Sadist's Fire Pt. 01: Begging

Because I couldn't fucking wait ‪until Thursday‬.

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Ezra

The way our thing started has never sat well with me when I try to tell the story, to myself or to others. How would I say it? At first, I was irritated because there had been obvious possession in Morgan's touch when he introduced her to me and I knew he and Trish were looking to bring another into their relationship. They were two married Doms who wanted a submissive third to have together and the little dark haired girl, with a barcode and the word N9ne tattooed on her back, was obviously a dominating figure on that list of potentials. I wrote her off as a thrill seeker who took her fun in highs, but wasn't built for the extreme pain play games I wanted in my relationships.

But then if I say I had her pussy and it changed my mind, it sounds fucking terrible. And the truth is it wasn't completely that. Not even slightly. It was the way she grasped the ring so desperately, the way she messed over my cock as soon as I entered her from the humiliation of my cruel words. That was what got to me. Holy hell, there was zero doubt she had felt an extreme form of emotionally masochistic satisfaction from my cold words, from my colder fucking. I had started with the intent of proving her wrong, of driving her away from me, but once I was inside of her and she squeezed my cock with orgasm?

I kept up the game of a cruel and selfish abuser because I fucking loved it. She had responded to that! And I fucking wanted more of it. My life was cold, so cold, and the way she went off to all that coldness, and took to it, was hot enough to make me burn. I had to force myself to stay silent and use her body like a toy, had to make myself take a mindset that viewed her as a fuck doll. And it was easy to fall into that game for me because it was intense and I adored it so damn much. I pictured her wrapped in latex like a rubber dog, had images of her blinded and sitting in the corner of my private dungeon, waiting for me to pull her out by her hair so that I could use whichever hole I felt like in her body. I sank into the thoughts, getting hornier by the fucking second. I made myself stay distant when what I really wanted was to slap her tits until she squealed and snarl sadistic threats in her ear. The sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, even around the denim of my jeans, made me feel insane and the sight of her arching under my abuse and callousness was my own personal alcohol.

So, it all started with her wanting a brand and then she followed me to my kink and asked me to hurt her. I treated her with disdain and tried to brush her off. Until I got cock deep inside of her.

It sounds terrible, but I'm shit with words and I'm worse with people.

But besides all that, there was another reason why I tried to write her off. You see, I didn't mix my pain play and sex. What I told her about males being harder and more violent was true, but it wasn't the largest reason why I stayed away from females. You see, mixing my intense play with sex? It scared me. It seemed like something that would be a little too intense, like wildfire coming from me, and I didn't feel like I could totally control it.

And then she chased me down and she was a firestorm all her own, one that rivaled my intensity, and I didn't know what hit me.

————

Devi

I took those next couple of days to go to Morgan's tattoo shop and finally got up the nerve to ask him about Dr. Calloway, under the pretense of being curious about the man who might be willing to give me scarification work. Morgan grinned at me easily, seeming to think there was nothing wrong with my quiet voice when I asked. "He's really good at what he does and almost anyone will tell you that. He does high end work for, like, movie stars. I've been thinking about it though and I think I can find someone better for you, if you like. For a start, he's pretty standoffish and terrifying. For another, he'd be overkill expensive."

"The money wouldn't bother me," I answered thoughtfully. But there was something in Morgan's eyes when he talked about Calloway, something that said he might respect the man and think he was professionally wonderful, but that he didn't seem to like him as a person. Come to think of it, even when he'd introduced us that first night, he'd been protective by my side. I thought back to Calloway's words at Sulfur's. Go back to Morgan and Trish's cozy cage. And there was the way he'd said those words, with disdain. "He's scary," I finally managed.

It was Trish who walked up behind me and hugged me while she answered. "Yeah, he's got this reputation too. You'll have to forgive my husband. He doesn't think things through before he opens his mouth sometimes. We'll figure it out, honey."

