2. Nico
2
NICO
TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS
T he collar around my throat tightens as the dominatrix pulls on it to get me to follow her around Absolution, the club I own. My knees and palms scrape against the cool marble floor as I crawl on all fours, denim chafing where it meets the onyx surface. The sound of her heels in front of me echoes in my ears, a rhythmic tac tac on two beats.
I prefer the number three. Always have. Two can easily become one. Three is indivisible. Technically both two and three are prime numbers, but I don’t like two. I can’t explain it, it’s a feeling in the fabric of who I am.
I usually enjoy this particular brand of humiliation—being paraded around on my knees—but this new play partner has not followed my demands when it comes to punishments and rewards.
She’s new. And soft.
Dressed in nothing but black lace, her leather boots travel all the way up her thighs and indent her skin in what most would consider an enticing fashion. I think it looks tacky.
I give her the benefit of the doubt but deep down, I know our incompatibility.
This person doesn’t want submission or control, she wants attention and that’s one thing I’m not giving freely. Especially since my mind never shuts up and usually either replays the conversations of the day or the nightmares of the fire that consumed my father’s life.
The only way to shut the window to my past is for the whip to lick my skin until I bleed. It’s for my partner to take control of me until all I see is them.
She doesn’t have what it takes, I can tell. My mind is already drawn to watch the feet of everyone else in the club. I’m not focused on her as I should be. As she should demand.
My profile is explicitly set to masochist. If you’re not a sadist, don’t even bother playing with me. I need pain before I need anything else. I certainly don’t want strangers to touch me.
She did.
I almost safe-worded her when her hand glided against my scalp as I knelt at her feet, head bowed. I recoiled and stopped giving her my submission. My face must have said what I didn’t.
It pissed her off and now she’s dragging me across the hard unyielding floor of the club while soft red light dances from the silver metal sconces on the dark walls and illuminates the hungry stares of our audience.
That’s all I wanted anyway. As we near the St Andrews’ cross, my mouth salivates with anticipation.
I rejected her and she’s going to take it out on my body.
Finally, the voices that remind me that my father died because of my carelessness will be silenced. There won’t be societal pressure to be anything but the monstrous killer that I am.
To be punished for it is the only way that will actually save me.
We pass a few people on our way to the dais. Leering faces and bodies in different states of undress. Some kneel at the heels of their dominants, others are getting fucked but still turn their curious and lustful gaze to the spectacle about to happen. I recognise all of them including previous partners.
Damian, one of my favourites and my business partner, winks as I crawl but my eyes remain focused on my goal.
“Go on, sweet thing, get up.” Even her voice grates on my nerves, nasal and high in pitch.
I roll my eyes at the pet name as I stand up and click my tongue. “I’m not sweet, Mistress ,” I say, her title coming out as an insult in my mouth.
Her ears turn red before her face does and she slaps me. I press my lips together to hold the smile that wants to take over my face.
I’m usually not a brat.
I like order and consistency and I have impeccable control of myself.
I’m pushing her to safe-word me so she can be replaced by someone else. Someone who can actually handle me. She doesn’t. After I remove my jeans and boxers, she fastens my arms to the cross. My legs follow. I hold my breath, ants crawling up my skin at the perspective that she might cop a feel as she ties me up but thankfully, she doesn’t.
My naked body is on display. All eyes turn to us and my cock hardens and leaks at the tip. My current mistress uses her thumb to gather the drop of pre-cum.
“Orange,” I hiss, loud enough for everyone to hear and frown at the colour system we use to keep each other safe. Green for ‘continue’, orange for ‘slow down’, red for ‘stop’, a secondary safe-word everyone knows on the spot. I lower my voice, just for her, and add, “touching is a hard limit.”
She smirks and brings her red-nailed thumb to her mouth. “With me, it won’t be,” she whispers.
The only reason I don’t stop this charade here and there is the promise of the whip.
The dominatrix takes the riding crop from where it hangs on the silver display wall and without a warning, she brings it down to my right thigh with a resounding smack. I revel in it, goosebumps rising on my skin from where she hit.
I exhale heavily. This is what I need. This is my absolution. This is what will help.
Over and over, she brings the torture device on my flesh. My thighs heat with the burn of her blows, covered in angry red marks. But this is just an appetiser.
Soon, the sting almost disappears to give way to a fuzzy feeling that spreads from the place of the red marks down to my toes and up to my groin. But it’s not enough. And she knows it.
With a smile, she replaces the crop with a braided leather flogger. Sleek black, it looks elegant and tantalising in her hands. But I only have eyes for the thirty tails, not the wielder.
