Faithless (Mistress & Master of Restraint) (95 page)

“I don’t understand why you guys hate each other,” Roman sounds confused.

“Cort called me a whore in the middle of the last meeting, did you forget that? Then every time I tried to talk, he cackled.”

“In his defense, you did pop out his lover
’s child,” Roman deadpans, and then flutters his impossibly long lashes- douche!

“I’m not the one who is denying it-
talk to Ez. It’s not my fault Ez is a compulsive liar. That shit is between them. I guess Cort moved out of their apartment last night,” I conspiratorially say, leaning into Roman. “Too much cocksucking I presume, or not enough from whatever angle you look at it. All I know is… making a kid because of the game isn’t as bad as sucking your partner’s father’s cock.”

“I get it now,” Roman growls. “You two are too much alike. That’s the issue. If you had a dick, Ez probably would have married you. You’re jealous of each other,
” Roman sings, sounding awed. “And now Grant lets Cortez in and not you, and it’s eating you alive,” he taunts.

“Fuck you and your silky hair,” I slur out, not having a good comeback- Roman’s right. Why am I wrong so much lately? It sucks.

I literally twiddle my thumbs while Roman laughs his ass off. I’ll be getting my payback very soon.

“Grant enjoys Cort’s company. They sit up in his library and write. They discuss their profession. I’m sure it’s what you and your fellow FDNY members do on your downtime. It’s a comfort for both of them when everything else is so stressful. Don’t belittle either of them
of each other’s company, even if you are jealous of Cortez.”

“I’m not jealous of Cortez,” I say, looking down the street for witnesses. “You gonna let me in today, or what?” I pop the top off the
syringe that’s been hiding in my sleeve. “I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

“Go, go get in your car and leave. You’ll warm up soon enough. I’m not letting you in. if you want
to chat with Grant, text him or write him a letter.”

Access denied
.

“I’
m sorry to hear that,” I sigh, sounding sad and lonely- sad because I have to do this to a friend, lonely because it’s one more friend I’ve wronged.

The only muscles that move in my body are the ones that
move my hand- my hand that plunges a syringe full of sedatives into Roman’s perfect thigh. For the rest of my life, I will never forget the sensation of the needle going through his jeans and breaking his flesh, and sliding through firm muscle.

“Why?” Roman
groggily says. His turquoise eyes glaze over, but not before I witness the betrayal that lurks beneath. “Why?”

“I need to speak with Grant
in person- it’s important. New elders, new game,” I say, never breaking eye contact. I reach up and hold Roman while he’s slowly rendered unconscious. I have about two hours before his night-nite ends. I have to be gone before then or he will murder me.

I pull the keys from his pocket, and then unlock the door. Years of dragging hose is perfect practice for dragging a hundred and eighty pound man from his front stoop into the house. I hook my arms through his armpits and drag him over the threshold.

Wil’s right, I never take no for an answer.

Access granted
.

~Chapter Eighty-Five~

Grunting and sweating in my fluffy parka, I drag Roman through the foyer and into his living room. I always marvel about the furnishings.
The living room is what you’d expect at your granny’s house. I’m used to my apartment, with its contemporary, spotless furniture and earth-toned colors. Roman even has doilies on the backs of the sofa and chairs. I look around for knickknacks and find an abundance of floral.

Shaking my head in mystification, I lean over the arm of the sofa. Using my foot as leverage, I pull Roman onto the cushions and arrange him comfortably. I put a pillow underneath his head, take his shoes off, and tuck him in with a crocheted afghan. I brush a lock of his gorgeous hair off his forehead.

Roman really is a smokin’ hot man. Tall and lean, with jet-black hair and turquoise eyes- somewhere in his heritage is Native American, giving him a scrumptious skin color. I’ve never wanted him, but he sure is pretty to look at and tease. Kristal’s been riding this man like a horse, and she says he’s a pretty good ride.

