Justice For Me

Chapter 1

Justice couldn’t believe he was actually going to go through with it.

His heart was pounding and his palms were damp with nervous excitement as he followed the woman down the darkened hall.

She was dressed to entice a man into a lustful frenzy with her distractingly short black leather skirt, tall leather boots that inched over the tops of her knees and caressed her muscular flesh like another skin, and tight bustier that accented her surgically enhanced boobs in a way that made his mouth water and his cock harden.

She held herself in a regal and powerful stance that left you with little doubt that she knew her way around the games they were about to play.

Her hair hung past her waist and was a fake, bright red that should have looked ridiculous but looked fucking hot instead.

Eyes, a bright jade green, were outlined heavily with eyeliner and were a pretty almond shape.

Chick was over the top hot and would probably star, if today went well, as the lead actress in many of his hand-job fantasies for the next several weeks.

He’d heard about this place through a friend of a friend of a friend.

It was the kind of place that definitely didn’t advertise their services but probably raked in millions every year.

From the outside, it looked innocent enough.

A huge Victorian mansion that managed to maintain some of its historical beauty on the exterior, but there was ab-so-fucking-lutely nothing historical about the inside, at least not the few parts he’d seen so far.

His friend had brought him in last week to complete his paperwork, talk with the owner, and allow them to get comfortable with what pleasures they would be able to offer him.

Yes, pleasures.

His cock hadn’t been completely soft since he’s eyes had read the list of pleasures they offered up.

Most of them were foreign concepts that he’d had to research on the internet but he had recognized a few.

At the horny age of twenty-one, he was stupidly confident that he wanted to try them all.

When the woman in front of him stopped outside a door to his right, he nearly plowed right over her as his sex-crazed mind pulled up images from the internet for him to focus on instead of where he was going.

“Oh, sorry, ma’am,” he whispered in utter humiliation, especially when he noted the smirk on her pretty painted lips.

“My, my, Justice.” Her finger slipped under his chin and forced his head up until they were eye to eye.

“You blush so very pretty. If I got a pink this bright just from you running into me, I can’t wait to see what shade you’ll give me when we get involved with our session.” Her laughter was husky and succeeded in acting as a hand wrapping around his cock and giving it a tight squeeze and tug.

“Welcome, pretty boy,” she whispered as she swung the heavy door open and motioned for him to go inside.

He gulped, desperately trying to act like he was as nervous as a whore in church, and prepared to enter the unknown world sexual submission.

Stepping inside, his gaze swept the room for anything that might terrify him enough to cause him to turn and run for his life before it was too late.

Instead of finding all sorts of kinky sex paraphernalia that the red-headed beauty planned to use on him, Justice found the room to resemble more of a bedroom that belonged to an unmarried woman.

There were furry pillows and enough hot pink to cause his brain to scramble.

Maybe he should turn and run…

but for different reasons than he’d originally expected.

“Don’t focus on the décor, my young stud. You should be more concerned about how well I perform my…ah, duties.” The voice and naughty glint in her eyes made him feel slightly better, only slightly.

He would have thought his cock would be rock hard from the instant he stepped into her lair, but something was…

off.

“I’m going to leave you alone for ten minutes. When I come back, I want to find you completely naked, fully erect, and kneeling at the foot of the bed, awaiting your next set of instructions. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered obediently.

Her commands had been exactly what he had been expecting and he liked feeling confident in what he could expect in every aspect of his life, even the playroom.

Control, it was how he lived his life and he didn’t suppose he would be changing any time soon.

Most of his friends called him OCD because of how he had to have everything, down to the tiniest detail, planned and coordinated to where he always received the expected outcome.

They were close to the truth, but he wasn’t quite that bad.

There was another word for what he suffered from…

but nobody had to know that.

He slowly started removing his clothing as his hired escort had instructed, folding them neatly because that’s what he always did.

A few minutes earlier, as he’d followed her down the hall, he’d gotten a small taste of the rush he had been hoping for when he had signed up for this session.

He’d been nervous to the point that his heart had actually started pounding in an unsteady rhythm that had been foreign to him and it had felt exhilarating.

It was the rush he had been hoping for…

but it certainly hadn’t lasted nearly long enough.

Now, only minutes later, the rush was gone and instead of being excited or fully erect as she had requested, he already found the first signs of boredom starting to creep in and threaten any chance of fun he had been hoping to encounter.

