Don't...
Authors: Jack L. Pyke
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Erotica, #Bdsm, #Lgbt, #Gay, #Romantic Erotica
“Don't... open me.”
Three simple words that tease Jack, taking him places from his dark past. For Jack, BDSM is a way to resist his worst impulses. Yet, the stranger calling himself The Unknown seeks to use that to seduce him. As Jack slips further down into the abyss, two men hold the power to save him. Will it be Gray, the Master who knows Jack’s every secret? Or Jan, the first man to give Jack a reason to hope? With deadly ghosts coming out to play, Jack may lose everything, even his life.
Jack L. Pyke
ForbiddenFiction
www.forbiddenfiction.com
an imprint of
Fantastic Fiction Publishing
www.fantasticfictionpublishing.com
DON’T...
A ForbiddenFiction book
Fantastic Fiction Publishing
Hayward, California
© Jack L. Pyke, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission from the publisher, except as allowed by fair use. For information contact
[email protected]
.
CREDITS
Editor: Rylan Hunter, D.M. Atkins
Cover Design: D.M. Atkins
Cover Photo: Cruskoko at Dreamstime
Production Editor: Erika L Firanc
Proofreading: Aislinn, Kel Draves
SKU: JP2-000134-01 FFP
ISBN: 978-1-62234-078-1
Published in the United States of America
This book is a work of fiction which contains explicit erotic content; it is intended for mature readers. Do not read this if it’s not legal for you.
All the characters, locations and events herein are fictional. While elements of existing locations or historical characters or events may be used fictitiously, any resemblance to actual people, places or events is coincidental.
This story depicts fictional BDSM; it is not intended to be used as an instruction manual. It contains descriptions of erotic acts that may be immoral, illegal, or unsafe. The characters are not models for the Safe, Sane and Consensual forms embraced by most current practitioners of BDSM. The author takes license with the use of BDSM for dramatic effect. Do not take the events in this story as proof of the plausibility or safety of any particular practice.
To Dunk. My life, my joker—my lookout for my “feed me” signs when things heat up too much to move away from my writing.
2. If Fear Encourages Aggressive Rebellion, Don’t...
3. Don’t... Reply to This E-mail
6. Introducing Mr. Jan Richards
8. If Fear Doesn’t Encourage Aggressive Rebellion, Don’t...
11. Day After the Night Before
34. Jack Fell Down and Broke His Crown
35. Little Jack Horner Sat in a Corner
38. Jack Be Nimble, Jack Be Quick
Don’t... FEAR Me
Today had been a shit day, and it seemed I wasn’t about to climb down off the crap cart any time soon. As I pulled alongside my two-bed semi-detached home, one by one the blinds along the neat little row of whitewashed houses inched open. I couldn’t see any faces; the odd breath steaming the windowpane was just enough to say I’d caught my neighbours’ attention. My own fault, I suppose, although I quickly ignored their main point of complaint.
I’d been a South Londoner for all of my twenty-nine years and lived the Old Kent Road life longer than most of my neighbours. One of the top board games going had us banged to right as the cheapest place on the board. Taking that into context with the rest of London, topping it off with my usual work clothes (all garage coveralls, oil, and the must-have scent of WD-40), it no doubt reminded the suits hiding behind those windows that they were nothing more than the stained shirt hidden by the classy jacket. From a kid, I’d watched the majority of neighbours come and go, some moving up the house-chain, others having theirs repossessed and moving down a peg or two (the latter becoming frighteningly more up on the statistics lately). But the only real change was in attitude. Don’t get me wrong, you still had that “friend in need” bollocks, but now it came with a real borough-bred attitude of “you scratch my bollocks, I won’t crowbar yours.”
London: land of commerce, suits, and shit-ass attitudes.
Maybe I slotted in here more than I realised. Fuck no. Since maturing and picking up a few (insert cough here) “sensitivities,” I’d mellowed a touch. Maybe; jury was still out on that one.
“Evening, Jack. Out a bit late, huh?”
Three doors down, Ken caught me off-guard, and I smiled over, trying to bury that slight sting of guilt. So not everyone here had a shit-ass attitude. Over the years, Ken had helped my old man with the odd car here and there, but where my old man had gone on to build his own business, Ken here had carried on with his shift work as an NHS nurse. Pay was lousy, job security nonexistent, but like my old man, he’d never missed a morning’s work. At first thought, I put it down to necessity: pay the bills, feed his kids, but that didn’t explain the volunteer work he did in his free time.
I’d had some pretty decent role models growing up. Pity it had taken me a while to see it.