I shrug out of my coat- it’s just as hot in here as a granny’s house, too. It has to be eighty
degrees. Roman must have been really cold outside in just jeans and a t-shirt if he’s living in this sweltering heat. I drape my coat over the end of the banister. I know why it’s hot in here. My body remembers, and draws me towards the reason. Those rooms… the rooms that make my blood boil and moisture pool between my thighs. It’s hot in here because what happens in those rooms usually involves nudity.

I don’t want to walk into those rooms, but my feet move me without listening to my silent protests. I’m frightened, frightened to want what I want. Frightened because I don’t know what I want. Intrigued, captivated, enthralled, I find myself in the middle of a torture room. Hardwood flooring, hardwood-paneled walls, and wooden creations that look like they belong in a medieval dungeon are mixed with rope and leather and… things I have no name for.

Several long minutes go by as I stare at a spot in the corner of the room. I was here once, my last time in this home. I remember crawling on hands and knees, away from a man who was digesting my fear and pain and humiliation. I remember feeling inconsequential to the strength the man possessed. Dexter Hayes got off on the rush- the rush of power. Since that night, I’ve wanted to know what that power would feel like. I’ve felt the addictive power of death- of playing the part of God and taking a life. I didn’t understand back then what I know now. That whip represented a way to feel that power without killing anyone. But then Dexter went and ruined it- he wouldn’t let me play with his whip… well, not in the way I wanted to play with it, anyway.

I find myself perusing a wall of… things. I finger the leather of an item that must be used to hit your victim. I like that- victim. Yeah, you hit your victim with this item. I remember Dexter’s male victim groaning his release. What greater power i
s there than making someone feel pleasure when all you’re providing is pain. It’s the ultimate in mind control. If I hit you, does it not sting, do you not bleed? No, I’ll make you orgasm from the pain… pure power over your victim.

I want that kind of power- I hunger for that kind of power.

My fingers lift the sting-giving object from the wall. The leather feels at home resting in the palm of my hand. I test the movement by hitting at the air. A moan bubbles up from the slash-like sound of the leather cutting the air. I sway a little when I imagine the sharp smack of the leather hitting flesh.

I hastily put it back. It’s not what I want. It somehow feels incomplete. My eyes browse the selection of leather, wood, and metal objects organized on the wall. One item is missing… the item I seek. Dexter must take that weapon wit
h him- he must bring his own… or is he that arrogant, thinking that if you want to use a whip, you have to earn the right to use his?

A whimper flows from my lips as I shuffle from the room in disappointment. I’m going home and researching whips. I’ll order on
e online. Fuck Dexter and his ego-maniacal plan. I can afford my own weapon. I’m buying a purple whip.

I ghost up the stairs, almost as
if a homing beacon is drawing me towards him. I could feel him in the house, even from the outside. I just knew he was home, and not because he is borderline agoraphobic. I could
feel
Grant in here, but a long history of friendship points me in the direction of his library. His half of the upstairs is his bedroom suite and a large library that takes up the majority of his side.

A long narrow
hallway with a centralized door cuts the Brownstone’s upstairs in half- Roman on one side, Grant on the other. The front staircase takes you to Grant’s side and the kitchen staircase takes you to Roman’s half. The door is inviting- snooping and spying intrigue me, but I’d rather seek Grant out.

Seek and you shall find… and this is why I should have called first.

Gape-mouthed, all I can do is watch in awe. With his back to me, Grant sits in a leather chair on wooden casters, a writer’s chair. He is at his desk- laptop open as if he got lost in his imagination as he was writing a story.

But it is no ordinary story, nor is Grant writing.
On the floor near his chair is a pool of clothing- shirt, pants, and boxers. I can’t see what he is doing to himself, but it is obvious in the way his head is tossed back, blond hair messily shielding his eyes from my sight. But I can tell his eyes are closed. Grant’s full lips are opened, breath sawing in and out. Only a small bit of Grant’s scaring is visible to my eyes. I’d feared those scars for years after Cory and Wil described what Grant had done to himself.

