Faithless (Mistress & Master of Restraint) (113 page)

How content are any of them if they need three… four… five… six people in
their beds? The sex can’t be very good or you’d hunger for a repeat- you’d feel the need to connect. Their behavior is juvenile, noncommittal, and risky. Age sure as shit ain’t a number. It’s like all the lovers are behaving like a preschool class for sexual deviants.

In the handful of months Katya has been in town, she has moved in with the Ezes
, acting as if they are all married, and she has fucked Kayla, Aaron, Ezra, and Cortez. Ezra’s insane ramblings make me believe that he is going to sic Marcus on her next, in a ploy of well-played vengeance. And here she is... standing before me, being trained by my mentor… and I can see the calculating glint in her eyes. Dexter will be another notch on her bedpost. 

If you can rationalize Ez farming
out his wife-to-be, the mother of his child, you still can’t rationalize why Katya accepts her vagina being used as a cum dumpster.

Such a powerful love they all share- share and share and share and share and share. When you are a kid, you don’t want to share what you love; you want to selfishly possess it.
You don’t hand the playground bully your precious Tonka truck and say thank you when they return it after shitting in the dump box.

Such a very forward and open-minded way of thinking the ménage has as they share and share alike. Yet
, in every other aspect of their lives they behave like possessive, jealous children. Can you smell the bullshit filling your Tonka truck? 

Two months- they are madly and deeply
in love in less than two months. Yet, Katya is so in love with both the Ezes that she is hunting up another lover- Dexter.

Yeah, I’m buying that shit. I’m lapping it up. I’m eating it up with a spoonful of ignorance and denial, and then I’m shitting it out in a big pile of
you’ve got to be fucking kidding me
.

That bitch will be knocked up by one of those insane fucktards in a couple of months, mark my words. Then I will have one more person that will keep me up at night- one more person to keep safe from the game. But truthfully, the game is a lot safer than Ez’s mood swings.

“What crawled up your ass and died,” Dalton tries and fails to be a prick, he also fails to cover his French accent. I want to tell him that I know who he is and he doesn’t have to pretend around me. But gag orders are a lovely thing, especially when you are the one who put them into place.

“Just ask for it, and I’ll give it to you.” It’s the first sentence I’ve ever spoken to the boy. Dalton jerks back as if I hit him. The majority of the people in Restraint would shit their pants if I said more than three words strung together. I don’t speak because I have too many secrets trying to leak out. I have to keep secrets from everyone that isn’t in my private life. It’s a lot of stress to deal with. Best not to befriend those I may have to punish in the future.

“Your masochist beacon blazes brightly in my sadist mind. My sessions are nonsexual, so if you want hurt without worrying about repaying your sadist with sex, I’m perfect for you.”

“I…” I’ve rendered Dalton speechless. It’s surreal, having Dalton stand before me. If I were so inclined, I could reach out and touch him. He felt unreal until I met him in person. First, he was just a picture of a beautiful little boy my baby sister carried around, saying,
look at my boyfriend
, in the cutest voice imaginable. Then Dalton became someone I protected for Anthony. Later, he became my sister’s husband. Now, as he stands before me, he is my brother-in-law thrice over. In other words, this boy is irreplaceable.

“Here’s the deal, I hate that bitch over there- like truly fucking hate her. I need a release or I may do something I’ll regret,
like pull her demon hair out by the roots or cunt-punt her. Since I don’t want a venereal disease on my foot and hair pulling ain’t my thing, I could get my whip and make us both feel better…” I let my sentence dangle.

The shaking starts at Dalton’s feet and rolls up his body. He reminds me of a junkie
being presented with a year’s worth of smack. I try to remove his camouflage and really see the man behind the drabness. I want to know what he looks like, and if he and Wil share any traits… besides being Switches.

“I… I’m… It wouldn’t be sexual, but I…” Dalton stumbles over his words.

“Trust me to know what you need,” I coax. “Have you ever seen me suck or fuck anyone? I’ve been professional and fair and ruthless. Trust me, Dalton.”

