End of story.
He walked over to the wall, picked up one of the lengths of steel chain, and let it slid through his
palm, link by link. Although he was a sadist by nature, he didn't get off hurting his subs. His
sadistic side was fed by his lesser kills.
For him, the control over their minds and their bodies was what he was after. The things he did
to them sexually or otherwise, the things he said, what he made them wear… it was all carefully
calibrated for effect. Sure, there was pain involved, and yeah, maybe they cried from the
vulnerability and the fear. But they begged him for more.
Which he gave to them, if he felt like it.
He glanced at the masks. He always put them in masks, and they were never to touch him unless
he told them where and how and with what. If he had orgasms during the course of a session, it
was unusual and regarded by the subs with great pride. And if he fed, it was only because he had
to.
He never degraded those who came here, never made them do some of the nasty things he knew
damn well some Doms favored. But he did not comfort them in the beginning, the middle, or the
end, and the sessions were on his terms only. He told the people where and when, and if they
pulled any jealous entitlement horseshit, they were out. For good.
He checked his watch and lifted the mhis that surrounded the penthouse. The female who was
coming tonight could track him because he'd taken her vein a couple months ago. When he was
through with her, he would fix it so she would leave with no memory of the location where she'd
been.
She would know what happened, though. The marks of the sex would be all over her.
As the female materialized on the terrace, he turned around. Through the sliders she was an
anonymous shadow of curves in a black leather bustier and a long, loose black skirt. Her dark
hair was coiled up high on her head, as he'd required.
She knew to wait. Knew not to knock.
He opened the door with his mind, but she also knew better than to come in without being
summoned.
He looked her over and caught her scent. She was totally aroused.
His fangs elongated, but not because he was particularly interested in the wet sex between her
legs. He needed to feed, and she was female and she had all kinds of veins to tap into. It was
biology, not bewitchment.
V extended his arm and crooked his finger at her. She came forward, trembling, as well she
should. He was in a particularly sharp mood tonight.
«Lose that skirt,» he said. «I'm not feeling it.»
She immediately unzipped the thing and let it fall to the floor in a rush of satin. Underneath, she
wore a black garter and black lace-topped hose. No panties.
Hmm… Yeah. He was going to cut that lingerie off her hips with a dagger. Eventually.
V walked over to the wall and picked out a mask with only one opening. She was going to have
to breathe through her mouth if she wanted air.
Tossing it to her, he said, «On. Now.»
She covered her face without a word.
«Get up on my table.»
He didn't help her as she fumbled around, just watched, knowing she'd find her way. They
always did. Females like her always found the way to his rack.
To pass the time, he took a hand-rolled out of his back pocket, put it between his lips, and picked
a black candle from its holder. As he lit his cigarette, he stared at the little pool of liquid wax at
the foot of the flame.
He checked on how the female was progressing. Well-done. She'd positioned herself faceup,
arms out, legs spread.
After he restrained her, he knew exactly where to start tonight.
He kept the candle in his hand as he stepped forward.
Under the caged lights of the Brotherhood's gym, John Matthew assumed the ready position and
focused on his training opponent. The two of them were as well matched as a pair of chopsticks,
both thin and insubstantial, easily broken. As all pretrans were.
Zsadist, the Brother who was teaching the hand-to-hand tonight, whistled through his teeth, and
John and his classmate bowed to each other. His opponent said the appropriate acknowledgment
in the Old Language, and John returned the statement using American Sign Language. Then they
engaged. Small hands and bony arms flew around to no great effect; kicks were thrown out like
paper airplanes; dodges were made with little finesse. All their moves and positions were
shadows of what they should have been, echoes of thunder, not
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