The Executioner (5 page)

His cock still hangs free as he chokes me with one hand and finger fucks me with the other. He leans down, whispering in my ear, “If you come, you’re going to crawl around behind me for the rest of the day.” In that moment, I know I will be on my hands and knees until the sun gives way to a new day…

Dr. Winslow

I tap my overrated, overpriced pen against the desk as I watch the seconds tick away on my wall clock. I know she is avoiding my treatment but she is my ticket to delving deep into the psyche of a subject who truly suffers from Reactive Attachment Disorder and I won’t let her go. My tactics in my study of her go against every regulation in my profession but I see it as a means to an end, a way to help the masses if you will. Well, if I am honest with myself, I see it as a way to be not only richer, but highly esteemed in my line of work. The years of being bully bait due to always being the youngest and the geekiest in school have taken their toll on me. If I have learned anything, I have learned that we carry our childhood traumas with us and we spend our adult lives trying to get over them.

Granted she will lose her mind in the process, but I will have a name that goes down in history. She has become an obsession of sorts but I’m too far gone now to turn back.

I reach for my phone, irritated that my schedule has been tampered with. Her phone only rings once and I’m shocked when I hear the voice on the other end of the line.

“What are you doing, Trent? Please tell me you haven’t been stupid enough to abduct my patient.”

“She’s here of her own free will. Someone has to protect her from her crazy psychiatrist. You don’t deserve to carry a license to counsel people. You’re more unstable than any of your patients.”

“You’ll never get away with this. She has a job, clients, and people who count on her. They will come looking for her, Trent.”

“She also has thirty vacation days that have piled up over the years due to not having attachments with other humans. You want to do a study on her Reactive Attachment Disorder? Well…I want to do one on what it will take for her to bond with another human being.”

“You’re not human! You’re a fucking monster, an outcast of society!”

“Yes, I am. I’m the monster your patient is bonding with. Now, since I can’t trust you to stay away from her, then I’ll just keep her here with me. She’ll be safe and secure away from the likes of a doctor who is really a quack.”

Executioner

I look down at her. She’s on a leash on all fours, rubbing her head against my leg as she eyes me with a look of adoration.

I shut the case on her phone and shove it in my back pocket.

“My name is Trent but you may call me Executioner.” I tug at the leash and lead her up the steps to show her where she will be sleeping. I can tell she is shocked when we make it to the top of the stairs and she views my home. I live in a mansion—a mansion I have turned into a secure compound. No one goes in or out unless I say so.

“Why are you in trouble, my little Vixen?”

“For touching you without your permission.”

“Good girl,” I murmur as I rub my hand over her chestnut highlighted hair. I’m looking forward to having her here with me. This is the first time I have been in someone’s presence and I haven’t wanted them to leave. The truth is I don’t bond well with others either. She’s different. I need to take care of her. I need to know where she is at all times. I need to know she is safe. I need her here with me.

Well…okay, if I’m totally honest, I brought her here to get into that pretty, little, fucking head of hers. I resent the fact that Dr. Quack was beginning to get to her. I also resent the fact that she went to a man who wanted to do nothing more than get rich writing her story. As penance for her sin of betrayal towards me, she is going to stay here with me and she is going to, for the first time in her life, open up. She will do this opening up by writing me a bedtime story every night and it has to be a real, raw, gut-wrenching autobiography.

Yes, I’m a crazy, fucked up individual with a high IQ. I’m also a man who has studied the BDSM lifestyle for more reasons than one. I’m a man who likes a girl with some fight in her and that goes far beyond tying her up and taking her; I want to get in her head. The same way I love a woman who makes me take her physically, I love a woman who puts up a fight mentally.

I want to split Kansas open from top to bottom. I want to immerse myself in her. I want to take every cell and molecule of her being and invade it until we are no longer two, but one. I want to bond with Kansas but, even more so, I want her to bond with me…

Kansas

“You want me to do what?” I look up from where I’m kneeling at the feet of the man I choose to call Executioner for reasons just such as these.

“I’m not writing a fucking memoir for you or anybody else!”

With no warning, his hand swipes out towards the side of my head, twisting until he has a handful of hair relentlessly gripped down to the roots.

“Fuck that hurts!”

His voice is laced with venom as he leans down and whispers, “Good, your pain pleases me.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You were willing to talk to him but you won’t talk to me?” A sardonic brow rises in warning.

