Chapter 31
Phoenix
The soles of my shoes scuff against the dusty floor as I descend into the waiting area, the air thick with a mix of anticipation and dread.
I seize a metal folding chair, its cold touch a stark contrast to the warmth of my hands.
I drag it behind me, its legs screeching across the hard concrete, a harsh symphony resonating through the tense silence.
I plant the chair directly in front of the stall which frames my prize, the metallic clang of its legs puncturing the quiet hum of the room.
Seven more women are set to be auctioned off, but they barely register in my mind.
I am here for her. The redhead who once called me Coffee Daddy with a sultry purr.
Her eyes hungry for my touch. Her lips insatiable, swallowing down every last drop of my desire.
But she can’t see me now. Not through the disguise.
My beard is hidden beneath a nylon covering, my features obscured by the mask.
I let my gaze linger, memories of our past encounter flooding my mind like a vivid dream.
I can almost feel the softness of her lips.
The warmth of her throat. Her hair was long then, a fiery waterfall plunging down her back.
Perfect for gripping as I claimed her mouth with the same ferocity as a rodeo cowboy gripping the reins of prized bull.
But tonight, I have other plans. I thought I was done with being abandoned by women before Roni.
I know in my heart it wasn’t her choice, but it doesn’t hurt any less, and all I’ve been able to think about is how Sam fucked up my whole life.
I’m only here because of her. If she didn’t ghost me for a second time, we’d be married with kids somewhere away from all of this.
I wouldn’t be the piece of shit I am. And the more I fixate on the truth, the more I need to destroy it.
Mercy is the closest thing to being Sam I have at my disposal.
I’m not sure how much of her will remain when I’m through.
There may be a price to pay if I leave her broken, but the thought of her breath hitching as she remembers the brutality of my touch is almost worth it.
I want to imprint myself on her. To leave her shuddering at the mere memory of my cock driving into her, a savage wreckage of all that she is.
In the silence, I could choose to shatter her focus.
To tease and taunt her like a spirit on the wind.
But the tone of my voice would betray me.
She would know it’s me, and that cannot happen.
Beneath the ashen moon, she clutches a flashlight.
A futile talisman against the encroaching dark.
It's almost endearing. She stands there, bare skin bathed in the cold kiss of the night air, an enchantress amidst the gnarled fingers of the forest. Her form is lithe, muscles honed by discipline and denial, a testament to her strict regimen.
A fighter, that's what she is. The Chase thrills me.
The anticipation of the catch, even more.
I can almost feel the impact. The brutal dance of pursuit and capture.
First, the strike, swift and precise, sending her crumpling to the ground.
Then, the stillness, broken only by her ragged breaths as consciousness flickers back.
Her flashlight, once a comfort, will become an invasive tool in my hands.
She'll rue the moment she picked it up. Any remnant of innocence she might hold will be ripped away, leaving her a broken, hollow shell.
When I'm done, she'll be little more than a quivering mass of flesh.
A grim trophy to be hauled back at my leisure.
The supply room beckons with its arsenal of hunter's tools.
A sadist's candy store, where the only limitation is nothing can be permanent.
My fingers trail over the polished metal handcuffs, feeling their cold bite against my skin.
I select two pairs, their chains jingling like perverse wind chimes.
The ropes come next. Nylon, not hemp, to prevent rope burn while still leaving marks which will linger for days.
The cattle prod sits on a shelf, its business end gleaming under fluorescent lights, promising electricity which will dance across flesh and draw screams from unwilling throats.
Finally, the gag. A hollow black rubber sphere attached to leather straps that will dig into the corners of her mouth, restricting her pleas while leaving her pretty little cock sucker accessible.
I considered duct taping her own flashlight jammed between her teeth, but that cruelty would keep me from her slick throat.
The supply clerk watches impassively as I arrange the instruments of torment in my duffel bag.
I head back to Mercy's makeshift cell, my boots scraping against the concrete with each step, when the whole world fractures around me.
A vise clamps around my lungs, squeezing until my breath escapes in a strangled whistle.
My vision narrows to a thin tunnel, the edges blurring into darkness as I grip the wood of a nearby stall to steady myself.
The next woman up stumbles forward into the harsh spotlight of the auction block, her head bowed, dark hair falling across her face like a mourner's veil.
Then she looks up, and those eyes, those unmistakable green eyes which once gazed at me with such trust, catch mine.
It's Roni.