“I don’t want to be alone.”
“I can assure you,” I mutter, not enjoying where this is leading. “You will not be alone.”
“Because you believe Bertie will be there?”
“I believe many souls will be there. Some lost, some misguided, some angels. I think you will find a very enlightening crowd.”
“What if I go to hell?”
I groan. “That’s a tricky spot. I’m not sure I actually believe in the zones of heaven or hell, I think it’s deeper than that. I’m not thinking we line up, single file for our life to be accounted in front of us. That sounds too much like tax preparation services.”
I feel her cheeks moving as she blinks repeatedly. “So, I’m just going to go off into some other world and wait for you.”
“I’ll be there sooner or later unless I go straight to hell.”
“Why would you go to hell?”
“I’m bad.”
A light giggle escapes from her lips. “You aren’t bad. You do things to encourage justice, not eliminate it.”
My fingers slip carefully over the side of her arm as I understand the medicine they have been pumping into her is dangerous. Toxic even. It could help her or land her face into the toilet bowl or maybe both. Either way, I’ll be there.
“You want to believe in God; I say go for it. If you are going to believe in something, give it everything you have.”
“Like blowing out birthday candles?”
“You just compared God to cake.”
Her hands brush against my cheeks as she whispers, “… I’m dying, Sal.”
“And you are allowed to think and feel and believe whatever you would like. No one gets to tell you, after what you’ve been through and the fight you have endured, how to be.”
“I’m scared,” she says, sniffling. I know she is crying. I know this routine, we’ve been doing it for months. “I don’t want to die yet. I wanted to finish our house and have all those firsts. We won’t get those firsts—the first dinner party with all of our friends or christening every room. We are going to miss everything, and I feel guilty. I feel terrible because I’ve done this to you.”
“We could finish the house,” I suggest, pulling her up and rolling onto my back. She straddles over me. “Start living and stop thinking about tomorrow.”
“It’s so hard to do when all I can hear is—you’re terminal. That’s a death sentence, and the worst part is they don’t tell you how long you have to wait. I want—you’re dying tomorrow or in twenty-two days.”
“You need the control,” I mutter, stroking over her thighs. “And you don’t have it, so control me.”
She nervously giggles. “We can’t play that game anymore, Raniero.”
“Sure, we can,” I encourage, knowing she’s right. But she needs this, so I lie. I lie because it is the only thing that makes sense. And therein, I understand why she owns so many of them. She was faced with a dire diagnosis and did the only thing that made sense—lied, betrayed, deceived—as those were her new control mechanisms. “Grab me a basket of fun, beautiful!”
“… Right now?”
“Right fucking now,” I smirk as I hear the top in my voice. I’m demanding she does things to me. Not unlike a request of—“Suck my cock,” or “Kneel,” only mine come in the form of—“Hurt me, baby,” and “Take the lead.”
This backpedaling is one of the most challenging things I have ever done.
She disappears into the closet, rummaging through the dresser for her tools of choice. The physical pain will be a welcome relief, but the emotional ache will last forever.
With a pair of cat ears on her bald head, she carries a medium sized black box to the end of the bed. “Do you know how bad I want to sound you?”
“Do you know I’ll probably never let anyone do that to me again?”
“… Too painful?”
Yes, too painful because they won’t be you.
“Just won’t…”
Ever be the same.
“Oh my God! Look what I found!” She rushes over to the bed, twirling the pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs on her finger. “You hated these. You were so offended.”
“I’m better than that.”
“Damn straight, I trained you,” she says, digging through the box. “But always remember…”
“I know. Don’t tell me. There is discipline in not breaking them.”
Her wide grin beams at me. “Still earning points!”
“Always, Mrs. Raniero.”
Her expression shifts, changing to a despondent, lost look. “I’m sorry for everything I did to you.”
“What do you mean?”
Tears flood over her cheeks. “I mean I played you and did so many things to push you, to make you think, and force your growth. I needed you to be a big badass and I know I hurried the whole process.”
“Hey hey,” I say, laying a finger beneath her chin. “Stop that. We are exactly where we should be.”
“Fuck!” She bursts out with a scream, clenching her fists to the ceiling. “This isn’t fair!”
Sitting up, I lean against the headboard and pull her between my legs. She is so tiny and frail like a twig, breaking with a simple snap. “I have stayed here with you all this time, and I’m fine. Stop beating yourself up over the mistakes you think you made.”
“You should remember that,” she whispers, putting the cat ears on my head. “You may say you won’t. You may say you won’t have regrets or feel guilt, but the truth will change when you are alone and off in your head, and the only thing you can think about is the shit you should have done.”
I nuzzle her neck, smelling her skin. I know this will cease to exist soon. I will lose her scent and the feel of her touch and the sharpness of her lessons. I will lose. And to say – I won’t – is only confessing my lies. I’m human, and this fucking hurts. I want to be a machine without emotion.
For months, I have gone back and forth between wishing she would stay forever and hoping she would pass on tomorrow. I’m an asshole for that. Or maybe I have a heart because of that. Better for her to go on her journey than to suffer through one more treatment. And the worst part is every time I find the courage to think—maybe this will work. Even now as she is nothing but bones and sagging skin in my arms, I’m praying this treatment works so I can smell her one more day.