I cuddled against her shoulder like her pet, wondering how I would even begin to explain what had happened the night before, wondering how to even go about it, how it would sound. In the end, I didn't say anything because it didn't feel like there was anything to tell. There wasn't anything meaningful anyway. I was being a fucktoy for a cruel surgeon who evidently had a reputation in the fringe world. Trish stroked my hair like I was a favored kitten and jokingly said over the top of my head. "Come on, Morgan, can we keep it for one night?"

Morgan laughed right back. "Look, one night, but that's it. We already have a cat and you can't keep another one."

I couldn't help but grin with the playful game and I did actually end up staying the night at their house, where we drank White Claw and watched Star Wars. The awesome thing about Morgan and Trish as friends was the fact that they were adult enough to have their own place and have good credit, but still playful enough to have a slumber party and play Apex Legends. It was that that made us kindred spirits in the first place really.

But there was a pull in my heart. This was light and playful and I liked playing along, but it wasn't what I craved anymore. I had experienced something so very dark and the desire for more of that darkness felt like a corruptive stain of some kind, one that was spreading through me and taking an addictive hold. Thursday weighed on my mind until it finally happened.

I obeyed his command, all of it. I didn't get there early, didn't stall in fear, and I didn't go back another night before then. No, I went ‪Thursday at 9‬. I stopped to show my card to Brian, Lavrov's bouncer of a sort, and walked inside. My eyes instantly shot to where Calloway stood and I shivered. He wasn't waiting for me at all, didn't so much as look at me, even though I couldn't help but be drawn to him. It made it all the harder to approach him, especially when he wasn't someone who gave off any sense of approachability but I made myself do it, made myself go to his side. He glanced at me then, a single look that made me wrap my arms around myself in a protective motion. And he didn't offer any comfort either. "Strip," he said quietly.

"W-w-okay." I had to bite back the "what" I had been going to say and I just barely managed to do so in time. His command last time had been cold and clear, to not question and not protest. I trembled in the same terror as before and that shocked me. I don't know why, but it had seemed like the second time in the harsh presence of this man might be easier. It wasn't. I had taken off my clothes before so Morgan could pierce my clitoral hood, had been naked with other sexual partners, and I had always been comfortable in my body, but he made me feel self conscious in the worst possible way. He scared me so badly that I wanted desperately to earn even a shred of approval, but there was nothing in his eyes that even suggested he was pleased with what he saw. No encouragement, no lust. It was terrible.

It was everything. I stood still when I was naked and only then did he finally take over. It was a relief to let him have his sadistic prerogative, a relief when he approached me with other clothing, even if it was a negligee that didn't hide a damn thing. I didn't even have to step into the thong part. It was nothing but strings that tied at my sides, a sheer see-through triangle emphasizing my sex rather than hiding it. He was silent while he tied it, silent while he fixed the top part to me, making sure my breasts were on humiliating display. It was only when he fixed two strange discs to my nipples that he spoke. "If you're going to be my whore, then you're going to look like it." I thrilled to the terribly cool way he said the words, moaned at the way the discs tugged on me. They were like clamps, only not quite. They weren't harsh enough to be clamps, but they were obviously light enough to be left on for an extended time frame and they stimulated me in a maddening way. I didn't fight it, lowering my eyes instead in a desolate sense of defeat. The collar that he fixed to my neck was stiff leather and I lifted my head for the blindfold with a soft whimper of fear.

He worked quickly, sitting me in a chair, manipulating me like I was a toy again. And it felt right this time. Some numb aspect had taken over me after his last blatantly careless use of me and now I sank to the mindset of being a sex doll. Every breath reminded me of the discs on my tits, reminded me that my nipples were swollen with the continual pressure and probably making the most obscene display. He chained my legs wide apart so that my pussy was similarly showed off, chained my wrists down and at my back, and lastly threaded a chain up from my wrists to the collar at my throat so that my head was forced back in a way that was just barely uncomfortable.

His hand gripped my face in a harsh hold and his voice was a snarl when he spoke. "Don't make a fucking sound from here on out, understood? I don't want to remember the fact that you exist until I'm ready to use you."