Completely naked, he forced himself into the kneeling position she had requested and tried to coax his mind and body into enjoying what was about to come.

He hadn’t hired a prostitute because he was desperate, quite the opposite to be honest.

He had sex on a regular basis.

Hell, some might call it an irregular basis because of how often he got lucky, but he never really found what he was looking for.

Sure, he got off and made sure his lover climaxed every single time, but it was like complete and utter sexual satisfaction was always just right out of his reach.

He could almost touch it with the tips of his fucking fingers but then it would disappear…

vanish…

poof, right in front of him.

By hiring a very experienced prostitute that had probably participated in sexual acts he hadn’t even heard of, he had thought he would finally find what he had been searching for.

She would initiate him into new things, dark things that would force him into letting go of his rigid control.

His plan had been for her to force him off balance and keep him off balance to the point he could do nothing but feel…

just feel.

That was what he had been after, what he had been desperately craving.

Glancing around the room, pink fuzzies in every corner, laughing and mocking him, he realized it just wasn’t going to happen, at least not today and not with this woman and definitely not in this room.

He could stay and fuck her and it would probably be a hot fuck worth every dime he had forked out for her services but when it was all said and done, it would just be a fuck, nothing more.

He wanted more .

Problem was, he didn’t have a clue what that more was.

His gaze dropped to his semi flaccid cock and snickered at his own lack of excitement.

The question on the table, he supposed, was whether he stroked himself to hardness and went through with the session or did he put his clothes back on and walk away, leaving four thousand dollars in her hot little hand without that hot little hand ever touching an inch of his hot cock.

“Well, that’s a no-brainer,” he said to the empty room.

His fingers wrapped around his cock, palming himself just the way he knew would get his blood flowing in the right direction and then began stroking his length, twisting and tugging hard enough to cause a touch of pain because that always got him rock-fucking-hard.

He tried to envision the gorgeous red-head performing all the wicked sexual acts that had been on her list of services on his body, pushing him to the limits of his comfort zone and then shoving him over, and he felt his cock grow in his hand.

He had a nice cock, she wouldn’t be disappointed…

nobody ever was.

Well, except for him.

When he was completely hard or fully erect as she had so formally requested his hand obediently dropped to his side.

A lot of guys, especially those around his age, would have a difficult time adhering to a stop sign when they were in the middle of a good hand job, but he never had any problems pulling off.

His physical willpower was fucking amazing.

.

.

it was the emotional shit he struggled with on a regular basis.

Patiently, he remained in his kneeling position, cock hard and pointing away from his flat stomach, eyes tightly closed to block out the pinkies, and waited for her return.

If nothing else, they could both get a few good orgasms out of the visit.

It was a foregone conclusion that was the best he could hope for under the current circumstances.

Minutes later, he found himself getting really bored, bored to the point that his stiffy was threatening to disappear.

She’d said ten minutes and he was pretty sure more than ten minutes had passed.

Of course, he could always look up and check the Cinderella clock on the wall but if he did that…

well, stiffy would definitely disappear.

Fucking Cinderella clock?

A loud popping noise snapped his eyes open in an instant.

“What the fuck was that?”

His head tilted to the side as he strained to listen to what was happening on one of the two floors below the room he was in.

He heard feet shuffling as if people were running and then more popping noises, followed by screams.

Holy shit, he knew exactly what that popping sound was!

With a string of curses, he grabbed his clothes and slammed his legs into his jeans, nearly tripping as he tried to get them pulled up before whoever was shooting stormed into the room and added him to their list.

More gunfire urged him to forget his shirt and just try to make a getaway.

Remembering his cell, he reached into his back pocket and started firing the son of a bitch back up.

They’d made him turn everything off when he’d signed in and now he would have to deal with that fucking delay.

As the cell powered up, he crossed the room and cracked the door open, peeking out to see if the gunmen were on the third floor yet.

The halls were completely empty, but he could hear the gunfire and screams even better now and they were getting closer with each passing second.

He eased the door shut and snapped the lock into place.

Yea, like that would fucking save the day against a hail of bullets that were meant to rip his body to shreds?

“Fuck!” He hissed as he checked his phone again.

Fuck yea, he had power.

With fingers that were trembling, he sent a 911 text message along with the address to his dad.

If he survived this shit show, his dad would probably kill him for pulling yet another ass-brain stunt that was usually associated with his name.