“I didn’t open up to him.”

“Well, you’re going to open up to me or you’re going to suffer the consequences.”

He pulls at the leash, walking me through the industrial kitchen and into the foyer that houses the double winding staircases leading up to the room where I will be staying. Just how far will this crazy fuck go to prove a point? If he is willing to go so far as to make me crawl around on my hands and knees for the mere offense of touching him without his permission, then how far will he go if I try to leave?

“Where are my clothes?” I defiantly ask, as I pull against the leash.

“You’re a smart girl, you’re also sneaky. You can’t go anywhere without clothes. You can’t go anywhere period!”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I like you.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

He jerks on the leash he has attached to my collar so hard that it picks me up off the floor. I’m hanging mid-air as he holds me out with only one of his large hands. He’s eyeing me but saying nothing.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out the words, barely able to breathe.

His face is hard, his features still and unreadable, as he watches me begin to cry.

“You’re going to write me a fucking bedtime story. There had better be pieces of you in it or I won’t be happy. You won’t like me when I’m not happy.

I don’t like you now!
I have enough sense to think the words without speaking them. He’s right. I won’t like the results I’ll get if I’m the cause of him being unhappy, not that he appears to be happy at any time I have viewed him thus far.

Simply put, writing means I have access to a computer so I’ll do it. I’m not considering it so much for the prospect of being able to escape, it’s just that writing keeps me sane.

He drops me back down to the floor, leaving me in a pathetic pile at his feet, once he is convinced he has made his point. I rub my neck as I crawl behind him and we make our way to a large door. I am not prepared for what I see when he opens it. The room he has taken me to looks like something out of a fairytale but more age appropriate for a woman. It is the epitome of femininity.

The bed is huge with large, solid posts that look like the columns on a castle. A sheer canopy is pulled back to reveal a duvet that has small rose petals sprinkled throughout it. A mural is painted on the wall to the left and it has a painting of an open field with a woman perched against a tree reading a book.

The French provincial furniture has been painted an eggshell color with mint airbrushing highlighting each nook and groove in its design.

A wave of emotion floods me when I glance back over at the mural and I realize that the woman perched against the tree reading is actually me. A framed picture of me seated outside of a café confirms what I already know to be true—he has been watching me for quite some time. He used the picture he had taken as a guide for the mural. The knowledge informs me that he went to the trouble of not only following me to get the perfect picture, but hiring someone to paint the mural. It had to have taken him months to get this room ready for me. People don’t spend the two things we never have enough of—time and money—on someone they are not deeply intrigued with. As twisted as it is, I feel flattered that a man who avoids all others, will do anything to not only have me, but keep me.

Though the décor is amazing, it’s the office area that takes my breath away. A large, solid wood desk holds everything that I could possibly ever need to write to my heart’s content. Before I have time to think, I grab the calf of his leg and tightly hug him as a single tear makes its way down my face.

His large hand strokes the top of my head as he utters the two words that make me feel more loved than I have ever felt.

“Good girl.”

I make my way over to the desk, still on my hands and knees, and crawl up into the office chair. My hands run over the desk, stroking its top with a sense of awe, as I take in the large computer screen that looks more like a flat screen TV.

He places one single finger under my chin and tilts my head back, forcing me to look at him as he speaks.

“Do not mistake my kindness for weakness. Everything here is monitored and that most certainly includes your computer activity. You are here, sitting at this desk, for one purpose only and that’s to write me a bedtime story. You are here for my pleasure and you would do well to remember that.”

A sinister laugh escapes his lips before he makes his next statement. “It better be good. It better be good enough to make my cock hard, or I’ll have to use another, more painful, means to acquire that result.” I can hear his heavy boots striking the floor as he turns and leaves me without another word.

I have no idea why my writing is so important to him. Why does he even care? Why did he choose a bedtime story for me to write? Though questions fill my mind about him, even more questions about myself are prevalent. Why do I feel loved and adored by a man who has forced his way into my life, a man who has watched me from afar, a man who seems to know more about me than my own mother did when she was alive?

A part of me is glad no one will come looking for me. Already I feel safe here, protected by a man who is as much beast as he is man.

My fingers begin to touch keys as I begin writing a story that comes as naturally to me as the air that I breathe. Since he placed me on a leash and forced me to crawl around as a form of punishment, then that is what I will write about.