B&W headphones against my ears and ticked play once more, the email alert tone went off. Robert again, informing me that this Saturday morning Elena invited Mitchell to meet her grandparents. That morsel of funereal missive had me pitch an espresso cup to the wall. I ignored the great smashing sound it made as it exploded against marble. A glass espresso cup shattering was quite a brilliant display, more so with a swath of sunlight across it. The very idea of Elena and Mitchell getting serious felt like someone pouring hot salt water over an open wound. I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes, fighting the liquefied burn that threatened to spill.

  Grown men don’t weep with childish frustration, I reasoned.

  Looking at the handsome debris of glass, the minutes and the hours seemed to melt together. Around 17:00, I received another update on Elena’s daily exploits. The glass of whiskey I was nursing almost spilled. My breathing came in gasps and shaking swells. Without thinking, I chugged the last of my drink and threw the glass against the wall.

  “FUUUUUCK,” I screamed. Pussy. My swing had diminished to nothingness. Most of the tumbler was repulsively in tact. No tiny pieces, no dust of shards, its shape had splintered, a few small chips falling to the ground. Gritting my teeth, I collected it amid the remains of the espresso cup and when I pitched it again, it was with a wide, controlled swing of my arm. Full of fire. This time when it connected with the wall, the porcelain shattered, the glut of its split parts clattering to the ground with such a crash that any distinguishable shapes of the cup were obliterated.

  For whatever reason, standing tall in my Gucci loafers, with navy-blue swaddle and low self-assurance, I felt destructive. Felt I was ready to drive nails into my coffin. In a move that was slightly out of character, my choice was swift and decisive. I decreed destruction tolerable in my own office within the next seconds. Were there a Guinness World Record for breaking crystal glasses, I would have aced it.

  Alexander Turner

  The Sadist in Me

  I could feel my adrenaline snowballing, followed by a wretched feeling of crashing painfully into an unyielding wall that refused to let me pass. I wasn’t into citing love-drenched poems, sadistic sex it was. Remember when Joey chucked the Little Women hardcopy in the freezer? Unless you’re a glutton for punishment, I suggest you do the same. Take it out after fifteen minutes, and skip the next two pages. I’m just saying this because I feel I might disappoint you. I hate doing this, but this is me, unplugged. I could tell you the basics and try skipping facts, but then my story would end up being a travesty—too convoluted, and I have enough trouble with telling you about how my brain functions as it is. What follows next isn’t gratuitous, it’s imperative for explaining my mindset. You’ll have to take my word for it.

  Clio didn’t disappoint. Diane had a mandatory function this Saturday night, so she and I met up afterward. She’d already divested herself of most of her attire for my viewing pleasure, and held court in the centre of the bedroom as she discarded each item while slowly turning on the spot. All she wore now were sheer stockings, a six-strap suspender belt that held them in place, and black satin opera gloves.

  She was very thin, just like a young girl. I liked that, changing positions was easy. The heavier the girl, the less exciting sex became for me. Her breasts were small, a nice shape, round and firm. Occasio
nally when she told me about the pressure at work, how her agent talked to her about getting implants, I encouraged her to do so and offered to pay for the surgery. It was one of these yeses she kept saying but would never do.

  I took another swig, indulging the peat of the oldest cask strength Caol Ila. I was also indulging my voyeur’s gaze, torn between wanting to see Diane totally naked or leaving her adorned in stockings.

  Courtesy of video surveillance, I knew stockings looked good on Elena. She was born to wear them, righteously so, with her long, slender legs. If I turned down the music I was listening to right now—Melodramma, Andrea Bocelli—I was sure I would hear Elena’s laughter as she twirled around, wearing nothing but black stockings.

  Closing my eyes, I pictured her standing before me in the evening view from the Ebersol suite. Our gazes locked as my fingers worked their way down the fastenings of her clothes, peeling them apart and guiding them away from her skin, unveiling her a piece at a time. I shivered when I imagined running my palms over her firm behind and up the concave sweep of her back. Imagined her skin prickling into gooseflesh at the rough, teasing nature of my touch. The first spanking blow would make her weep and blush concurrently…

  “Alexander?”