With that text complete, he called 911 and as he waited for the operator to pick up, he began a quick survey of the room in a hunt for his best escape route.

There was a pair of pink velvet curtains that successfully hid any sunlight at all on the wall opposite the door.

He didn’t relish jumping from the third floor of an old Victorian but he preferred it over letting somebody turn his body into the human version of Swiss cheese.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the voice on the other end of the cell said in a voice that Justice was certain was loud enough that they heard it in the cellar four stories below him.

“Shit, lady! Not so loud,” he hissed into the phone as he jerked the hideous velvet curtains aside.

“What’s your emergency, sir?” She didn’t lower her voice and sounded a couple of ticks above mildly annoyed with him.

“Shit,” he mumbled when his eyes fell on the thick plaster that was on the other side of the curtains.

It wasn’t a fucking window?

There had to be a fucking window in this room somewhere, didn’t there?

Wasn’t that some kind of law?

“Listen, I need the police. I’m at 4892 Madison Lane and there are shots being fired downstairs.” His eyes frantically searched the room but he already knew there wasn’t a window to be seen.

He was trapped in a room with people shooting guns with real bullets on the other side of the only exit.

“You need to send the cops really quick.”

There were two other doors inside his current prison.

Behind one, he found a tiny bathroom that, like the bedroom, was missing its window to the free world.

“What’s your name, sir?” the bored voice asked.

“My name is fucking dead if you don’t get the cops on the road!” he hissed into the phone.

“Seriously lady, we need help here. It’s the old Victorian right outside town.” He heard her tapping numbers into her computer and he tried, without any reasonable success, to convince himself she was sending the information out to police cruisers that would be only seconds away from saving his ass.

He wondered how far away Frik and Frak were.

He’d lost his bodyguard (babysitters) intentionally to visit this up-scale whorehouse.

They’d have a great laugh over his shredded body…

before his father killed them for letting him out of their sight.

He twisted the knob to the second door and found it tightly locked.

As he reached into his pocket for a knife, he eyeballed the locking mechanism to see how easily it would be for him to break into the room.

You didn’t grow up as the only son of the director to the FBI without learning how to pick a few locks here and there.

Hell, he’d been doing this since he was in kindergarten.

At least the popping noises had stopped.

“Are the cops on their way, ma’am? I really need them to be on the way,” he said as his nimble fingers worked the lock.

Within seconds, he heard it click open.

“Where are you, son?” he heard her ask politely.

Why the fuck didn’t she sound nervous?

Sure, she wasn’t the one about to be a bullet-magnet, but it would have to be gross to hear him being gunned down in a hail of bullets, wouldn’t it?

He slipped into the small room and twisted the lock back into place.

Turning around, he found he was in a room really not much bigger than a closet but it had about fifteen TV monitors lining the darkened walls.

Stepping closer, he studied the small screens until the harsh reality of what he was seeing slowly dawned on him.

The monitors were apparently hooked up so you could see what was happening in each of the rooms in the old Victorian and he also noticed that recording devices were hooked up as well.

He saw dead bodies, covered in blood and gore, in almost every room.

In one small room, there was a young man, not much older than him, tied to a bed and a bloody gunshot wound to his head.

In the main lobby, where he’d been only mere minutes ago, eight people were lined up against the wall, kneeling on their knees, sobbing and clearly begging for their lives.

The red-headed beauty that was supposed to be his escort for the evening was one of them.

Standing in front of them, holding a gun that was pointed straight at them, was a man about his age, maybe a few years older, but a hell of a lot meaner.

He heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs about the same time the 911 operator said, “There’s no need to hide, son. There’s really nowhere for you to go.”

A monitor in the lower corner gave a clear picture of the front of the Victorian, where a police cruiser sat innocently, cops leaned up against the black and white automobile, laughing and smoking cigarettes.

“You fucking bitch!” He hissed as he pushed the end button and cut her off.

Loud popping noises sounded from below and his eyes fell onto the screen where the red-head had been kneeling seconds ago.

As he watched, the man fired wave after wave of bullets at them, ripping them apart until they were no more than a bloody mess on the floor.

Justice would have puked right then and there if something else hadn’t caused everything in him to freeze solid.

The man lowered his weapon, looked straight into the camera, and waved at him.

Then, with a friendly come-hither movement of his fingers, he motioned for him to come to him.