I’ve made bargains and negotiations and done every single fucking thing she asked me to do. And I’m going to fail.
But we don’t talk about that.
“I’m going to tie you up and blindfold you,” she randomly spouts off. I loathe not being able to see, and she knows this. It’s not quite a hard limit, but not far off.
She slides away and pulls a black silk tie and two pieces of red braided rope from her box of fun. “You cannot be serious,” I grumble as she deviously grins. “You are.”
“I am!” Grabbing my ball cap off the dresser, she twists it on backward. Striding intently, she declares, “We are fucking doing this living thing.”
Her hands do quick work with the knots. Surprisingly, they’re pretty tight for a girl wearing bandages as her get-up. Still, if I wanted, I could get out of them. The rumbling sounds of a thousand voices chant in a language I don’t understand as the blindfold comes over my eyes. “Try not to think about it.”
“I hate this.”
“I’m aware.” Her tone is boasting. She has prodded and pleaded and begged for this so many times. Every time I say no. It is miserable for me, but I agree with it because…she’s dying.
I’m neither upright or lying flat but rather angled with pillows behind my back. I try and relax, breathing deep and rhythmic. Calm down my heart. Calm down my mind. And do not have a panic attack.
“You look like Jesus,” she giggles, holding my feet.
“What if I’m your God?”
“Please…if you were my God, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
The blackness is unyielding as the thunder of the voi
ces drums on in my head. I tilt my head ever so slightly. “You think I would change anything?”
“I don’t know,” she says, tracing something sharp over the bottom of my foot. “You tell me. Would you?”
“This is an unfair question,” he replies, licking his lips. “I’m no Jesus, God, or King and I can’t change shit.”
The metal shoe horn must tickle as his toes wiggle. I have always enjoyed the awkward and unusual. I think the creative aspects of the fetish are some of the most underutilized toys available. Much like they say anything can be turned into a weapon, anything can be turned into an implement used for sensation or deprivation. “Tell me something.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you think you have cheated on me?” I softly ask, pulling off my panties and tugging up the boxer shorts, holding the turquoise dildo he used to fear more than anything. “Be honest. This is about truth and trust. No more lies. We have no more time for games. I want to hear what you have to say, Lucas.”
“Wow…the first name…”
I giggle, staring at him tethered to the bed frame. Without those deep emerald eyes distracting me, I focus on the perfect shape of his lips. They are fucking incredible with defined points and pillow pouts. I loathe how insanely gorgeous he is. His goatee is overgrown, but the scruff on his cheeks portrays the image of a bad boy with finesse. He’s not a dirty, scraggly kind of sexy, but a vain daydream. His rough edges and questionable flirtations all come to light through those eyes I’ve taken to concealing.
“Yes and no.”
“That’s not an answer,” I scold, picking up the small leather bat and popping the sheet by his upper thigh. “Do better.”
“Fuck!”
I laugh, “You didn’t expect that. Answer.”
“Yes, with Allie. No with Amber.”
Taking the sheet in my hand, I rip it back, exposing his semi-erect cock. “Nice one.” I trail the leather up his leg and gently tap his sack. “Do better,” I insist, snapping his washboard abs. “Say it.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to hear it,” I state, striking his forearm.
“Hell! Is nothing off limits?” Dampening my finger in my mouth, I lean closer and plunge it deep into his ass. “Holy…”
“No. No limits.”
“I’ve never cheated on my wife,” he says with a crooked grin.
“Again,” I say as my heartbeat pounds. “Say it.”
His breathing is erratic, gasping. “I never cheated on Kaci.”
“Who do you love?”
“I will love Kaci for the rest of my life.”
I grin and flick my tongue against his cock piercing. He jerks and I give a warning graze of my teeth. “Who is Iris?”
“Iris is my future.”
I drop the bat and move between his legs. Coating the dildo in lube, I scan over his decadent body—the chiseled guns covered in ink and his chest offering the most comforting spot in the world. “Breathe, Raniero. You are psyching yourself out. Will you detour from the plan?”
“No,” he replies as I sink into his ass. “You so love pegging me.”
On my hands and knees, I move slow and precise as I take in the twitch of his lips and lift of his brow. “I cannot handle you seeing me now because I’m a shell of who I used to be, but in your ass, I’m here.”
“I’m going to find God,” he mumbles as his cock turns to stone. “It’s easier this way.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I regretfully say. “I’ve never been there.”
His brow forms a sharp, singular line. “In all these years, you’ve never been fucked in the ass?”
“Jack would never do it. Dom followed with his refusal.”
With his lip ticking up at the corner, he asks, “Would you like me to fuck you in the ass?”
“No, I want you to save it….for? Answer!” I command, swatting his hip with my hand.
“Iris Kettles.”
“Very good.”
“Where does my tool go?” I ask, gripping his shaft and stroking lightly. “Tell me.”
“Your tool—my dick—goes in Iris Kettles’ ass.” He snickers and smiles. “Is that all I’m supposed to do with her?”