“Yeah, I had a class,” I said, offering a smile back. He looked as tired as I felt as he cleaned his windows. Each arc over the glass with the cloth took longer than the last. “Everything okay?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Cutbacks. Government’s decided everyone should do their bit for society only on part-time wages.”
Politics was a touchy subject with Ken, and something I couldn’t afford to get into now. I pulled my duffle bag out of my car and slung it over my shoulder. “I don’t have anything at mine, not yet, but I could give my old man a call?”
For a moment I thought he’d take me up on the offer. It wasn’t the first time I’d asked if he needed extra work, but after a slight flick of mouth, something old and familiar filtered into his eyes, and Ken rinsed his rag out in the bucket at his feet.
“I can’t remember the last time I crept under a car.”
I winked. “Just like nursing: you stick the odd weld here and there to stop the bleeding.”
Ken chuckled and carried on cleaning. “Remind me not to send my kids over to you for first aid, regardless of whether or not you’re first-aid trained because of those karate students of yours.”
The key slotted in the lock to my front door as I wished Ken goodnight, flashing him a smile. Hearing him return the favour, I pushed through, slamming the door shut and letting it block out just about everything that had managed to piss me off today.
It should have been my day off, but Sam had jerked off work. Accompanied by the flicking of medical pages (okay, slight exaggeration there), he’d alternated his phone-cough voice between bubonic plague, cabin fever, and Black Death. Bloody weird considering he’d been jumping around the garage like a bunny on steroids for the past two weeks, marking the calendar off, and shouting “Chelsea. Here we go, here we go, here we go!”
I should have seen it as a warning sign that the Chelsea Bunny hadn’t deflated after I’d refused to grant him time off today. But three mechanics had already booked holiday breaks for the semi-finals, and Sam knew—he bloody well knew—I needed him to pick up the slack. I’d given him a few days for the final at the end of the month (generous considering he was an apprentice and supposed to be showing willing), and if Chelsea were knocked out in the semi’s, that was his problem; he’d chosen those dates. He was already on probation for not playing fair, that and failing to stop bouncing around all over the place.
No. The only illness Sam had was being a shit liar, and I’d caught the backlash. I hit the code to switch off my alarm. Forced to cover his ass, I’d lost my day off, and thus the will to pet cute, little woodland bunnies with anything but a chainsaw, white mask, and maniacal laugh in tow.
A clutch job hadn’t particularly helped to improve my mood, not in this heat. I leaned against the door, the cool breeze from the air conditioning playing on my body, and the urge to sigh away the day was tempting, but I quickly dismissed it knowing Sam would only piss himself hearing it, even if he was a few miles away. And knowing that kid, he would hear it.
To top it all, I had class today. Usually there was enough leisure time to come home, shower, eat, do the usual shit, all to get my ass out of the door by six-thirty and over to the dojo for seven. Not finishing work till twenty to seven, I’d had to forgo all three to get there on time. The image of twenty or so pissed off karate students, ranging from yundansha Dan belts down to kyu, spurring me on just a touch (like bunnies, they knew where I lived, but unlike bunnies, they came with kick-ass moves and attitudes of their own. And I liked my ass without footprints). A quick wash at the dojo to try and get rid of my missing-link look had taken care of some of the worst of the grease marks on my arms and face, but even the change into my karate suit hadn’t buried the smell of oil. Add to that the floor-to-ceiling windows that the sun seemed to love leering through, making everyone sweat, a broken air-conditioning system in the training hall, making everyone grab at air to survive, a run of katas, kicks, grunts, and shouting, making everyone thrown back into the missing-link look—“pretty,” especially as far as I was concerned, had long since fucked off with the will to live.
Still wearing my suit, I threw the duffle bag a little too heavily on the stairs, then frowned and scooped the mess up and dropped it in its rightful place on the coat stand. Trainers came off next, and I inched them into place by the door, then padded on through to the kitchen. Work coveralls could stay in my bag for a while; washing would be sorted out later. Orange juice sat next to a Budweiser in the fridge; next shelf down, wrapped in two layers of cling film (one layer one way, one running another in a standard cross), salad was next to sandwich meat. I reached for the juice, ignoring the food and beer. Cars and drink made a lousy mixer. Besides, it was bad enough knowing I fixed the former for the idiots that decided to do the latter at the same time. I grabbed a tumbler and filled it with juice, loving the instant cold under my fingers. The first was downed in one, the second I sipped as I slipped the OJ back on the first shelf (to the left there an inch, keep it in line with the fridge door). My stomach caught sight of the food and groaned grotesquely. I needed a shower more, so food would have to wait as I closed the door and headed upstairs.