“Oh, fuck me, I’m so dead,” Justice whispered.

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck,” he chanted quietly as his eyes searched the small, dark room for a weapon or a way out.

The heavy footsteps were now trudging down the hallway, getting closer and closer to him with every fucking step.

His phone lit up to show his dad was calling.

Fuck this shit, his dad did not need to hear him get blown to smithereens.

He answered anyway.

“Did you get my text? Dad, bad things are happening here.”

“Listen to me, Justice. Where are you?”

“I’m at 4892…”

“No, son,” he interrupted.

“Where are you in the house? Help is on the way, but they are about fifteen minutes out, so I need to know what is going on so I can help you. After that, we’ll discuss why the fuck you ditched your handlers!” He growled.

“Gunshots downstairs,” he said.

“I think there are about twenty people dead. Cops are outside, but they aren’t doing anything. I called 911, but I’m pretty sure the police are in deep in whatever the hell is going on.”

“Good, Justice. Stay calm and keep talking to me. Where are you?”

“I’m in a room on the third floor but there isn’t a fucking window anywhere in the fucking room.” He heard the doorknob from the hallway jiggle and then a man laugh loudly.

“They are right outside the room, dad. Listen,” he said seriously, “I know I’m a lot of trouble, but I really love you and mom. I don’t mean…”

“Stop, Justice!” his father said.

“You will get out of this. I need you to stay calm for me, though. Look around. What do you see?”

In the hallway, the man continued to laugh and taunt him, drawing out his torment for his own entertainment.

“This room looks like it might have been a walk-in closet at some time. There’s a shit load of recording crap in here and I can see into all the rooms. I saw the guy shoot the ones that were still alive. They know I’m up here.”

Justice heard his dad curse loudly.

“What does the ceiling look like?”

He looked up.

“It’s just ceiling tiles, I think.” Already knowing where his dad was headed, Justice grabbed the chair that had been in front of the monitors and stood up in it, almost falling straight out of it when he heard the bedroom door crash to the floor as it flew off its hinges.

As he stretched to reach for the tile, the cell tumbled to the floor and landed with a soft thud.

He could hear his dad screaming his name, but there wasn’t a hell of a lot he could do other than try to continue with his escape.

The doorknob to the closet jiggled and the taunting started all over again.

Knowing he only had seconds, Justice heaved himself up and twisted and turned until he was able to pull his entire body into the small attic.

With one last look at the cell, he slid the tile back into place and started crawling as quietly as possible across the floor and toward the tinier- than- tiny window at the far end.

It was his only hope of escape.

“What the hell are you doing, Solomon? Toying with the poor lad?” Marcus asked as he watched one of his men jiggle the doorknob leading into the room where the poor unfortunate kid was trying to hide, which was also the room that had led to everybody’s needless death today.

Fucking idiots had thought to record him while he played his sex games and then use it against him as blackmail?

Yes, they were now dead fucking idiots.

“Ah, just scaring the kid to death, boss,” Solomon answered with a smile.

“That’s okay, right? We enjoy scaring little kiddies don’t we?”

“That we do, Solomon,” Marcus answered, “but I’m ready to call it a day. We need to finish this up, destroy the evidence and be on our merry way. Knock the door down and kill the prick so we can leave before it starts stinking too badly.” Marcus loved the smell of blood when he was torturing someone but after they died…

well, it just stunk.

While Solomon focused on the door, Marcus meandered around the room, stopping when he noticed the kid’s clothing neatly folded on a chair.

Yep, he’d made many young boys and girls fold up their clothes and place them neatly on a chair before their sessions had begun.

Bored, he picked up the shirt, expensive but not too flashy, and held it to his nose.

The boy smelled delicious and he felt his cock twitch.

Odd, he thought.

He usually required more visual stimulation.

A wallet lay underneath the shirt and for some unexplained reason, he felt somewhat giddy when he found it.

He heard the door smash to hundreds of pieces behind him, but paid it very little attention.

Opening the wallet, he pulled out a driver’s license belonging to Justice Conners, twenty-one years old, blonde hair, blue eyes, and fucking gorgeous.

His cock did more than twitch.

“Solomon! Hold!” he yelled.

Maybe the boy didn’t have to die?

Maybe he could be Marcus’ plaything for a while, keep him until he grew bored of his innocence and then he could kill him.

“We got a problem, boss,” he heard Solomon say.

