by Gage Grayson
If she doesn’t stop it, I’m going to get rock-hard all over again.
The blonde holds me tight against her, licking my neck and nibbling my earlobe. Her hands creep around and pinch my nipples.
Her friend looks up at her with those teary eyes, but she just keeps on working at me. She might be fun, this one. A bit spicier than some others.
Usually, I like my girls to be a bit cleaner, but these are fine for a few hours. When we’re all done, I’ll give them to the boys for a while.
The senator is down on his knees, crying and bleeding. They start kicking his guts but not too hard, just drawing out the torture.
Meanwhile, the blonde’s attentions are getting me hard all over again. I turn around, my cock still hanging high and stiff out of my fly. I pull the bitch toward me and impale her with no hesitation.
Were they wearing panties when they got in the limo? I can’t fucking remember. She’s wet and warm and gasps as I pull her naked ass across the hood.
My cock slides straight in, and she leans back, skirt around her waist, top bunching up.
I hear violence behind me as I yank up her top and take her nipples between my teeth roughly. She shrieks and bucks under me, and I pin her down with my cock, thrusting deep and hard. After only a few strokes, she’s whimpering and whining, already close to orgasm.
I jerk her legs up and wrap my arms around her thighs and slam her with my hips, banging the fuck out of her.
I’m so hard now I want to take my time, but if I do, Senator Dick might pass out. I want to talk to him first.
I lay in a few hard, deep thrusts, groaning under the weight of sensation. It’s so hard to feel things that times like this nearly overwhelm me.
Violence, sex, pain. It’s running through my veins like fucking honey, or inner peace or some shit.
We all just tick differently, don’t we? Don’t try to understand. Just ride it.
Whatever feels good. Go for it.
I blow hard into the little slut, jerking her hips up as I come. She leaves a mess on the hood as I pull out and get my cock tucked away again.
The redhead is still sitting on the concrete. Maybe the alcohol is wearing off or something.
“Roll with it, honey,” I say with a smile.
She looks up at me, startled. I laugh at her, running a hand down her cheek.
Fun time is over. Time to talk to Dick.
I walk over, joining the circle around the senator. He’s on his hands and knees, bleeding from the mouth. A nice red puddle is forming underneath him.
He’s moaning and spitting out teeth. Both his eyes are sickeningly black.
“Get him up.” I give a gesture as I command.
My boys pick him up from under the arms and get him on his feet. I come up close, so close his ragged breathing sprays blood over my face.
“What did you think you were doing? Huh? I thought we had a good deal. We were starting to become good friends, I thought. I have something you need, you have something I want. It should’ve been a simple exchange. But no, you had to go snooping, didn’t you? Decided all on your little lonesome that I was dodgy. That some of my dealings may even be ‘legally questionable.’” I finish with playful air quotes at the side of his head.
His eyelids flutter close as his head lolls. I slap him hard, and his eyes open and focus on me again.
“What was the issue here, Dick? Didn’t like how much power I have? Think it belongs to you? Why do you get to decide who’s dirty and who’s not? Huh? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
I pull out my favorite knife, flicking out the blade. His eyes go big and wide as I bring the knife close to his face.
“Maybe I should just kill you, man. I’m fucking pissed off enough. But you know what’s better? Getting people to compromise themselves. Seeing how far people will go. So, let’s see your bargaining skills, Dick. What will you give me for your pathetic little excuse of a life?”
Without warning, cars come screaming into the lot. The second they hit our floor, the lights and sirens come on.
Clever cops. They didn’t announce their presence. Interesting.
I drop the knife and step back, casually putting my hands behind my head. This is really fucking fun now. I can feel myself grinning.
What a fucking night!
Cops surround us, yelling “Freeze!” and all the usual stuff. My guys drop Senator Dick and comply. The girls scramble to hide in the limo.
The man in the suit comes out from the line of uniforms, holding his badge and handcuffs.
“I’m here to arrest you, Jaxon Covington,” he says gruffly.
“Not a problem, Officer. I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. These men work for me, but they are…ah…socially challenged? Can’t always control them, you know? They get very protective of me.”
“Is that right?” The detective smiles as he brings my hands down to cuff me.
Even with my hands caught behind my back, I’m completely calm.
Honestly, the cold metal feels pretty good on my wrists. I’ve been running pretty hot-blooded tonight.
“Get the others. Somebody interview those women.” The detective gestures at my boys, and uniforms come forward to restrain my guys, who comply without a word. “And get a medic.”
A younger detective comes through out of the spotlights. He walks over to us, looking at a tablet.
“We gotta haul you in, Mr. ‘Jackson’ Covington. Quite a sheet here we need to go over with you. What were you thinking, huh, Jack?”
He looks right at me as he says it. There’s ice down my spine. I can feel my face freezing as a grin creeps across my face.
I roll, landing on my back. I flip my feet through my locked hands and spring up, smacking Young Detective in the jaw with both hands.
I get three good whacks in before the other cops jump me. Bodies slam me against the concrete. I come down near Young Detective’s wrecked face, pouring blood onto the concrete.
