Page 32 of Natural-Born Cullers

Where Jack denied the Dom in Gray over the years away from the bedroom—Gray controlled every part of him and his routines completely as the psychopath now, all set in play the moment Jack had answered that text at work.

Each fuck into him controlled Jack’s working hours: when he was there, when he wasn’t. Each fuck into him controlled Jack’s patience: how long he waited to be touched, when it was time to call enough and be touched. Each fuck into him even controlled how Jack walked the manor alone, without Jan….

And now, fucking him over the Mercedes, he controlled Jack’s ownership of the garage, his role within it, reducing him to nothing but a whore being forced to take it over a car, to taking itasa whore over a car in a garage.

Jack’s routine fucked out of existence, where no one would ever get close to touching him again.

And Jack… he cried out, writhing and twisting into every… fucking… taste of it.

In these moments, maybe he understood what riot constantly played in Gray’s head. How Jack made him stutter and stumble, needing to force his way into every corner of Jack’s head, his life… body, just to try and fuck that colour out of him, keep him safe in the black-and-white background that psychopaths ignored. Gray didn’t care.

This wasn’t about Jack.

This… this was about core roots, about wearing no collar—about what pissed him off: how Jack provoked and frustrated, yet confused Gray enough to not want to kill him where he would others if they were damn stupid enough to step into this lane with him. How Jack saw him in his full brutality, his viciousness, his madness, but never once cowered in the corner, just surrendered his routine to him to find a few hours peace from it himself, his own…

Drip… fucking drop.

Gray pulled out a knife and sliced through Jack’s T-shirt, tugging it off him as the knife went on the bonnet. Then stepping back, he slipped his belt free. Jack groaned, seeming to barely register the sound of the cut of the belt through air—but he jerked and yelped as Gray hit full force across his ass. Jack’s grip went to the wipers to ground him, because Gray hit him again—the second, third, fourth making Jack cry out, the fifth, sixth, seventh pushing him beyond any kind of cry as he focused solely on trying to make his body take the belting that shifted down the full length of his back.

And yet the manor stayed so quiet.

Staff had been cleared out.

CCTV switched off….

Everything pre-planned, where even insanity over the silence was owned. Gray knew he’d given the order; he just couldn’t remember when.

He grabbed at Jack’s hair and pulled him up, back into him, and Jack hissed as the heat off the welts to his back met the coldness of Gray’s suit. Gray scowled at the reaction, more at how Jack had come. The whore, exposed. Again.

Drip… fucking drop.

“Huh?” Jack shoved him off and got in his face a moment later. “That it? That all you got? The call of fucking whore? Fucking earn the right to lie with me, you cunt.” He pressed his forehead to Gray’s. “Fucking c’mon.”

And right here. This was why he loved Jack. How he stepped into the lane away from normal cattle, not shying from him, trying to run.

A grip at his hair, Gray forced Jack’s look up as he licked at his throat. Christ, he wanted back in that tunnel, on the floor in the mix of blood, fucking Jack over bloodied and broken wings, all…

Drip… fucked-up drop.

“Dangerous play, stunner.” Gray let a smile creep in. “Such bloody damn dangerous play.”

Jack’s fire burned, simmered, and tasting it under his tongue, Gray shoved Jack back, then turned him into the manor. Jack’s first stumble was towards the staircase, then Gray’s next shove sent him towards the BDSM suite.

Tension instantly left Jack’s body, and his eyes called it out. There was nothing in there Jack didn’t know.

Nothing he hadn’t taken.

Nothing he couldn’t take.

Safe toys…

Sane toys….

Tick…

Fucking tock.

Gray’s shove sent him past it, through into a hall, before a grip at his arm took him into a small hall beyond that, then….

---