“The kid ain’t here.”

Marcus kept the license clutched in his hand as he walked toward the closet.

“What do you mean ‘he isn’t here’? Where the hell else would he be?”

Marcus glanced around the closet, noticing the cell phone lying on the floor.

It was probably still online with the local 911 operator where he had called for help…

and they had alerted him that another one was hidden in the house.

In the five years he had been visiting this place, they had never taken anyone onto the third fucking floor.

He was still furious he had almost allowed a detail that important to slip past him.

Sure, they would have eventually found the boy when they came up to destroy the evidence, but he didn’t like mistakes.

In his world, they were too costly.

“He’s gone through the ceiling, Solomon,” he said angrily.

“Bring him to me. I want him alive.”

“You sure, boss? Your dad said not to leave anybody alive and burn the fucking place to the ground.”

Marcus thought he might pull out his own gun and blow Solomon’s head off.

He wanted to, fucking badly, he wanted to.

Solomon was too deep in his father’s pockets and an asshole.

He would have to go before too long.

All the men needed to be completely loyal to him and only him.

Solomon was clearly on the fence.

“I’ll take responsibility with my father, Solomon. Just bring me the boy and be quick about it.”

Solomon started speaking into his head set to the other men and then walked out so he could get to the ladder leading into the attic.

When he was alone, Marcus studied the picture on the license more closely as he bent over to pick up the cell phone.

He couldn’t wait to touch his new plaything.

“Thanks for calling and letting me know we had another one in the house, Margaret. I’ll make certain there is a little extra something for you with this paycheck, doll.” The boy’s blue eyes danced back at him from the picture.

“You are a fucking dead man if you lay a hand on my son,” a deep voice said from the other side of the phone line and Marcus froze in place.

It wasn’t as if he was afraid of some kid’s daddy, but this did mean that they would need to move a bit faster and there would still be a few lose ends that would need to be tied up before this mission could be marked as complete.

For instance, now he would have to kill his new plaything’s daddy and mommy.

“Oooh, I’m terrified,” he answered arrogantly.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t make empty threats, daddy . I will touch your son and there won’t be a damned thing you can do about it. Your fucking son shouldn’t have been at a whorehouse and now he’s going to have to pay the price for being a very naughty little boy.”

While he taunted the boy’s father, he texted the address on Justice’s license to one of his men waiting outside and gave them the green light to go to the house and make sure nobody was alive when they left.

“I don’t think you know with whom you are dealing with, old man.”

Marcus was smiling as he considered the helplessness the father must be feeling right now, knowing his son was about to be taken from him.

He heard gunfire from somewhere outside the Victorian and grew furious when he thought his men had disobeyed him and were killing Justice before he could play with him.

Before he could even consider what he needed to do next, the man’s voice on the phone stopped him dead in his tracks.

“No, I don’t think you know with whom you are dealing with, you murdering bastard. This is FBI Director Christopher Conners. Why don’t you step outside and meet some of my men? They are waiting on you and dying to make your acquaintance.”

For the first time in his life, Marcus O’Hara tasted fear.

He stood there, panting like a fucking bitch in heat for several long seconds before he managed to pull his head out of his ass and do what needed to be done.

This might be the first battle he’s ever lost but it didn’t mean it had to be the war.

Carefully, he removed the small explosive device from the bag he had brought up with him, placed it against the recording machinery that was evidence to the debauchery he had been a part of prior to today…

and to the killings that just took place.

With that evidence completely destroyed, he would only have to worry about eliminating Justice Conners, who had probably watched as he had gunned down the remaining fuckers that had tried to blackmail him.

His father was one of the most powerful men in Ireland and hunting down one pathetic boy, even if he was an FBI Director’s fucking bastard kid, wouldn’t be too hard for him.

He was fucking furious that he would ever have to spend one hour in an American prison but confident that he wouldn’t be there long.

He clicked the timer on the explosives and casually sauntered out of the room.

There was an arrogant smile on his face when he walked out the front door to face whatever they had planned for him.

His smile waivered just a fraction when he saw his men cuffed and lying face down on the grass but then returned full blown when his gaze fell upon Justice Conners, even more beautiful in person than he was in the license photo.

The boy’s beauty was bewitching.

His smile grew even larger when an explosion rocked the third floor of the Victorian, sending all evidence to hell in a black cloud of smoke.