“I’m disfigured,” Dalton whimpers, losing his asshole façade.

“Me, too. I’m covered in tattoos. I don’t strip down at Restraint. It’s not because I’m ashamed of my body, but my body is private. I don’t want to share myself with people that don’t matter. I’m covered from ankles to wrists to my neck in ink and piercings. It’s private- I get that better than anyone.”

“No sex,” Dalton tries to negotiate, but I can already see the yes in the way he holds his body. He is thrumming like a tuning fork.

“None,” I promise. “I don’t do sex at Restraint, and I’ll never do you.” Dalton is family, blood or not. Bianca and Dalton share a past and present. If the interested looks indicate anything, Whitt and Dalton share a future. Dalton will be my brother-in-law forever. He is Wil’s only brother- and I take care of what’s mine. Dalton’s masochism is screaming out inside my head. I can feel it like a sticky substance coating my mind. I so badly need to relieve him of the pressure so I can get some relief.

“I… I end up-”

“They all do,” I cut off his admission- the embarrassed flush tells me he finds sexual release shameful. “I find a release, but it’s like a pressure release valve in my mind. It builds up and builds up, and then I work a submissive, and I feel lighter when they find their release. “This sound familiar, but only in the reverse? You know where to find me,” I say in parting.

Dalton’s
oui
is as soft as a feather brush to my eardrums. I doubt he knows I heard it.

~Chapter Ninety-Nine~

I left the door open to my private room. That soft
oui
told me that Dalton couldn’t refuse the release from a real sadist. I’ve watched him lose weight over the years and seen his limp when he came down from his efficiency apartment.

A masochist feels the need to repent, and without someone to relieve them of the suffocating pressure, they resort to self-administered punishments. Dalton has been using food as a means of control
, and pain to his thighs as punishment.

“Can you keep a secret?” Dalton asks from my open doorway.

“Energy drink?” I raise the black and green can up to the boy as I lounge on my sofa. My private room is just that, private. It’s a sofa and a mini-fridge. The rest of the space is empty so that I have room to work. I have a cross built into the wall opposing the sofa.

“Thank you,” he shyly
says, looking very unsure of himself.

“Shut the door and grab a can from the fridge. It’s your favorite brand,” I politely say. “I only noticed because I live on the stuff. I don’
t have much time for sleep.”

Dalton leans against the door, drink in hand, as if he is contemplating making a run for it. “Can I keep a secret,” I drawl. “Let’s see…” I pretend to mull over the question, but in reality, this moment has been culminating for years.

“Welcome to my lair,” I cordially say. “My name is Faith Wilson, but you know me as Master Syn, the sadist. Can I keep a secret? I am Syn the keeper of secrets. No need to introduce yourself, Dalton Thomas, otherwise known as Dalton Anthony Fontaine Marconi: age twenty-two. Occupation: cartel boss. Appearance: black-haired, pale-skinned, and green-eyed. Sexual persuasion: homosexual. BDSM Master: Masochistic Switch. The birth son of Master Olivia Fontaine, of Las Vegas, and the deceased, Anthony Marconi. Self-appointed father, Devlin Conrick. Grandson of Pierre Fontaine, deceased through patricide. Brother of Spyder, daughter of Marcus Zeitler. Husband to Bianca Green, daughter of Stanton Green. Just know that you have no secrets from me- you never have. I even know the darkness in the deep recesses of your soul.”

Dalton’s eyes bulge from his head. I don’t think he’d be more freaked out if I would’ve snapped my fingers and transformed into a werewolf and howled at the moon. The can rattles in Dalton’s hand as he violently shakes. I fear Dalton is going to piss his pants. I was going for the comfort of shared knowledge, not petrified. He is frozen in fear.