  I opened my eyes. Diane looked dismayed. At least I thought it was dismayed. It was hard to tell with the distance between us. After mulling it over for another second, I pulled a healthy slug of whiskey and put my tumbler noisily down on the slate-topped side table. “I’ve decided, keep the stockings on, honey,” I answered in rote.

  I instructed her to lie face up on the very centre of the bed. I got up from the leather armchair and stood beside the bed. Reaching into my pocket, I took out the Hermès scarves I brought with me and told her to hold her hands out to me. I bound her wrists to the frame of the bedstead separately, gauging how far apart she was comfortable.

  “No kiss, darling?” she drawled, her tone dripping with treacle but not the good, natural stuff. The affination of this syrup was rushed, making it a fast-processed kind of treacle, the kind destined for cheap consumerism.

  At this point in my fucked up life, I only wanted to kiss Elena. There was no tongue so hypnotic, no taste so pure, or sweet, or raw, so I’d decided that kissing was overrated. This type of denial had begun to breed a sort of aspirational ejaculation during intercourse, a sense of baseline satisfaction with any woman who wasn’t Elena. Sex would always be on the table. I couldn’t live by bread alone, could I?

  I faked a smile. “Maybe later, Diane.”

  “Spanking?”

  “Possibly. We’ll see,” I glared at her, shutting her up.

  I began removing my Jay Kos tie, followed by my twill Ike Behar dress shirt. I unhooked my belt, slid it from my pants and stripped unhurriedly, right beside her, close enough for her to sense the warmth of my body and smell the scent of my cologne. Cruelty of fact slowly crept up my chest. I didn’t actually want to touch Diane. There was no need for me to be intimate—with any woman. I simply needed release. Kissing her was off the table, her scent wasn’t right, and her taste wasn’t either. Diane being bound and naked while I undressed, watching her as she waited and anticipated what was to come, knowing that fucking would be on my time scale, not hers, that was all the sadistic intimacy I required. All she required, too; sufficed to plant the idea inside her head as I found my release.

  These days it was the fucking that’d changed. I rolled on the requisite latex, pushed her legs apart and seated myself. When our eyes met, she pouted at me, sticking out her tongue. “Softy!”

  “Don’t tempt me,” I warned. “I don’t take kindly to insults.”

  “Square off, you can be as rough as you’d like, lover. Why are so difficult lately? A little fuddy-duddy, aren’t we?”

  “Turn your head, Diane, or I’ll fuck your ass.”

  Pearls rustled when she raised her chin in defiance. “Make me,” she taunted. “Yes or no?” Her eyes were imploring me to say yes.

  A sick laugh escaped me. Just like vampires feed on human blood for a stroke of decadence, I fed on rage. I maintained a strict rule not to trigger it, especially in the presence of a fuckpet, but when I failed, you can’t blame me for taking pleasure in life’s little pleasures. With no economy whatsoever, my palm contacted with Diane’s cheek, and for a second her alabaster skin paled to a bone-white before the blood vessels dilated, giving it a somewhat permanent flush. Then, with one powerful hand, I cupped her face and turned it aside, bitch-slapping her unflushed cheek to make sides match, knowing what sort of pain I’d caused her. And that’s the way I fucked her. Holding her head so I couldn’t see whom I was fucking. So I could imagine it was Elena. I was rough and merciless in the pursuit of my own desire, hers was fully incidental, yet Diane was happy to be used. She made it look like every nerve ending in her body thrummed with electricity. That’s exactly why I liked her.

  “I want you to come inside me. Naked,” she told me gutturally. As much as it aroused me to do so, to mark a woman’s flesh with my seed, if only temporarily, there was only one woman left whom I wanted to mark. Elena’s sweet voice echoed in my mind.

  “I want to come on your tits, Diane,” I proposed a middle ground. She smirked, oblivious as to what had gotten into me. I fucked her as enthusiastically as possible; I could only have been more into it unless it was Elena herself. Regardless, that didn’t stop me from imagining it was her while ragged exhalations I forced from Diane echoed throughout the room.

  “Oh, fuck…yeah,” Diane half-whimpered, half-cried, reaching nirvana, and then, “something’s bothering you.”

