Page 21 of Mastered by Them
I bite my tongue. He’s not the smartest guy, but he’s determined as fuck, I’ll give him that. Who am I to dissuade him from his dream?
He leans back, just in time to dodge a swipe from Cackle. “Now, as soon as my guy kills someone else, this case is as good as cracked, and I am in business.”
All my sympathy and goodwill evaporate. “Elias, for fuck’s sake, nobody’s killing people for your entertainment. Stop treating this like some kind of sick reality show.”
I yank on his hoodie string, activating Cackle’s rage. To the sound of Elias’s shrieking, I stomp out of the room and return to my diary.
Elias. Edmund. I pick up my pen and write, Boys whose names start with E are stupid.
Edmund
I get home sometime around four a.m., absolutely disgusted with how the night went. I could’ve been taking Danica out for dinner and bringing her home after, but instead I had to tour every single fucking one of our restaurants to get to the bottom of why all our good chefs, bartenders, and servers are disappearing.
Nobody’s being killed, but it turns out they’re all being poached. A new restaurant is going up in the Bellefleur—the worst area of San Esteban. It’s part of some city betterment initiative.
And guess who’s behind the initiative. Perry Fucking Vorsong. Head of Vorsong Circle. He’s already cozying up with the mayor. They’ve been going on weekend golf trips for the past month. Our good friend the mayor won’t be mayor for long if he continues to behave like a snake—he’s been on our payroll for over a decade. We won him the mayoral election, and this is how he repays us?
Troy stomps off to his room without a word. He’s still pouting about what I told him—Danica will be mine, and only mine, once that marriage license is signed. He doesn’t like it? Too fucking bad. I’m going to have a real marriage, not a sham like my parents have.
I take off my clothes, step into my shower. Hot water cascades over me, warming my blood. A fantasy of Danica pops into my head. How her skin would look against these dark tiles. She was in this shower that night when Troy brought her home out of the rainstorm. She’d been a wreck that night.
This fantasy is different, though. I have her in front of me. She’s happy. She’s facing the wall, arms braced against the tile, ass out. She wiggles it, taunting me. “Are you going to fuck me, Daddy, or are you going to stand there and stare?”
I grip my dick in my hand, wishing this was real. I could have her screaming in pleasure in seconds, crying out my name and calling me Daddy. Something I never knew I’d like, but here we are. She’s my princess. Daddy’s princess. I think about the way she’d shiver at my touch, how her legs would shake and her ass would jiggle with each one of my thrusts.
“That’s right, princess. Take Daddy’s cock like a good girl.” I slide my hand back and forth over my dick, imagining it’s her cunt surrounding me, all velvety heat.
In the fantasy, Troy shows up. Even in my head, he’s interfering. I’m too turned on, too into my imagination to boot him out of it, so I let it happen. He gets between Danica and the wall. Picks her up. I’m no longer in her pussy—he is. I slide into her ass instead. The two of us stroke in and out until she’s gasping and writhing in our arms.
The moment I hear her scream out her orgasm is the moment I come all over the tile.
I lean a hand against the shower wall, depleted and breathless. “Danica.”
Danica
I know it’s a nightmare, but I can’t wake myself up. My limbs won’t move, and a vise-like grip holds me by my throat. Firm. Unyielding. I can’t breathe. Mud fills my mouth, my nose. It’s in my ears. I can’t hear.
Please. Please, I don’t want to die. I just want my mom and dad. Where’s Dmitri? Why won’t anyone help me? Where is my brother?
The mud in my mouth tastes rotten, like old vegetation. I want to gag and spit, but I can’t with that heavy grip at my neck.
The mud is slick with liquid. I’m sinking into it. If I could shake off this grip, pull myself out, the nightmare would be over. All I have to do is get away.
But I can’t move. My legs don’t kick like I want them to. My arms are buried.
I’m going to die. Mom! Dad! Dmitri! Help! When I open my mouth to scream for them, more mud spills in. Toxic. Earthy. Rotten.
I wake with a gasp. I want to fling my arms out, to reassure myself that I’m here in my bed, not buried in the mud. But it’s impossible to move. I remain awake but pinned in place for over an hour, waiting for my body to come awake, waiting for the fear to subside, waiting for the nightmare to end.
8
Troy
I lean back against the bar at Salt, facing the action. It doesn’t turn me on like it used to. Sure, there’s interesting shit going down. Masters show off their slaves and their pets, daddies and mommies show off their little girls and boys. Any body type, any race, any gender, any sexual orientation. Everyone can be who they are without worrying about judgment. It’s a good feeling, a good vibe.
It all happens beneath purple, blue, and black lights. The lights shift every few seconds, calling the viewer’s attention to another aspect, another area of the club. Nobody can remain hidden for long, and nobody truly wants to be hidden. It’s a club of exhibitionism, of fantasies, of power exchange.
Just down a long hallway to the side are several open alcoves. Viewers know not to step in unless invited. Those inside the special rooms are free to act out whatever fantasy they desire, aided by the rooms’ themes. There’s a jail cell, an office, a classroom. We have a 1950s kitchen and a generic “religious” altar.