“Don’t call me Jack,” I whisper at his unconscious form.
Alison
Alison
I’m sitting in the second row, trying to keep my mind on the trial. Jaxon Covington—the most interesting psychiatry case to date—is being sentenced for conspiracy and intent to harm. There are a host of other possible crimes, but I’m not taking that into consideration as I make my observations.
The prosecutor is droning on with such a dull, monotonous tone I think half the jury is asleep. Jaxon is on the stand, looking perfectly calm. His hands are clasped before him, watching the prosecutor with an easy smile as he makes his case.
Anyone this calm standing trial with these accusations is either utterly innocent…or a sociopath.
I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes open with this fucking prosecutor. He’s still rambling. Granted, I didn’t sleep much last night; I stayed up late to process cases and to make my mental checklist for today.
I fight it, but a small yawn escapes my mouth. As it does, Jaxon looks right at me with a smile on his face—one much different than that of the mask he’s put on for the prosecution.
A chill runs down my spine as my eyes meet his pale, icy gaze. For a single moment, we’re the only two people in the courtroom. I gulp.
The skills I’ve learned so far working in my profession have given me a strong sense of confidence in my analysis. But just moments ago, I had been comfortable saying that Jaxon Covington is harmless; however, now, as he leers at me, I decide a one-on-one session never hurt anyone.
I really need to be sure I’m right on this case. I’ve always worked under a tremendous amount of pressure, and this line of work is no exception.
It all started with my upbringing; my parents had high expectations. They were thrilled with medical school but less than approving with my decision to move into psychology and psychiatry.
It doesn’t pay as well as oncology or surgery, and they have their own views of what I should be doing and earning.
Still, this was
where I had to go. I just know it’s my calling. I’ve always been good at reading people.
My instincts never fail me. I understand people. All my training has only made me more focused, and I can unlock a person’s mind in minutes.
Even while I’m the shit at analysis, and I mean the shit—I can pick apart their brain and hand it to them on a silver platter—I can’t understand their pain. I don’t feel their anguish.
It’s that exact lack of understanding that ruled out surgeon on my list of paths for myself.
How could I treat someone, cut into them, and make changes to their body without empathizing their pain? Not only did this seem to be a contradiction I could not solve, I was also just genuinely disinterested in the ins and outs of the body.
For me, it’s all in the mind. Once I started learning the skills and tools needed to diagnose and treat mental illness, I knew I had found my passion.
Though I’m not sure the cold, focused drive I have for unraveling someone’s thoughts could be called passion in a colloquial sense. I’ve never had a lover; no one has ever intruded into my mind the way I enter others. Part of me believes I learned these tricks solely to keep others out.
It’s not like I haven’t experienced strong emotions in my lifetime, but looking back, it was few and far between. My upbringing was incredibly sheltered. I wasn’t allowed to go outside or really deviate from my studies at all.
I’m more than certain my family’s strict nature plays a large part in my lack of ability to establish close friendships or any sort of romantic relationship.
Instead of interaction and engagement, I’ve observed. Always. And now as a result, I read people remarkably quick.
Within seconds, I know them, solve them…and then, what’s the point?
I watch Jaxon on the stand as he begins to speak. The prosecutor has finally shut up, letting Jaxon have his say.
For just a moment, right as he begins to speak, his eyes flick back to me. Those pale-blue irises with a dark, intense ring around them are such a striking feature. I can see them clear as day, even from the second row.
It’s unnerving—both the color and the intensity of his gaze.
Unnerving or not, it’s definitely intriguing. I’m sure I’ve seen those eyes before, that focused stare. Like something remembered from a dream.
I’m not even sure what I remember; there’s just a haunting familiarity that annoys me with its persistence. It refuses to solidify as a true memory, leaving my mind chasing shadows down the rabbit hole.
Perhaps I’ve been working too hard. To have finished my degree by the time I was eighteen with extra credits was a great achievement. At twenty-two, now working high-profile cases in the busiest mental health facility in the city, I’m admittedly finding myself a little burned out.
Usually, as a first-year resident, I would be in a basic health care office, helping bored middle-aged women cope with getting old.
I’m very lucky to be working with the criminally insane. I’m hoping to find something that challenges me. Maybe figure out, finally, what makes me tick.
Jaxon is now answering the prosecution’s questions in some of the vaguest terms I have ever heard. He does it with such sincerity; the members of the jury haven’t even noticed he’s not really saying anything.
It’s a talent for sure—one he’s spent years honing. Jaxon is sporting an open, honest, and friendly demeanor, solicitous looks at members of the jury, an open smile, and a soft tone of voice.
Jurors are nodding and looking at one another. In just a few minutes, he has created significant doubt in their minds. He’s intensely charismatic.
We want to believe people we think are beautiful all the way through. We can’t help it. If it has any instinctual significance, it’s to create sympathy in us for the gorgeous.
What purpose nature would have for that, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll figure it out one day.
