The Executioner (2 page)

I cringe in the corner of a basement, tugging at the short chain which secures my ankle to an O-Ring in the concrete flooring.

There he is again—the recurring figure who appears whenever the notion strikes him. He is a looming and sinister phantom who comes and goes at will. He uses me for his pleasure and then he disappears somewhere into a mist of obscurity.

“What do you want?” I whisper, as I hang my head to keep from eyeing his massive form. I have been warned not to look him directly in the eye unless given permission by him to do so.

“I think we both know what I want. I want you! Therefore… you are here at my disposal. Have you been a good girl? Don’t lie to me. We both know I watch you and we most certainly both know what will happen if you give what belongs to me to another.”

I am trembling, partly from being cold due to my nude body being in contact with the concrete flooring, and partly from being scared. This is in no way our first encounter together. No, this man inserted himself into my life long ago and, from the first abduction, I have known he is not just dangerous, he is sinister.

“Did I ask you a question?” he growls at me, rising and making his way towards me. His massive form is as agile as if he was thin, his colossal build not hampering his grace in the least.

“I have been good; I have been good.” I scream out at the large, looming figure who dons an executioner’s hood. It is his way of hiding his visage from me.

He bends down, viciously grabs a handful of my hair, and places my lips on his black combat boot—the boot that houses his neatly tucked in blue jeans. His hands are not of a gentle persuasion and his demeanor is that of a man on a mission—to take…take…take…

I frantically kiss at his boot. “Please don’t hurt me; please, I’ll be good.” He scares the shit out of me and if begging is what this crazed man wants, then so be it.

I can see his cock hardening in his fitted jeans and I know his domination of me is already beginning to excite him. He has a sadistic streak and I don’t want to be on the receiving end of it. It pleases him to hurt me. He gets off on fucking with my head and, for reasons unbeknownst to me, I get off on him doing it.

“I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you want. You’ll let me sleep at home tonight if I’m good, right?”

He twists my hair at the roots and I wince like a little puppy. He laughs but it has a sinister undertone to it and it in no way puts my mind at ease.

“How cute… my little victim wants to bargain with me.”

Though his voice is calm, danger lurks beneath the recesses of his being; it isn’t what he does, it is who he is.

I quickly go back to kissing the black combat boot which has been polished to a mirror’s reflection. I will pacify this beautiful monster in any way I can to ensure my safety. He pulls my head back, eyeing me through the slits his executioner’s hood.

He bends down, smelling me, “Poison, how befitting for our rendezvous.”

It never fails. No matter what brand of perfume I wear, he pegs it. The thing I note is that I don’t wear anything but the best and he never fails to identify the brand. It has become a game to him. He now sends it through the mail, of course, never with a return address because it keeps his anonymity and anonymity gives him what he craves—control. He forbids me to wear anything that isn’t of his choosing… and I obey.

He begins to bite and chew down my neck, making his way down to my breast. He clamps down on my nipple just enough to cause me to cry out in pain.

My eyes are closed and I am biting my bottom lip so I never see the knife that he retrieves from his back pocket.

“Such teeny, tiny, little, pink nipples.” He pushes the point of the knife into my nipple.

“No, no, no, no,” I squirm, begging him to move the knife.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You could get cut. You may not squirm, but you may continue to beg. Hmm, I know exactly how to make you beg, don’t I?”

He bends down slobbering, sucking, and pulling at my breast and as my body always does, it responds. It responds to this man who invades my world.

“Oh please, please, I don’t understand. I don’t understand,” I groan, as my eyes roll back in my head. Do I honestly believe a crazed maniac can give me closure on why my body responds to him?

“Is your pussy wet?” he viciously growls in my ear, holding the knife against my throat. “You like the things I do to you and I damn sure like doing them.” He lays the knife down out of my reach.

He lies down on me, so close that his hot breath is a vapor of spearmint I willingly breathe in. He begins grinding his hard cock into me, the denim coarse against my nude body.

“Please let me have it, please.” I eye him through the hood slits. “I’m begging you; I’m truly begging you.”