I very nearly moaned but blatant terror kept me from it and I nodded as best I could instead. And after that, his hand disappeared and I was left cold, trembling and listening silently. I was a toy displayed for anyone to see, but set to the side until use of me was desired. I was a prettily decorated set of holes for him to come back to when he was done. The thoughts and foul analogies made me settle into the chair where I didn't fight the bondage. I didn't so much as wish the discs on my nipples would be taken off. I felt empty of desires at the moment, coldly neglected, and my emotions stretched into a despairing eternity, this strange sensation that this was where I belonged and should be. It was weird, but it was also a calm feeling, being blind and helpless to someone so blatantly dangerous and cruel.

I loved it. More than any piercing, I adored this. He was my dark, distant god and I was a devout follower of a sort, promised the chance to please him in a small way soon. There was something basically terrible in it, something that was intricate and beautiful. I didn't know what it was at that moment, but there was a certain feeling behind this, a strange kind of attention in the way he had displayed me. There was something so carefully cultivated in how he treated me that it felt intense, even by that second time. But I didn't think of all that until later. All I knew at the time was that he wasn't doing a thing to me and it was more cruel than any playing I had ever done. And it only got better.

I heard the flogger first, somewhere in front of me and to my side. The tresses made an arousing rhythm where they fell in those masterful circles. Like last time, he didn't work with the flogger for very long, only using it for warmup instead. Which became immediately apparent when I heard his next toy. It was a cutting sound through the air, something I just barely picked up on, followed by a loud smack of a sound that made me quake. His sub sounded like the same guy from before, but this time he gasped out a bark of a sound with his pain.

My sex clenched and I sank farther into a very dark place, silent and waiting. Ezra Calloway. It was the name of a monster reigning over this black abyss, the name of a dragon of terror. My clit buzzed with a need to be touched and touched now, but I didn't dare say a thing, didn't dare even struggle in his bondage. There was another cut through the air and I relaxed to the sounds, calmed and only wishing I was his victim instead. But I was close to him. I was given permission to listen and felt a twisted gratitude to him for that.

I waited, listening for what seemed an age while he used the cane and then followed it up with what sounded like a heavy strap. His sub was making a kind of animal sound near the end, torture rocking his body, and all I felt was undisciplined heat and jealousy. I didn't hear much of anything else, but presumably his sub went off with his boyfriend again when he was done. And it was very clear when he was done.

He grabbed me, without warning, without introduction to it. One hand grasped my hair and the other slapped my pussy in the sheer thong. He thrust the material to the side, one finger fucking inside of me. The chains rattled when I lifted and I still, still, didn't dare make a sound.

"Horny fuck." I closed my eyes behind the eye mask when he used my hair to clean his fingertips of the cum I'd drenched myself with. The same hand slapped my cheek, and it wasn't hard, but tears welled up in my eyes all the same. "Open your mouth." When I obeyed, he growled in irritation and shook me with the hand in my hair. "Not like a fucking dog. Like you're going to take a throatfucking. Are you my whore or aren't you?" At that, I blushed furiously and hurried to obey, opening my mouth so that it was painfully wide, remembering how big he had felt last time.

For a moment, there was silence while he moved forward over me, straddling me. And then he nudged against the open hole in my face and I jolted forward, taking him until I choked, until it hurt me, and then I took some more. Up until then, I had always thought I was terrible at oral, but people do amazing things when they're scared out of their mind and desperate. And that's how intensely his darkness had covered me. I needed to satisfy and knew I wouldn't get so much as a word of his praise, so I worked for all I had to avoid his harsh taunting, his cruel judgment. The chains rattled behind me, ripping me back to the chair painfully when I lifted forward and I didn't care. I struggled them anyway and tilted my head back for any amount of angle I could get that would open my throat for him.

But he didn't let me have any choice or say for long. His hand tightened in my hair and he took over me, forcing me back so he could thrust so deep I choked, them forcing me forward to meet his thrusts when he fucked my face. My tits jarred with the force of his use and the discs shook, driving me mad. I desperately kept my teeth out of the way, took frantic breaths through my nose to try to keep from gagging and choking, failed a few times so that he pulled away and slapped my face in punishment while I gasped for air. And then he'd go back to using me so that I moaned, wishing for any touch of use on my pussy, although I knew I wasn't going to get it. I already knew my place in all this and that was to be used, which meant he was likely going to finish in my throat, unchain me, and command me to leave.

