Taboo Unchained(4)

I hold Leslie down and continue fucking her while she bucks and screams, thrashing and flailing as her pussy clamps around my cock and draws that darkness out of me with a clench of muscles and the tightening of my fingers on her scalp. I don't cry out, don't make any noise at all. I usually don't, not unless they specifically ask me to.

When I'm finished pumping inside of her, I pull away and let her sag to the floor.

“You have my account number?” I ask, and Leslie nods, tugging her brown floral skirt back into place. She doesn't look up at me. “You can transfer the money then. It's the usual fee.”

I tuck myself back into my slacks and walk out the door.





I live in a house – not an apartment, not a condo, not a duplex. A stand-alone home with red shutters and white siding. It's in the most innocuous neighborhood with the most innocuous neighbors. It all goes back to my world of opposites and contrasts. I work in the world of the taboo, and I rest in pure normalcy.

“Hi Luke.” I smile at the shy girl from next door. She's sixteen at most, maybe seventeen. She flirts with me on occasion, when I'm tending the roses that border our shared fence, or when I'm washing my car. I never flirt back.

“Good evening, Robbie,” I respond gently. Nicknames. I normally don't use them, but Roberta calls me Luke, so I call her Robbie. In my mind, she's still a child, and you don't fault children for the things they say – you embrace them. I feel like children as a collective whole are my polar opposites, like if I'm rotting on the inside, they're fresh and new. I try to take any sign that the universe isn't as deplorable as I've come to believe it to be. “I take it you've had a busy day?” I raise my eyebrows at the row of fresh flowers along the fence. Roberta blushes.

“My mother planted them,” she says with a shrug and a smile. I keep mine plastered on my face as I toss her a wave and disappear into the sanctity that is my front porch. This house is old, much older than me which is something I find comfort in. It's easy to get into a routine, delve into a darkness that overrides everything else. When I come home and touch my fingers to the heavy oak door, I can feel the presence and the passing of the people that came before me. I take solace in the fact that one day, I too will die.

I unlock the door and let myself in, enjoying the sudden quiet that descends once the house is closed up behind me. There are only small sounds here: sprinklers, laughing children, the occasional slam of a car door. I used to own a penthouse apartment in the center of the city, but I gave that up when my fiancée left me. The forced intimacy with my neighbors, with the doorman, that was almost enough to break me, but the noise was nearly deafening. Not inside the apartment, of course, but outside. The traffic, the constant construction, the shouting. The beast is easily riled up, so I find that this peaceful suburbia works better for me. I might be the only single man within twenty miles, but that's okay. I'm not looking for a relationship.

“Home sweet home,” I growl when I'm certain that nobody's listening. The gloves come off as I fling my briefcase onto the couch and move into the kitchen like a nightmarish specter of a man. I pause next to the sound system mounted on the wall and flick through my music with a shaking finger. I pause on I Walk Alone by Tarja and switch the volume up as high as it can go.

My eyes flutter closed and my lips part gently, a stark contrast to the rage that's contained in my hands. My fingers tremble as I curl them tightly against my palm. The anger builds in the back of my throat, fighting for release. This happens every night: after I've allowed the demon to walk freely, he's difficult to reign back in. Once I've got him, I can control him, but we always have this brief tussle. As if I could ever forget that he's there.

My head falls back and my fingers rake through my hair as I let out a scream of rage, releasing a growl and the sounds of animalistic frenzy that I refuse to show in front of my clients. As far as they know, I'm all controlled ire. I am their dark God, the ruler of their filthy soul. My knees go weak, but I don't let myself fall. Instead, I drop my chin to my chest and brace my hand against the pale yellow of the wall.

Sweat drips down my face and pools on my lips. I lick it clean away and take in a shuddering breath. Better. Much better. I smile and stand up straight, turning away and examining my kitchen with a critical eye. I have an industrial size fridge on one wall and a professional range on the other. For the most part, I've tried to keep the integrity of this house intact, but nobody likes a small, cramped little kitchen. Not even Lucas Carter.

I slip my suit jacket off and drape it over the back of one of the chairs that sits around my small, wooden table. It's made of solid mahogany, stained nice and dark. I run my fingers over the smooth shine of the wood and smile softly. Alone. I like being alone because there's nobody there to judge me, to watch my every action with critical eyes. My clients help me control the pain, but they don't know a damn thing about me.