“Count, slut,” she spits, forcefully dragging my attention back to her as she whips the flogger on my thighs again, dangerously close to my cock and balls. Her aim is unfocused and unsteady, and I clench my jaw shut, refusing to give her what she wants most.
I moan when the whip swings across a place where the burn of the crop was already vivid. My partner moves up to my belly and sides. A true novice if I ever saw one. Or someone who wants to hurt for the sake of hurting, not give pleasure in an exchange of power we both chose.
“Orange,” I groan as the end of the tails swoosh against my crotch again, tingling but not hurting. Yet.
She pants, red with anger, her make-up starting to run where sweat gathers at her hairline. Dropping the tool to the floor, her blonde hair escapes my peripheral vision but I hear the ruffling in one of the drawers behind us.
The sombre classical music I couldn’t hear before gets louder as I refocus on the scene before me. Writhing bodies coated with fluids of all kinds move before me in a tableau I would usually indulge in with delight. But my companion hasn’t reappeared and she didn’t communicate her intentions.
My cock deflates and I turn my head to see her and stop the scene.
When I can’t find her near, I look forward again. My eyes lock with Damian, who’s frowning. His dark blue eyes are riveted to what’s happening behind me, concern etched on his clean-shaven face. Before they widen and he steps forward in a hurried movement, so unlike his very controlled self.
I understand why a second later when a blunt and lubricated object is pressed at my asshole from behind and under the cross. Cold sweat erupts on my skin and a shiver of disgust makes its way over my body, bile rising in my throat.
“Fire!” I spit my safe-word, startling the crowd, as Damian rushes to me.
“Stop her,” he orders the two security guards standing by. They charge forward, pushing screaming bodies out of their way.
Before the dildo can make its way inside me, the person who played pretend at being a domme is wrenched from the stage by the burly security men. Damian removes my bindings quickly and tries to usher me to the room next door, handing me my discarded clothes.
But all I see is my prey.
I stalk to her, naked as the day I was born, fuelled by rage and retribution. My hand connects with her throat as I push her against the wall, and squeeze to cut her airways. Flames lick my skin where it connects to hers but I hold on for the sake of her pain.
She struggles against my hold, her nails scratching and drawing blood at my fist and forearm. I lift her enough so only the very tip of her toes reach the floor. Her face turns a pretty shade of purple. I cock my head to the side, enjoying the view of her struggle. When it’s time to collect for Death, I love to hear the guilty cry and plead. She’s no exception.
Damian and I created this club as a sanctuary for kinky souls and we pride ourselves on being a well-vetted and safe club. She taints that by simply breathing the same air we do.
Behind me, Damian asks Kyara, his wife and the third business partner in our venture, to handle the crowd. I barely hear the commotion anymore, focused only on making the liar in my hand pay. Her eyes roll in their socket as she struggles to breathe.
Damian presses a hand to my chest and I let her go. She slumps to the floor, heaving but alive. Not for long.
I suspect I’m not the only person she tried to rape.
I spit in her face. My voice is cold as death when I speak. “Don’t let me see your face ever again.”
She shivers and nods, tears streaming down her face. Why she cries when she’s the one caught doing something she shouldn’t have and receiving punishment for it is a mystery to me.
“Get her out of my sight,” I tell the two guards then turn to walk to our office.
Damian follows, carrying my clothes and shoes. We don’t talk. We don’t need to.
I’ve known him for three years. He knows I don’t need empty words or promises. Action speaks louder.
When we enter the lavish office, my feet warm on the soft Persian carpet. Damian hands me a robe and I put it on, then I take a seat on the modern indigo velvet sofa, my head falling back on an exhale. With the silence of the room, the marks on my skin come back to haunt me, reminding me that I wanted them so badly I closed my eyes to the presence of a predator in our midst.
I failed the club. I failed my partners. I failed the patrons.
I failed, again.
Like I’m destined to.
I hiss when a cold and watery substance is lathered onto my skin. My head whips up to see Damian rubbing ointment on my thighs. My lower belly contracts with each caring movement. I’m always so confused by my body’s reaction to his kind ministrations. It makes me hot, but I’m also painfully aware of his attention on me, undivided. All-consuming.
He’s the only one who’s allowed to touch me and only during after-care. We’ve never had sex but he’s an excellent Dominant, attune to my need for pain, with a deep sadistic streak. His wife is also his sub, but she doesn’t like the pain like I do. I give him an outlet for his dark desires and in return, I receive the absolution I need. It’s been working great for us. This was one of the only two other times someone else was allowed to play with me. The previous one had been Damian’s trainee, and very good at respecting my boundaries. Maybe that’s why I had hoped this one would too. But people always disappoint, in the end. I should have known better.
“Stop being such a baby, and let me care for you, Nico,” he admonishes when I shuffle underneath his touch.