The knowledge sank in and I quit struggling or wishing at all after it did. He didn't say a word to break me and he didn't have to. This brutal use of his let me know without the words, without even seeing his face, that I was a foul, cum dripping little plaything and there was nothing I could do about it and this use was all I deserved for it. Not even his whips, not even his cane. Just this. I closed my eyes and drifted in that black pit of emotional masochism, letting it overtake me so that I had no fight left, so that I didn't so much as lift to try to please him more. It was stupid to do that. If it pleased him for his toy to do it, he'd make his toy do it.

He came, right in the back of my throat, and I felt a sense of loss that he couldn't spray his cum there, that I was only allowed the flavor of the condom and the feel of him riding my face in his feral finish. I felt a sense of bliss that was terrifyingly intense at having served his exacting sadism, a rush at having satisfied enough for him to orgasm. He pulled away and just like that, I felt him releasing my chains while I floated in a sense of empty numbness. His darkness felt like a thing that was alive, a thing that ruled me, a thing that crushed any sense of willpower I might have once had. So I didn't even react when the discs were removed from my tits, didn't react when the collar was taken off, though I felt a sense of loss when it was. The eye mask was last and I tried to keep my gaze lowered when he took it off, too afraid of his ire to do something as bold as look at him. But he grasped my chin again and lifted my gaze to his and I went petrified at the sight, dead still under his cold, dark eyes. He didn't say anything, but there was a black intensity deep in his gaze, a sense of excitement at what he saw when he looked at me. I don't know what that was, only knew that he seemed to feed on whatever twisted energy wave connected us. The silence lengthened and I remained a used captive, still and waiting for more abuse.

Whatever cold fire he felt faded little by little and he finally turned away, releasing me. "Use the cleaner on that shelf for the chair, get dressed with that slutty outfit underneath, and go. ‪Next ‬Saturday, same time."

"Yes, sir," I whispered. My voice sounded so far away, so brokenly acceptant. For a moment, that cold excitement reappeared in his eyes. I cleaned the mess I'd left all over the chair like an obedient fucktoy and dressed with hands that only slightly shook. He must have taken my underwear and bra because I didn't see either of them and I didn't even care. My nipples brushed my shirt under the sheer lingerie and it felt like that was how I deserved it to be. And I left in a daze, my head bowed. It was as if I had been branded in some way worse than the way I wanted from him.

‪Next Saturday. Superstition said the third time was a charm for something. And that turned out to be true for whatever was happening between Ezra and I. The third time was a sick, twisted, devastating charm.‬

————

The week leading up to it was strange. I visited Morgan and Trish and Trish laughingly flirted with me. And she commented on how I seemed in a strange spirit, a more intense spirit. Which made me stop and think about what I felt and how it was different than usual. Because she was right and it was a little different. When I went home to my toy land of an apartment, I went to my room and sat on my bed, surrounded by all of my happy-go-lucky stuffed animals. Puzzles I had solved were glued to poster boards and hung on the wall. Artwork I had drawn on regular printer paper was tacked randomly throughout the room. There wasn't much rhyme or reason to the decor and a lot of it was from DIY projects I had found online to have an artistic outlet. I was a weapons engineer, which meant most of my outlets were logical ones, but I had the creative side in some degree and it needed out every now and again. The result was an explosion of random playfulness and colors that sometimes clashed, but I didn't care.

And now I looked at all of it with a curious new emotion. Trish had seemed more playful than ever around me and I wondered at it. Because I was fueled with the effects of him, of his terrible energy and his grim sadism. I carried him with me in a contradictory blend of his glacial cruelty and my effervescent happiness. It was so very strange, but Trish's reaction to it made me all the more curious. "As if I'm more desirable or something," I said to my Cthulhu doll. "What do you think? He can't be all bad, can he? If people are reacting like that to me? But I can't think enough when I'm around him to figure it out because he scares me so much." Zombie Cthulhu only stared at me with blood at the corner of his mouth and I grinned at him.