  “You’re a master of observation and deduction, Holmes. What gave me away?” Pressing against her, I thrust my hips upward so that my erection could indent her breast as I came.

  “Who is it? Who is she?”

  In a moment of fury, I drew my hand to hit her, but didn’t. “Shut up.” Releasing a gust of breath, I grasped a handful of her hair to expose her neck, and sucked her at the exact spot under her ear that drove her wild. Earned me a bucking of her hips.

  I untied her, lifted her up and pulled her legs to encircle my hips as I carried her to the dining table. “Diane?” My lips skimmed her forehead.

  “Yes, Alex?” she purred, nearing her lips toward mine.

  I was an unpredictable lover, gentle during a moment, cruel in the next, indivisible emotions constantly feeding one another. “I promise I won’t hurt you too much, just let me do this my way.” Turning her around, I perched her on the edge of the table, my legs on either side of her body. I spanked and fucked her ass just to stop her from asking another question.

  Understand that I didn’t beat the crap out of Diane, that’s hardly necessary. The measure of a man’s sadism is all about what goes on in his head, and right now my thoughts were calm, cold, calculated, and cruel. That’s all it takes. With casual girlfriends like Diane I made up casual stories about the reason why I liked giving and receiving pain, they believed them like spoon-fed children, and that was that.

  In the end I removed the condom and turned Diane back toward me, one hand coming up to grasp her hair and twist her head until it canted against my hand. I liked tears that were sincere. Pretty, how she danced to the snapping sound of a few strands of her hair, her crying cut no ice with me. I pushed her onto her knees and leaned down, my other hand opening her mouth with pressure on her jawline. “That’s it, slut, open wide and swallow. All of it.”

  With eyelashes lowered, she tightened her cheeks, rubbing my sensitive underside with a flattened tongue. I grunted louder when her tongue swirled in slow circle as she suckled harder. I held her, riding the pleasure until I was through.

  I’ll get to sex with Elena later on, but, the sex with Diane was exquisite, and with good reason. We all know why men love having affairs; nothing strokes a cock like an impending departure. The only thing missing here was Diane being married, or else I’d be indulging in that delicious miasma too. I’ll also get to sex with a married
woman a bit later.

  Alexander Turner

  The Beginning of the End

  To be my calm self tonight, I beat the shit out of a bag and did about 40 laps in the pool. Or 50. I’m not ashamed to admit I lost count. In my understanding, women were equal opportunity objectifiers, so I made sure I worked hard on my arms. I knew from personal experience that sophisticated girls liked nicely sculpted ones. Not a legend; most girls like men on top so they can run their hands up and down proper biceps as a cock moves back and forth in them.

  Tony’s jet touched down on East Coast soil at 10 PM. My mind was electrified by the prospect of what was about to happen. Carrying a tray with caviar and smoked salmon, both sourced from the Browne Trading Company, the tiniest details jumped out at me. The cool tingle of air on my body as I walked across the huge glass enclosed deck, the cautious clinking as Tony placed crystal tumblers on a round table, the sweet smell of peppermint patchouli hovering about. He made wearing a vested Marc Jacobs plaid power suit look so fucking easy. Lighting was low enough. Dimmed spotlights, and a small table lamp gave off a golden glow.

  Domestic treats tonight. BTC catered to my somewhat finicky tastes in terms of comfort and gourmet food. Maine lobster when I kept myself company, domestic—or imported—caviars when I had guests. I smuggled some cheeses from Lazy Lady Farm, Effie’s corncakes, and spreads from The Gracious Gourmet, too. Jerry was punctual, as usual, bearing gifts, even though a few days ago he’d filed for divorce. Doughty thing to do; he’d cited anorexia as grounds for divorce. Corduroy dress slacks and a turtleneck confirmed that most likely Sam had burned all his suits.

  “Listen to this, Jerry,” Tony beseeched with a sharp, serrated voice as Jerry shambled onto the deck. His voice was irregular, inflected by the sleeplessness his business trip to Japan had caused.

  “I’m listenin’, man.”

  “Ted Nugent called. He wants his shirt back.”