I pull my phone from my leather pants, Dalton’s eyes tracking the movement. I dial a number I know by heart. “Hello, Dev. I have your son with me, and I freaked him out when I told him that I knew who he was. Dalton’s hurting in a bad way, and I can feel it buzzing in my head. I want to release his pain, but I can’t if he’s petrified of me. I need him to trust me, so we can connect. Can you vouch for me, and then pass the phone to Olivia and have her do the same, please.”

Devlin gives me a grunt-like affirmation that sounds just like Wil when he doesn’t think what I’m doing is a good idea. I hold the phone out to Dalton, not wanting to approach the boy.

“Here,” I coax, like Dalton is a wild animal, “your dad is on the phone.”

Dalton leans forward, quickly snatching the phone from my extended fingertips. “Dad?” he quietly murmurs, turning his back to me and facing the door. A second later he turns back around, not wanting me out of his line of sight. It makes me think the better of him.

“Why is her last name Wilson?” Dalton whispers. “Dad, I know it’s a popular last name, but how did she know… everything,” he breathes. “Okay… I love you, too. Bye.” He hands me the phone, refusing to move away from the door. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Hey,” I mumble into my cell.

Olivia isn’t here right now
, Devlin says.
Word of advice, don’t restrain him in anyway. Have him kneel on the floor, and use a flogger. It isn’t so much the pain that is Dalton’s issue. The impact draws him into his mind, memories he otherwise blocks. You have to increase the pain to yank him from his mind. And be prepared to offer some serious aftercare
. The line clicks dead.

Dalton does
n’t flee, but he doesn’t look convinced either. He is a very dominant person, and he can scent that I’m holding something back from him. His pain is slowly building in pressure. The sensation is suffocating me. I’ve never experienced this before. I don’t know if it’s because I feel personally connected to Dalton or if it’s because this is the first time I’ve had contact with a real masochist. Dexter has a masochist named Tobias, and he has no stopping point. You can do anything to the young man, and Dexter won’t let me near him.

“I’
ll trust you with one of my secrets,” I quietly say. “I know a man who feels just like you do- a man you were around an awful lot when you were a boy. You asked Devlin why my last name is Wilson. My husband’s name is Levi, and that’s how I know so much about you, and know how to take care of you.”

“He’s here,” Dalton says brightly. I see knowledge behind his muddy brown lenses. I doubt he knows that Wil is his brother, but he’s felt the unmistakable connection.

“I’ll give you his number, and when you’re ready to see him, call him,” I calmly say, knowing he’ll never call. Seeing a mutual survivor sometimes heightens the fear of your abuse.

“Thank you,” Dalton says, and he surprises the hell out of me. He begi
ns pulling a stack of shirts from his emaciated chest. Dalton strips down naked, even removing a wig and a pair of contact lenses.

A sob slowly builds in my chest as Dalton reveals himself. At home, sitting with my boys, and chatting with Stanton, is
a man that Dalton would look like if he were healthy. Dalton is exactly Wil’s height and build, except he weighs at least seventy pounds less. No muscle tone, no fat, and a whole heluva lot of scars.

“I’m sorry?” Dalton’s inflection makes it a question.
He refuses to meet my eyes. His bony shoulders curve in, as if protecting him from the pain of rejection.

“For what?” I softly ask.
I set my drink down and put away my cell phone. I take my shoes off because I always do a session barefoot. The mundane tasks seem to soothe Dalton’s nerves. He’s no longer shaking, but he still looks ashamed.

Dalton doesn’t answer me. He
simply walks over to the corner of my room, and lowers himself until his forehead is resting on the floor in the corner. Fragile and emaciated to the point of starvation, Dalton’s vertebrae line his back like a string of pearls beaded along his spine. His scapulae and coxae protrude from his skin, as if the blades of the bone are ready to cut through his flesh. Naked and small, Dalton abases himself in the corner like a wounded animal- a whipped and tortured pet.

I kneel next to the crying young man and a great wealth of sadness overcomes me. This is how Wil felt, and sometimes he still does. I know our family has mended him, but he will never truly be healed. One cannot take the past away. They can only put a bandage on it. A thought, an action, deliberate or not, can reopen an old wound.