Stained

Chapter 1

ADRIAN

Please, for the love of God, let there be something good tonight.

I crack my knuckles and lean back in my black leather recliner, my entire body pulsing with need. It’s annoying to be so fucking desperate, but at the same time, I’ve been a good boy for the last three weeks…

That’s damn near a record.

I swipe my finger across my phone screen, my gaze landing on the KinkMe app unlocking by facial recognition.

There’s nothing to be ashamed of—everyone has kinks—but the last thing I want is for some poor, unassuming, and judgmental soul to catch a glimpse.

I’d hate for someone to worry about saving me.

My soul turned to ash years ago.

But never mind that.

Life is way better without such things tying a person down.

I run my fingers through my dark hair, tugging and disheveling it as the app loads on my screen.

I try not to be an obsessive user, but not using it would be like wanting Chinese food and then choosing to ignore the buffet right next to your house.

Finally, I glance down at the purplish red screen, a grin creeping across my face.

You have thirteen requests, I read the note at the top of my home screen.

I fucking love it when I have more than a handful to pick through.

I click the notification and pull up the list, my dick stiffening without even knowing what these women look like.

“Wanting a night of CNC,” I read aloud on the first request. The woman’s picture is just an avatar. I can’t see shit—not that it really matters. Most people on KinkMe choose to have some form of anonymity, but they at least show me something.

It could be someone undercover. As soon as the thought pops into my head, I reject the request. The last thing I need is a mess like that. I scroll to the next, my eyes landing on a blonde. A mask conceals her face, but the rest of her is on display in black lingerie.

And I can work with that.

“Seeking a breaking and entering,” I read her desire aloud, my cock now rock solid at the idea. Breaking and entering means the whole shebang—she wants me to break into her house, creep her out, and fuck her dirty.

And that makes it easy for me.

I see the time of the request, which was just a couple of hours ago. More than likely, she hasn’t found anyone else to fulfill her darkest desires yet.

Lucky for her.

I hit the accept button, which pulls up a messaging screen, the first being automatic.

CrimsonCuff has accepted the request.

Before I let ElizaQueen get the jump, I quickly type out a one-worded opening message, focusing on the logistics above everything else. After all, sometimes these women like to talk a big game…

And then back out.

So, I don’t give them a chance.

CrimsonCuff: Location?

…ElizaQueen is typing…

I shift in my chair, my hand finding my cock through my slacks and adjusting it. The fucking monster of a thing seems to get more complicated before than during, but that’s a topic for another day. Finally, my phone pings.

ElizaQueen: 103 NW 112th St., Apt 531

CrimsonCuff: Time?

ElizaQueen: Ready when you are ;) Come and get me.

I frown at the stupid winky face. I hate it when women use that as a way to flirt. It makes me feel like I’m stuck back in an AIM chatroom in middle school, talking about boobs that I hadn’t ever seen before.

But it’s fine.

I send her a golden thumbs up and close out of the app. There’s no use in picking apart such a small detail about her—even if it bugs me. I mean, just being blunt, everyone fucking bugs me in one way or another.

But whatever. Pussy is pussy.

And I could really use some.

I push to standing, dropping my phone in the chair as I shed my jacket. I never attend these rendezvous in any attire that might be seen as my normal, and so I begin the process of stripping out of my white dress shirt and slacks.

I toss them into the hamper as I enter my master bedroom, which is essentially a bare room where I sleep. There’s nothing on the walls, a simple black quilt on the bed, and nothing that points to the room being anything other than just that—a fucking room.

Paying no attention to my six-foot-three frame in the mirror, I continue to the walk-in closet, caring less about how I look and more about disguising it.

I prefer my encounters to be anonymous, which is probably why ElizaQueen chose me, as she was covering her face, too.

My mind flashes with the image of her profile picture, and my dick twitches again, already imagining the sensation of my fingers wrapped in her hair.

I grab a black hoodie from the back of my closet, a black pair of Levis, and slip into the clothes. They fit like a glove, and my dick seems to protest as I finish buttoning them up. Maybe it would be better just to sit and jerk off at home, but honestly…

That never really scratches the itch.

The backpack I have sitting in the corner gets slung over my shoulder as I head for the door.

I’ll worry more about concealing my identity when I make it to the other side of the city.

After all, ElizaQueen will be too busy getting fucked to worry about who I am.

That’s the beauty of this app. No one gives a shit who the other person is, and that’s what makes it safe for a man like me.

No one is vetting me.

I smile to myself as I slam my door behind me, pausing to double-check that it’s locked.

My eyes flicker to my car, but I know better.

Instead, I make my way to the bicycle rack out front of my townhouse.

Kneeling, I work the dial of the lock until it clicks open.

Shoving it into my pocket, I sling my leg over and take off down the street.