I’m not squirming because of the pain. It’s the care he provides when he should be punishing me for being so reckless. I swallow hard and let him do what soothes him. I got hurt, even because of my own fault, and Damian is a giver by nature. I know he feels responsible since he vetted the person we just kicked out.
“I need her name, Damian.”
It’s an order and he knows it. He might be taking care of me now, but when his hands leave my body, I’ll still be the angel of pain he can’t stand. Damian doesn’t know what I do for my brother Andrea, but he suspects. The Capaldi name has enough of a reputation. I certainly do.
I stand to put my clothes on then turn to him. Seated where I was, his head is down into his hands. He grips the strands too tight. He’s gonna hurt himself if he continues.
I’m not inclined to remorse like he is. I prefer swift actions to counteract issues such as the one that arose tonight. A better vetting protocol. Removing problematic people. Permanently, if need be.
He utters the name I’ve been waiting for and I nod once then leave. His wife can comfort him. My phone is to my ear before I make it to my black Aston Martin Valhalla.
“What do you need?” Andrea asks.
“Find everything on Meg Anthony.”
I hang up on my brother without ceremony. I’ve never understood people’s need for useless chatter, greetings or goodbyes. They’re inefficient communication, nothing but void words that occupy time and space needlessly.
The engine of my car roars to life when I turn the ignition, warmth and comfort spreading in my bloodstream as I speed through the streets of London. She can’t be far.
I race with myself through the city, waiting on the information I’ll need for tonight’s mission. My personal vendetta. Though I doubt I will be avenging only myself.
Ten minutes later, the phone on the dashboard rings. Andrea’s voice comes through.
“She’s a piece of work, fratellino . Two restraining orders from male teenagers dating from three years ago. Used to work at Churchill High School in Camden until then. Couldn’t find any other legal paperwork against her but…”
Giulia, my sister-in-law, finishes the sentence for him. “I found the notes of the kids’ school therapist. She’s a predator.” Her usual chiming voice is low and cold, hate pouring from behind the phone.
I’m not surprised Andrea let her in on the research. She’s just as good with uncovering secrets, and takes everything personally. Her loyalty to my brother has been hard earned and is still shaky most days, but she’s an integral part to our small family unit. The three of us, I like the image.
“Thanks,” I tell her.
“So, you’ve known Giulia for three months and she gets a thank you, when I’ve been your brother for twenty-six years and I get hung up on every time you need shit?” Andrea asks with both outrage and amusement.
I’ve learnt the best way to connect with people on a deeper level, especially family members and close friends, is through teasing. It’s easier now with Giulia helping. They’re both easy to rile up. All I need is to favour one or the other.
“She’s nicer than you.” I shrug though he can’t see it. “And I like her better.”
“You little shit!”
I smirk and hang up, shaking my head at my older brother’s antics. Such a hot-blooded man. We couldn’t be more different, and that’s our strength.
My phone chimes with Meg’s address and I make my way there in minutes, slaloming in between people who respect speed limits. Since my father taught me to only respect the laws that make sense, I’ve never driven like everyone else.
And I’ve killed more people than I can count. They all deserved it.
Now, I’m about to collect another wretched soul.
Many people think killing is an act of mania. A disgusting action born from a dark soul, with no purpose and no method. They couldn’t be more wrong. Death is a methodical process. One I respect every step of.
She will die, without leaving a trace, like the cockroach she is.
I climb out of my car and up the stairs of the white three-story building she lives in, then knock on the door.
Wide eyes welcome me, but she opens the door for me. She’s making this so easy, probably believing I came here to apologise. It’s simple when people’s beliefs and misconceptions play in my favour. I can use their own mind against them without lifting a finger.
Meg turns her back on me to pick a cup of tea up, and I strike. The syringe hidden in my right pocket enters the delicate skin of her neck, the drug I inject melting into her system in seconds. I always have a few handy in my car.
“What are you doing?” She screeches and struggles before she falls limp at my feet. Suxamethonium paralyses the body in thirty to sixty seconds. Using it makes my job easier when I need to subdue someone. I work smarter, not harder. Why would I fight anyone when I can knock them down with a drug so easily accessible on the market?
Under the cover of night, I set her up on the passenger’s seat as if she were asleep. London is too big of a city to own every single cop. This isn’t West Hill, my brother’s territory. It’s better if I avoid them altogether but if I ever come across the police, no one can ask me why I have an unconscious body in my truck. Besides, my trusted Valhalla doesn’t have a trunk.
Swiftly, respecting the speed limits this time, I drive to my home in the forest surrounding West Hill, an hour away from London.
Tonight, Meg Anthony will take her last breath.