Page 33 of Natural-Born Cullers

“No,” breathed Jack.

Seeing the locked dark oak door, Jack pulled back, nearly scrambling full force into Gray as Gray reached around him to open it.

A few steps led down into darkness, and… and….

“No. No, no, no, no,noGod, please,Gray.”

Gray let his breath brush his ear, a smile right along with it. “Go on.” He kissed the back of his neck. “Tell me no again, Jack.”

Chapter 11

No

Jack stumbled down the concrete stairs, and only Gray’s grip to his arm stopped him from falling, then Gray dragged him over to the far wall and kicked at the back of his knee, forcing him down to his knees.

Gray snorted a smile at Jack’s sudden quiet as he removed his suit jacket.

Behind him, the stylish low-platform Oregon bed and tatami mats called Japanese culture: neutral earthy tones, cream walls, dark oak flooring—something Jan would no doubt see as inspired by organic materials. A Japanese larch bonsai offered peace in one corner by the bed, where wall décor from photographerYuriko Takagi lined the walls. Jack’s brief look around had recognised it: he’d bought GrayThe Birth of Gravity 16, 2000a few birthdays ago at a cost of nearlyfour thousand pounds, and it hung on the main wall, close to where he’d been forced to kneel.

Everything seemed so… peaceful. Tranquil, just the taste of a traveller who carried what he saw back with him to home shores.

Only Jack’s quiet read it, all drip…

Fucking drop.

Body, mind… twisted soul, Japanese torture methods hung in the air. Gray kept the hints so bloody subtle. Most would miss it, but Jack…. He’d been around Gray for far too long to miss it.

Almost outshadowed by the Japanese larch bonsai, a few bamboo sprouts dotted here and there around the bedroom, their pikes longer, so much thicker than cactus needles. At their youngest, like they were now… they looked their wildest and pineapple-shaped thickness cruel, but it was what a Japanese soldier had done with them that gave them their bloodiest trademark.

“Fuck,” muttered Jack, his eyes screwed shut, away from the threat behind him.

Different ghosts haunted this space with Gray: men and women impaled on the bamboo sprouts, a weight on their shoulders added each time to make sure anal penetration went deep. That, that was the most… humane ghosting going on in the bedroom. Others laid the man down over a bed of them, where over days, the sprouts were loved, tended to, fed, watered—all for them to start growing and pierce into the man’s body, head to foot. They grew through him, really bringing in theinspired by organic materialchill that no doubt made Jack shiver and would turn Jan away from art interpretation altogether if he was ever allowed down here to read it.

And where Jack hid in silence, Gray’s cock thickened.

Becausethis had never been about safe; it had never been about sane.

Gray pressed a button, and a slat opened up in the wall. A dog collar and chain came into view, and with a knee in Jack’s back pushing him forward, Gray wrapped the choker around his neck, tethering him to the post that the slack hid.

“Christ.” Shaking, Jack pressed his head hard into the post and screwed his eyes shut as Gray cuffed his hands behind him and removed his footwear, then drifted a leather touch down his back, how…

Drip… fucking drop.

Jack stayed so quiet, breath so carefully controlled, mouth, attitude, everything completely dropped now Gray needed the insane, unsafe marking Jack’s skin.

Gray registered the reaction, barely. He had three rooms like this that belonged solely to the culler. Jack had spent a total of six days in the Russian room. It was Gray’s personal favourite. The second belonged to the Victorian England era, and it was where the Heretic’s Fork had originated from, but he’d always kept Jack away from this particular one.

Bringing Jack here, way out of any comfort zones and familiarity, Gray made sure it hit home that any and all traces of routine had no home here, only Jack, stripped raw, no—

Tick… fucked-up tock.

As Gray stroked a gloved fingertip down Jack’s back, through the line of perspiration coating tanned, belt-heated skin, Jack hissed, his breathing quickened, and all the colours of routine around him widened into a constant rotating kaleidoscope to get out of Gray’s reach. No doubt a thousand and one scenarios worked so quickly through Jack as he tried to wrack his memory for a list of worst Japanese torture methods. He should have opted for one of the most basic to start with, because when Gray picked up the thin bamboo cane by him, the hell did he cry out and try to dance away as it sliced into his ass.

The second hit, leaving Jack fighting to get free on his knees. The slice was sharper than any riding crop, thinner, yet it mated with the thicker belt welts already on his ass, making him writhe, and the full thickness of Gray’s cock loved every mark on skin, every twist of body to get out of the cane’s way as Jack cried—

“You bastard.”

Drip…

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