Taboo Unchained(3)

This is about the taboo, about rescuing the filthy side of the human soul, letting it come unchained for just a brief moment. If you exercise the darkness, you can put it to rest, you can pretend you understand what it's like to walk in the light. Or at least some people can. My clients claim to. Personally, I've never been able to see past the shroud around my soul, so I don't bother. I revel in the blackness, let it consume me body and soul. Sex is easy. Sex, I'm good at. Great even. Perfect.

I am a God.

I let myself smile again as Leslie opens the door nice and wide. This is our signal to proceed with the arrangement. If she opens the door only a crack, then I ask for somebody named Carol and leave. Today there is no Carol.

“Who are you?” Leslie asks, feigning surprise. She's a terrible actress, but I let it go. My hand comes out and slams into the wood of the door.

“Are you home alone today?” I ask, once again keeping to the script. When you travel outside the realm of the everyday, come to rest in the blackness of the profane, you should keep a road map. It keeps things nice and neat and tidy. As I've said: I'm a clean man. If you want to feel filthy, drown in dirty, then you keep clean. Contrast is the spice of life after all. Darkness – light. Night – day. Ugly – beautiful. I don't judge Leslie on her curved nose, her unkempt brows, her wide hips. She's at a stark contrast with Mrs. Braxton's looks, and that makes her the most beautiful woman in the world at this moment.

I desperately want to ravage her.

Good thing that, too, is in the script.

“Why, yes, yes I am.” Leslie swallows and lets go of the door while I take a step forward, letting my eyes trail down her small frame with hunger and rage. Clarice has thoroughly pissed me off, and I'm ready for an outlet. I've never once – read that again – once hurt an innocent with my demon. I keep my darkness chained until it's ready to be unleashed. Leslie desperately wants it unleashed on her.

I grab her arm roughly, taking note of our silhouettes in the mirror behind her head. I tower over her petite frame, my dark hair a stark contrast to her pale brunette, like an angel of death descending from above. I swallow hard and jerk Leslie against my chest. “Please leave,” she whispers against my suit jacket, her lips trembling. “You're hurting me.” I squeeze her arm harder. There's no need to be gentle with Leslie. We have a safety word she can use if it goes too far. Not once has she ever used it.

“Well isn't that a shame,” I say, pushing her backward and stepping into the tiny entryway of her townhouse. I lean closer and nip her ear with my teeth. “Because I don't give a shit.” Leslie squeals as I spin her around roughly and shove her over the table underneath the mirror. Picture frames crash to the floor as she cries out. I can't tell if it's in pleasure or pain, but it doesn't matter because Leslie is like me: she enjoys both.

“What are you doing to me?” she asks, still sticking to our script. I skip ahead a few beats and tear open the button on my slacks, shoving her skirt up her hips while she wiggles in mock struggle. “Stop it, Danny,” Leslie cries, calling me the name of some man she dreams about but won't explain. Danny. I'm always fucking Danny.

“You asked me who I was,” I say as I grab her panties and tear them off, throwing the loose fabric to the floor. I shove my cock roughly between her cheeks, searching for that hot wetness. “And now you know my name?”

“I've seen you before,” she whispers, real tears evident in her voice. I don't know what memories she relives during our encounters, and I don't care. That part of this arrangement is not my problem. We all have pasts that slither around in our nightmares, desperate to haunt us. “At work. Did you follow me home?” I grind my cock against her hot heat, letting myself meet my own gaze in the mirror. I look fucking wicked. A smirk bites across my lips. Green eyes sparkle with envy, like I'm simply made of sin, and I don't fucking care. Why fight my basic nature?

“I smelled a slut when I saw you. Tell me I'm wrong?”

“Why are you doing this to me?” she asks, her voice thick with desire and want, laced with old pain. A heady concoction. I thrust my hips forward and dive into her with a long, sharp thrust. Leslie screams, her hands scrambling at the wood of the table. “Stop! Please!” She arches her back and pushes against me, fighting to get away. “Danny, don't! I don't want this!” I grab the back of Leslie's head and shove her face against the mirror, enjoying the reflection as I pound against her ass with violent thrusts. There's no foreplay here, no worrying about her orgasm, or what she'll think of me when we're done. I'll unleash the demon on Leslie, and she'll pay me for it. That's how this works. Sometimes, deep down, I get the urge for something more. Like if I found the right recipe, I might be able to pay the piper without robbing Peter to pay Paul. Or something like that. But those fantasies fade as quickly as they come, and I'm back to this. The taboo. I let my chains hang loose. “Get off of me!”