This is what happens when I can’t write, and I really am needing to.

—

At first, he couldn’t believe it. After all of the years of carefully constructed identity concealment – the aliases, the false starts; the red herrings. In fact, he wouldn’t. It couldn’t be that now she would drop her guard. Drop everything. That now, after so many years of waiting – searching, and failing, that he could try again. And this time, he wouldn’t fail. But it was impossible. How? She had all but vanished. Disappeared. Gone – without a trace. He knew she had meant to be. Why. And that he was the reason.

Extinguishing his cigarette upon the soft flesh of the woman currently bound and gagged at his feet, he half-wondered why more individuals like himself (multiply murdering psychopaths) hadn’t gotten into this whole Master-slash-Dom business. It was almost too easy. Almost as easy as her becoming a dominatrix. To piece back the remnants of her shattered personality, he figured. Rebuild her confidence, and somehow, regain her esteem. After all, he’d worked rather diligently to destroy it. He had little doubt that someday she’d attempt to reclaim herself. He was almost proud of her. Strange … Of course, had she only complied the first time around, he wouldn’t be hating her now. Had she not refused him, done what he said, and made him part of her life as he had so very much wanted, he wouldn’t be continuing to seek her destruction.

Alas, he had learned in the time in-between that we are indeed each responsible for our own actions, and cannot expect to control or ensure the actions of another. Though, as he looked into the pleading eyes of the young woman in front of him, the rope beginning to tear at the edges of her mouth, staining the soft nylon with the faintest shade of pink, he had come to admit this was somewhat folly. In this context, at least. This stupid creature was willing to do anything and everything that he wanted. Fuck, she even asked to be tied up! It almost took the fun out of the entire experience. He knew she was pretending and secretly loving the pain, but if he only used the fullest extent of his imagination, he could fancy with lesser fervour that she was really in terrible, horrible pain, silently praying for death, and his unwilling, desperate captive. Too bad he’d never been that good at pretending, despite his quite vivid and definitely terrible imagination. (more…)