As he speaks, his hands seem to speak with him. His gestures change, and I can tell he wants to stand. He’s trying to use his body to leave a strong impact on everyone watching.
Truly intelligent people are very aware of their body language and use it to their advantage. By knowing what signals they want to send, they can move as emotively as they speak. With his quick smiles, warm gazes, and gently gesturing fingers, he’s doing a fine job of keeping a captive audience.
The women, especially, are all quite taken with him.
On top of all of my observations comes another interesting instinctive point. If a male is attractive but also potentially dangerous, women usually won’t hold the dangerous part against him; it only makes him more attractive.
What strange creatures we are, chasing after danger, then crying when we get hurt.
I give up on my notes for now and look right at him. I allow myself to fully immerse in the spell he weaves.
“After all, ladies and gentleman…we are all a little mad every now and then, aren’t we?”
He says this with a smile, looking a little bashful, dark hair falling over his brow. I look at my notes.
Experienced manipulator.
Psychic vampire.
Narcissist.
Craves power.
I mentally tick off boxes in my mind, running through the whole list of symptoms and disorders.
He’s definitely not schizophrenic. He appears fully in control without any sign of multiple personality disorders. Of course, his dominant personality may be in control, and I’ll find out more after repeated interviews.
Jaxon definitely hits key points of narcissistic personality disorder, though. The way he carries himself and the confidence he exudes is very textbook. His control over an entire room and the way he draws every eye, ear, and heart to him…he’s a dangerous man.
He could also be a full-blown psychopath or sociopath. If he’s sociopathic, it’s very well hidden. Sociopaths tend to mimic empathy extremely well, enabling them to control and manipulate others.
I’m just itching to get him alone. I occasionally notice a small frown on his face, especially when they ask questions he doesn’t want to answer.
He never loses his cool, though. He simply deflects the questions, completely misleading the prosecutor.
In a one-on-one session where I have the control, he won’t be deflecting anything I throw at him. I’ll just keep tossing it back until he cracks.
As he addresses the jurors directly, I can’t help noticing his enchanting demeanor. He carries an air of royalty about him, even in the rough prison clothes.
He conducts himself as if he’s dressed in a fine suit at a dinner table with the highest of society. Most people seem to be taking it as a sign of respect to the court.
I believe I see it for what it truly is: an insult to everyone in the room. He’s behaving like a king in his court, playing with jesters.
None of it is real. All of it is a game.
It’s a very disturbing thought. I make a special point to write every moment of this flagrant display down. I’m even more anxious to get my first interview with him now.
I want to understand if he has simple narcissistic disorder, which is treatable and quite common in affluent men from his age group or if he’s a full-blown sociopath.
This case is looking like an incredible challenge. If he’s a sociopath, it’ll take repeated interviews to diagnose him at all.
I’m excited at the prospect. For once in my life, I feel more than just a light trickle of curiosity.
He’s a conundrum. A puzzle. A riddle I’ve never seen before.
How could I resist?
He’s not bad to look at either. I feel my cheeks getting hot as I think about being alone in a room with him.
The idea of that intensity focused solely on me is exciting and terrifying. It’s truly a cruel joke to give him such physical beauty as well as the power to manipulate.
Nevertheless, I’m confident. I’ve given up my young life for exactly this. The chance to potentially unlock the gre
atest of secrets and to know the inside of a mind so intelligent it bends other people’s will almost without conscious effort has my body heated much more than his looks do.
My one fear is that he might bend me as well. I must remain unaffected and treat each patient as an illness, not as a potential connection.
The emotional affliction of this man has me just slightly jarred, especially since my usual method of breaking people down into pieces might not work on this guy.
He’s an exciting case with many potential diagnoses to consider. It’ll be an excellent opportunity to expand my skills.
I look up at him as they bring him off the stand. As he steps down, he turns out to the crowd and looks right at me. Again.
Those icy eyes stare right through me.
He smiles.
I feel it in my chest…and between my legs.
I can’t wait to begin our interviews.
Jaxon
I’m sitting in the meeting room, waiting for my appointment with the court-ordered psychologist. Mandatory. Not something my lawyers can get me out of.
Apparently, if they clear me, I’m free to go. But if they can’t, I get sent to high-security prison. Seems strange to me, but I’m not concerned.
I’ve manipulated people for so long and with such brutal efficiency I have no doubts I can wrap this geek around my little finger.
I’m fucking bored. I miss my cigars and my fancy booze. A bit of pussy wouldn’t go unappreciated either.
As yet, I’ve had no issues with other inmates. I see them sizing me up all the time. Dangerous animals checking out the fresh meat.
There’s a still purpose to the way I move. A lucid control. It’s essential to manipulating others.
Simply put, most people don’t know how to monitor and control their body language. I meet their surreptitious glances with easy calm. It’s this uncertainty that has them holding back, at least for now.
Sooner or later, someone’s going to ask for it. They’ll want to test me. That’s when I’ll fucking bring it.
By way of good behavior, I’m not chained up. No one is. A few inmates are talking to their wives or kids, eating stuff their families have brought and talking about home.