“No, you twit!” I smack his chest. “You have to fucking marry her ass.”
He shakes his head. “Can I ask one question without punishment? Why her?”
“Because I picked her for you,” I argue, trying to find the sacred in the stains of us.
His jaw pops. “Do. Better.”
Bucking into his ass, I pick up the pace of my hips and hand. “Because I said so.”
He sighs, discouraged. “Do. Better.”
“Trust me,” I hiss, frustrated. “Have you cheated?”
“No,” he growls, flipping the question on me, “Have you?”
“Fuck this,” I say, pulling out of his ass and rising onto the bed. I try and fall as I pull off the shorts. The box crashes to the floor spilling our past. Undeterred, I firmly grasp his cock in my palm and guide him inside of me. “Yes!” I cry out. “Yes! Fuck me good, Pretty Boy!”
“Do. Better.”
His muscular legs brace against my backside as he thrusts his cock deep into me. His claiming, his taking, my way—as I surrender. “I’m guilty, so fucking guilty. I’m not going to heaven. They aren’t going to let me in because I’m a sinner. I belong in the nether.”
His arms strain against the restraints as his monster surfaces. This is the only way I can handle his beast – tied and tethered – otherwise, he would fuck me into my sudden death. “Why Iris? Tell me why!”
“She is the key.”
His expression shifts as I know he is close to coming. “The key to what?”
“The key to you.” Pushing hard into my folds, he grunts and explodes inside of me. “That’s better, Trotter.”
The sound of a crash suddenly awakens me as I pull against the ropes. “Fuck! Kaci!”
Moving my legs around the bed, I try and find her. She likes to curl into a fetal position on the corners of the bed. “Kace! Babe!” I yell louder as I twist my left hand. “Stop that, idiot! Be smart. Don’t hurt the dominant hand.”
I try with my right hand, curling my fingers inwards and pulling. By luck, I manage to get my thumb out, and the rest of the fingers soon follow, but I knock off Cristos’ ring in the process. With my free right hand, I tear the blindfold from my eyes and make quick work of releasing the left.
Rolling off the bed, I snatch my ring off the floor and see the box turned upside down. All of the contents are poured out on the floor, and I happen to notice an unmarked black box. I pull it open, and the heirloom filigree with diamonds and sapphires surrounding the ruby falls into my hands covered in blood.
Memories of our past flood my mind. “Motherfucker! Kaci!”
Dropping the piece back into the box, I clutch it in my hand and shout, “Why the hell do you have this necklace? I thought it went missing when Bertrand died!”
The loft is dark and silent, but I notice the sliver of light on in the bathroom off the main room. “You lied to me so many times! Just kept them coming! Who the hell…”
Swinging open the door, I spot her lifeless body on the floor and covered in blood—blood on her thighs, blood on the toilet, blood on the floor—there is red everywhere. The sanguine serum soaks into the towels we bought…
“No! Kaci!” I fall beside her into the puddle and slap her cheek. “Kace! God no! Not like this! Not now!”
I take off running and slip, skidding in the blood on the tile as I go to grab my phone and dial 911. “My wife…she has cancer…she is unconscious…help…she’s vomiting blood, and looks like she’s pissing blood, too! I need help!”
Staying on the line, I toss the box into the drawer with her pills and grab my work phone. “Kerris, she is down!”
I dress quickly in sweatpants and a white t-shirt. I forget my fucking shoes as I hoist her body into my arms and leave the loft. I hit the elevator button as I
stare at her grayish skin and her mouth covered in blood and puke. “Hurry the fuck up! She cannot leave me! God please!”
“Sal... Talk to God for me.” Her eyes flutter open as she lightly grips my finger. “I’m sorry—for everything.”
22. Breathing Backwards Flailing Failing
Wednesday, December 29
3 days before…
“How is she?” I ask as Jack Kerris trudges from the patients only restricted area to the waiting room.
With tears filling his blue eyes, he glances away from my own desperate, pleading gaze. He coughs, covering his face with his hands and parking them in his mess of auburn and blonde locks. If the man I’ve come to know and respect as Sir Jack cannot speak, the news from behind the double doors must be terrible. He clears his throat and mumbles, “You need to make decisions—now.”
“Oh, god… No!” I cry, bending over with my head between my knees. “No! No! No!”
“We tried,” he says, sitting down beside me and rubbing my back. “It was worth a shot to try the experimental treatment, but her body is rejecting them and shutting down.”
Breathing heavily, I look up to him for answers that I know he doesn’t have. “I’m falling apart…”
“I know, Kid, and you are not alone,” he replies, wrapping his arms around me tight. “You are too young to be dealing with this. I tried to tell her that when she insisted on getting close to you.”
“It hurts so bad…make it stop…make it stop…give her back to me.”
His tears are dripping down my bloodied arms as we rock in the waiting room. “They are moving her to a private room.”
“She doesn’t want to die in the hospital.”
He tries to speak, but his emotions take hold. He is broken, collapsing and crashing as I am. “I don’t think Kaci will make it home. She will die in the ambulance.”
“She’ll never forgive me.”
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