He straddles me, pinning me down even though it isn’t necessary. He glares down at me through the cut outs in the hood that reveal his one ice cold blue eye and one brown. ‘Heterochromia’ is what the scientific name for it is. “Ironic,” I think as I eye him; his soul seems to be the same way. There is a caring territorial side but there is a very cold and sadistic side too.

He pulls the thick leather belt that he wears through and out of the loops of his jeans. He twists it around his fist as he laughs, taunting me, “Are you willing to take an ass whipping for it? Will you take an ass whipping for my cock?”

“Yes,” I immediately answer.

“Hmmph, you want my cock pretty damn bad, don’t you?”

“I want your cock. I want you to violate me. I like the things you do to me.”

It humiliates me to say the things I say to him—to beg him for his cock. To beg him to fuck me after he’s abducted me and forced his way into my life is utterly debasing. What kind of sick individual wants to be taken in this manner?

“Shut your fucking eyes now!”

I obey him. He scares the shit out of me but it only intensifies the pleasure that he brings me.

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and I wait. Each violation is different and anticipation of his antics is part of the game he plays—a game with rules unknown to me, his victim of choice.

“Don’t you dare open your eyes; don’t you fucking dare!”

I have no intentions of opening my eyes. I have been on the receiving end of his belt cutting through my flesh before and I’ll do anything to avoid it. I may be willing to take the belt in play but I never want him wielding it in anger.

I feel powerless not being able to see what he will do to me and I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, resisting the temptation to open them. I know instinctively there is a part of him that hopes I open my eyes.

He gets off on disciplining me, stalking me, abducting me, and ultimately controlling me. I never know what he will do from one day to the next, hell, from one moment to the next. He is obsessed with me and I am obsessed with his obsession of me.

We are two kindred, fucked-up souls who feed off of one another. He covets me like he’s addicted to controlling and manipulating me and I want him to want me so desperately that he is willing to do anything to keep me.

My psychiatrist says there is a very thin line between love and obsession and I don’t walk it. For me there can be no love without obsession.

I’m not talking about obsession in the sense of an item being at the forefront of your mind throughout the day. I’m talking about the kind of obsession people live and die for, the kind of obsession that makes a sane man crazy and a good girl dirty.

I don’t believe in love. I believe in gut wrenching, mind blowing, I’ll blow your fucking brains out obsession. The kind of obsession that takes on a criminal nature and never ends well. I root for the bad guy and I definitely want to see him get the girl.

I want to see the villain follow a man in the bathroom and shove his face in the toilet as he informs him he is going back out into the bar to take his woman. I want to hear him emphasize how there isn’t a damn thing he can do about it. I want to hear him tell the man how he is going to tie her ass down, spread her open, and eat her alive until she forgets his name and screams out her abductor’s name.

Maybe I do need therapy…

Executioner

I look down on her while I undress, remembering the first day I saw her. I knew on that day I had to have her and have her I will.

I rip her legs apart, bending them at the knees. Her pussy is dripping onto the concrete floor. Knowing I am her first, knowing I am the one who introduced her to this lifestyle, is an aphrodisiac to me.

She groans as if she is agonized and I raise her unchained leg over my shoulder and forcefully thrust my cock into her, splitting her open and taking what is mine.

“Aahhh fuck! Please don’t hurt me,” she begs, wincing in pain.

“Say it now!” I hiss.

“Please, please, please, fuuuuuuuck, please, let me come, Executioner… Please, I’ll do anything.”

I slow down pumping into my little victim and eye her. She has her eyes squeezed so tight, like she is scared she will accidently open them and get into trouble.

I begin to taunt her as I rub her clit, watching her face while I fuck her; I love to watch her come.

The crazy girl dubbed me ‘The Executioner,’ because of the hood I wear. I watch her body rack with pleasure over and over before I finally unload into her.

As much as I love the pleasure and the pain we bring one another, I hate when it is over. I can’t reveal my true identity to her but we both know I will be watching her and she had better be on her best behavior until next time.