Taboo Unchained(56)
“Lay the fuck down, Margarite,” I tell her, examining the mattress on the floor with distaste. Margarite Simmons has and always will be slightly outside my comfort zone. Her darkness is so complete that when I absorb it, it goes straight to my soul. Margarite can never be cured, not unless she wants to be, unless she finds another reason to live. Too cowardly for suicide, too afraid to face the blackness looming inside, I'm one of a handful of small precautions keeping her from diving into the deep end. As far as I know, she's not a serial murderer, not yet.
Margarite rolls her eyes at me and saunters over to a mini-fridge in the back, withdrawing a beer and popping the top. Pabst Blue Ribbon. What a classy choice. She guzzles some of the liquid back, her pale throat moving with the motion. This is my least favorite part of the exercise, getting her down and gagged. Margarite likes the fight; I don't.
I set my briefcase down by my feet and take off my jacket, finding the cleanest spot of floor to lay it down on. The choices aren't all that appealing, I'll admit. I pause next to the cloudy glass of the sliding doors and stare out at the overgrown backyard. A single pink rose emerges from the foliage like a curse, like a sign from some god that I don't believe in. If there were curtains here, I would close them.
“Hmm.” I turn away from the window to find Margarite leaning against the opposite wall next to the garage door. Her skinny body is swathed in rolls of gray sweatsuit that hangs like loose skin from narrow shoulders and hips. The outfit's as unflattering as the narrow purse of her lips as she looks me up and down once, twice, three times. I bend down and unlock my briefcase, all the while keeping my eyes on Mrs. Simmons. God only knows what she'd do if I took my eyes off of her. A machete could very well be the least of my worries. Occasionally I wonder if Margarite is going to kidnap me someday, keep me locked in a basement or an attic. Or even if she already has someone there. “And what, may I ask, are you staring at?”
“A man with a problem,” Margarite says, finishing her beer and crushing the can before depositing it in the old utility sink atop a mountain of others. Her lime green eyes catch the last rays of sunlight with a vicious twinkle. “Are you in love, Lucas Carter?”
“I don't know how to love,” I answer evenly. What I don't say aloud is anymore. I was capable of love once upon a time, for a girl named Aliyah Owens. She was mutilated and shot by her older half-brother, left for dead in a shallow grave where she later suffocated. All because he was strangely jealous of me, because he didn't think I was good enough for Aliyah. Better she was dead than live her life with a piece of white trash from across the tracks. If I grip the roll of duct tape harder than I should, well, who would know?
“Bullshit,” Margarite says, sauntering in a lazy zigzag pattern towards me. Her expression has a hard edge to it, like she'd be quite happy if I dropped dead right now. “You're in love. Or at least you're starting to learn what love is.”
“I know what love is,” I snap at her, shoving her back when she tries to kiss my neck – or bite it. You never know with Margarite. I grab her by the hair and drag her down to the mattress, shoving her stomach against the clean sheets. If I didn't request that the linens be new and pristine, Margarite would be more than happy to wallow here in the filth of her other male and female visitors. I wrap the duct tape around her wrists, fastening them behind her back for better control, and then move on to her ankles. Once I'm absolutely positive that Margarite is restrained, I grab her feet and pull them towards her wrists, effectively hog-tying her with another few rounds of tape. I've tried other methods – chains, straps, ropes, but Margarite prefers the tape. I don't know why, and I don't ask. My job here is to draw out the darkness, to take someone who'd rather not be in control anymore, who wants to let go and forget the demons for awhile.
Once she's strapped in, she starts to laugh, rather maniacally. I don't care, since I'm going to gag her soon, but I do have to ask.
“Why no fight today? I thought that was one of your favorite parts?” I pull out a male chastity belt and look at it with distaste, sliding my flaccid cock from my slacks and cleaning myself with a wet wipe. I don't want any of Robbie here with me, not even in the loosest sense. “No roundhouse kicks? No chokeholds? I thought you liked to try and beat me up?”
“Oh, I enjoy your pain, Lucas, but I have other friends now who enjoy submitting. Today, I have something slightly different in mind.”
“Is that so?” I ask, pulling out a surgical needle and thread, a knife, a stainless steel Wartenberg wheel, and a violet wand. Normally all I feel at this point is excitement. The beast loves taking control, inflicting pain on others, fucking until he can't raise his head for another howl of agony inside my chest. But right now? All I feel is … strange. The darkness is still there, writhing and twisting inside of me, but it isn't crying out for the usual mind numbing fervor I give my clients.