My eyes automatically read the passage on his laptop screen. The passage he uses as inspiration
to pleasure himself. As I read his writing, the sound of flesh on flesh heightens.

The Angel ascends the stairs after finding her true calling. She comes upon me as I masturbate- fiercely stroking my cock to the vision of her longingly staring at the riding crop- slicing it through the air. Moments later
, she eagerly searches out a whip to test, only to find none. A pity, for I am not a lover of pain, but I find my release to the fantasy of being her first- Time and age made it impossible for me to be the first in any sexual endeavor for the agonized beauty. But for this, to be her first, I will willingly allow her to strike me.

I trust my Angel, my faithless sinner.

I know she is here to ask for my return- a return she knows I will deny. But I am willing to negotiate with my friend- friend, because no matter what, I feel there is nothing to forgive or regret, and nothing to ask for forgiveness.

I need my Angel’s help. A wickedly delicious place just opened- a place of hedonistic delights called Restraint. It is a place that would feed my Angel, and feed her well. If not careful, she could become gluttonous in such a place- plenty
of people seeking what she has to offer.

But this knowledge has a price.
I will gain her entrance to the place that the sire of her son owns. I will go to that dastardly meeting as well, but I need my Angel’s assistance. My eldest son has been entranced by the same desires as my Angel. He seeks the mentoring of Marcus in the fine art of BDSM- Bondage, Discipline, Domination, Submission, Sadism, and Masochism. My Angel is the Discipline and Domination and Sadism of BDSM.

At Restraint, my Angel will find true release like no other. The answer to her gluttony is in the form of my son, her brother. For him she will behave, for she has an eye to keep upon him for his safety. A promise to shadow my eldest son will gain her the knowledge of Restraint.

Finding a way to get my mistress to Restraint will gain her my submission- my acquiescence to participate in the ghastly game.

My sons need Regina. Boys should always have a mother. My daughter needs her brothers. My children need to be a family. Restraint will draw them together- Regina and Daniel. Once drawn together, my youngest Daniel will have his mother and sister.

Restraint will also gain my best friend his prize. Get Regina to Restraint, and make sure she trains- trains in the way my son trains. Make sure Dexter is preoccupied with you, Angel, since he is already training Cortez.  Two is plenty for the sadist. If he is all tied up, Regina will be sent to Marcus- which means she will be sent here- here within my grasp. Roman and I miss her dearly- we want to be able to gaze at her in wonder, to hear her voice echo throughout these walls, and to feel her with us.

Promise me this, because I trust no one’s promises as much as I trust my Angel’s, my ever-faithful Angel. Promise me you will join my family back together- and that means Marcus, too. Promise me this, and I will play the game that I tried to give my life to escape. That knowledge of the past should inform you of how badly I wish my family to be whole- to have each other.

As a bonus- I dream of giving you my guidance once more- to be able to have our friendship. I know you resent me, despise me, and envy me. But I am still the same Grant that you once loved and respected. I am a harder man. A more realistic man. I am a stronger man.

…
And, most importantly, I miss you, Faith.

I close my eyes against the tears that threaten to spill. Grant speaks to me more now than he ever did. All the letters I’ve received from him varied from short and beautifully written to long heartfelt words that bleed upon the page.
Grant has a louder voice now that he has been silenced.

“How did you know what happened in that weird room?” I say from behind him. His back is still to me. One hand rests on his keyboard, and the other hand is hidden out of sight in his lap. The movement of his shoulder suggest
s that he is, indeed, stroking one out.

The impact room,
Grant quickly types. His fingers hit a button and a new image comes up on the screen, an image of dozens of rooms- thumbnails. Grant hovers over several before he finally clicks on an image. A live security feed pops up on the screen- a view to the weird room- the impact room.