The moon and streetlights illuminate the sidewalk, and as soon as I make it to the edge of the park, I hang a hard left, slinking off into the cover of the trees.

I grunt as the bike tires hit the dirt trail, and after I make it about a hundred feet, I come to a stop.

Dropping a foot to the ground to steady myself, I unhook my backpack from one shoulder and let it fall into my lap.

I unzip it, pull out my face mask—a black one with a skeleton outline—and fasten it to my face.

Now, if anyone sees me, they’ll know to stay the fuck away from me.

The chill in the air makes it easier if I run into a cop, but I doubt that’s going to happen. I know the corruption in the force, and I know they’re paid off to stay away from this park, which is precisely why it’s perfect for me to make my transition.

Once settled, I get situated again and take off down the trail. My heart thrums in my chest from both the anticipation of what’s to come and the exercise I’m getting from cycling, which is a great way to kill two birds with one stone, yeah?

Fuck yeah.

My cock starts to grow hard again as soon as I break through the trees, coming out on another sidewalk. ElizaQueen’s apartment is just a couple of blocks away now, and I’m so fucking ready to get my dick wet that I can’t pedal fast enough.

Well, I say it’s about getting it wet…

But really, it’s the fear in their eyes that always gets me off.

Something about that terror widening their pupils, the blackness devouring their irises, as I get exactly what I desire from them, just sends me right over the edge every fucking time. Women are by far the most beautiful when they’re breaking.

I roll my lips together as I locate the apartment building, thankful it’s one of the lower-quality ones. There’s no security to slip by, and no gates to jump. I roll in with ease, not worried about anyone recognizing me now. I’m just a stalker in the night, coming to give this woman what she wants.

I’m not a villain. I’m a superhero basically.

I chuckle under my mask as I navigate to the apartment.

I note the lack of cameras and shake my head.

I have a feeling the manager is probably a cheapskate.

She’s on the first floor, which is almost just too stupid when it comes to ease.

I could easily just walk right into the covered area, hide my bike in the darkness, and then jimmy the door open…

But that wouldn’t be very much fun.

So, instead, I ditch the sidewalk, taking a hard right.

I take off across the grass, noting the little fenced-in areas behind the first-floor apartments.

I count until I get to hers, stopping at the back.

There’s no gate, but that’s no problem. I lean my bike against the fence, and then easily scale the wooden privacy panel.

Whoever installs it, put the horizontal supports facing outward, which gives me three steps to make it up and over.

My feet hit the small grassy area in total silence, and I take in what lies in front of me. She’s got a simple setup with a couple of patio chairs, a table, and a small grill off to the side. My mind tries to imagine the blur of a blonde entertaining guests in the shithole.

Fuck that. I’d never come to a place like this for a barbecue.

My eyes drift to the sliding glass door. There’s not a single fucking window. Just a damn door. I frown, once again disappointed by the challenge.

But it is what it is.

I walk up to it, placing a gloved finger on the handle. Carefully, I try it, and my shoulders slump when it rolls open easily.

You gotta be kidding me. You’re not supposed to make it this easy, ElizaQueen.

My cock softens a little as I open the door, growing irritated at the insult of an unlocked door. I guess she’s already waiting for me, probably already having poured half a container of lube on her pussy.

Disgusting.

I curl my lip up as I step inside the house, met with the fresh scent of vanilla and…

cinnamon? I don’t give a shit what her house smells like.

I scan the meager place, noting the mismatched furniture in the living room.

My guess is that she has a low-end job and is trying to make up for some sort of trauma by having some random man break in and stick his dick in her…

Poor thing. Daddy issues are the worst.

I laugh silently to myself and creep toward the only doorway in the entire place. It’s wide open, and my irritation increases as I step toward it. I catch sight of a lingerie-clad woman lying on top of the covers.

They won't even let me uncover the mystery.

It doesn’t matter, though. I step up, noting her ass up in the air, a black lace thong barely visible in the lowlight of the moon through the window.

Hmm. I bite down on my lip and walk right up to the edge of her bed. She knows I’m here. I can hear it in the way she catches her breath, and just for that, I rear back and smack her mostly bare ass.

“Ooh,” she cries out at the contact. “Oh god.”

I chuckle, deciding I’m not going to fuck around. I’ll get right to it. My gloved hands go for my zipper, but as soon as I drop it, my work phone vibrates in my pocket.

What the fuck? It’s my day off.

I fish it out, and my heart sinks at the captain’s name lighting up the screen. You have to be shitting me. Without a word, I slip out of the bedroom and back patio door, putting the phone to my ear.

“Yeah?” I grunt, barely audible—as if I had been sleeping.

“1213 West Monroe Street. The art gallery. Get your ass there. Now.”

Fuck.

So much for having a little fun.