CHAPTER 3
Zeke
“Patience is a virtue, Dale. They can wait,” I told the receptionist when he delivered the news that the pretty boy and the cowboy had arrived.
“Yes, Sir. I’ll let them know.”
Disconnecting the phone, I glanced out the window. The sun had slipped behind the clouds, darkening my office.
What the fuck was I doing? Was I really contemplating the idea of fucking with these boys?
It would make more sense if I simply pretended they didn’t exist. It wasn’t like me to play with the same submissive more than once.
I’d done it before and it had gotten me absolutely nowhere.
Since I wasn’t a glutton for punishment, I should take a page from my history book and leave these two alone.
Even if I was entertained for a short period of time, nothing good could come of it in the long run.
Still, I was thinking about them even as they sat one floor up in the reception area.
I remembered that day on Trent’s jet. The day I learned one of my good friends had set me up.
I’d been relaxing with Ransom while the pretty boy sat across from me, his gaze frequently straying my way.
The moment the cowboy came into the room, I found myself unable to resist fucking with them.
“Trent wants these boys to meet with Justin,” I told Ransom.
“Why?”
“Hell if I know.” I smirked. “Maybe he’s looking to add some decoration to the office.”
Ransom’s gaze strayed to the pretty boy. “Well, that’d do it.”
I peered over at my friend once again, gauging his interest in the two. If Ransom wanted these two for himself, I’d certainly hand them over on a silver platter. I didn’t need the fucking headache.
Unfortunately, Ransom’s appreciation was only skin deep. He wasn’t interested in the pretty boy or the cowboy.
“String ’em up naked,” Ransom said. “Maybe in the lobby so everyone can watch.”
Yep, the man was as sadistic as I was.
But he was right. These two would make nice office decor. I could admit I wouldn’t mind seeing the pretty boy tied up and at my mercy. Perhaps trussed up beneath my desk while I worked. I could use the other for a footstool.
Speaking of other…
The cowboy appeared in the doorway, his green eyes instantly landing on his friend.
“Sit,” I commanded, pointing toward the spot beside the pretty boy. “Better yet, both of you kneel.”
Without a word, the pretty boy inched off the edge of the seat and right onto the floor. His actions didn’t surprise me one bit. He was eager to please. I’d seen it in his eyes when ours met earlier. The cowboy followed suit, moving close.
“I’ve seen you both before,” I said.
Neither of them spoke.
They were good boys.
Exactly how I liked them.
“How old are you, pretty boy?”
The pretty boy’s mouth moved, but the rest of him remained still. “Twenty-eight, Sir.”
“And you, cowboy?”
A small smile curved the cowboy’s lips. “Twenty-seven, Sir.”
“You two like to play?” I asked.
Neither spoke, but I hadn’t addressed one or the other, so it made sense.
“Pretty boy,” I called out. “Answer me.”
The pretty boy nodded his head. “Yes, Sir.”
“Are you collared, pretty boy?” They weren’t wearing collars, but, being this was a business trip, it was possible they’d simply left them at home.
“No, Sir.”
“What about you, cowboy?”
“No, Sir.”
“Zeke,” I clarified. “I don’t like Sir. When you speak to me, refer to me as Zeke.”
“No, Zeke,” the cowboy corrected. “I’m not collared.”
“If I insist you strip right here, what would be your answer, cowboy?”
“I would oblige, Zeke,” he said, his voice raspy.
I peered over at Ransom. He offered a shrug as he grabbed a magazine and moved to one of the chairs farther away from me.
He was giving me free rein, and who was I to pass up the opportunity?
“Stand,” I insisted. “From here on out, I’m speaking to both of you.”
Both men stood slowly, their eyes remaining glued to the floor.
I took a moment to look them over from head to toe. I definitely liked what I saw. I liked my submissives strong but compliant. And I could tell by the bulges behind their zippers that they were enjoying the fuck out of this.
I decided to call the cowboy’s bluff.
“Strip,” I demanded. “Right now.”
While I hadn’t touched them that day, I had admired the view. Forcing them to kneel while their cocks stood proud and eager had been a rather pleasant way to pass the time.
Regardless of my past, I hadn’t had a submissive draw my attention quite the way they had. Not in a long damn time, anyway. That didn’t mean this was a smart move on my part. I tended to overwhelm people. Anyone who knew me would say I wasn’t normal. Not in any sense of the word.
Of course, I dealt with a myriad of stereotypes from all walks of life. People who didn’t understand my lifestyle and those who confused my desires with something else.
The bottom line was, I was a Sadist.
By definition, a Sadist was a person who received sexual gratification from causing pain and degradation to another. Yes. That was me to a T. I didn’t hide it, either. I only played with those who understood what it meant and who were willing to indulge those desires.
However, people were often trying to tie it to some psychological defect. Some went so far as to say Sadism had something to do with anger, a need to punish, or to overcome some trauma from their childhood.
First of all, I wasn’t an angry man. Not by a long shot.
I had a great life, good friends, people I depended on, and those I would lay my life down for.
I didn’t walk around in a rage, wanting to beat on someone for the hell of it.
And despite what my baby sister said, I didn’t listen to angry-man music.
It was merely music to me. It suited me.
Secondly, I’d experienced trauma like a lot of other people.
Losing my parents had been horrific. I wouldn’t deny it.
I’d spent time talking to counselors, grieving, mourning the loss of two incredible people.
I had learned to deal and move on. The pain was still there, but it didn’t haunt me the way it had initially.
I wasn’t looking to punish other people for my loss. What fucking good would that do?
Of course, some people believed Sadists lacked empathy.
Not true. If they did, it likely had nothing to do with their sadistic streak.
There were plenty of people who lacked empathy.
That didn’t mean they had the desire to cause physical pain to another person.
Personally, I cared about plenty of people.
Namely, my baby sister. Also, the friends I’d made over the years.
And fine, perhaps by referring to people by nicknames rather than their given name allowed me to keep my distance.
That didn’t mean I lacked the ability to associate with them.
I merely wanted to keep them on the periphery of my world. It was my preference.
What I did have was a deep desire to cause pain, but only to those who wanted it. And a masochist wanted it. They were fueled by dark urges the way I was. There was no reason to make a million excuses or try to explain it away as some psychological malfunction. It was what it was.
Ask any of the submissives at Dichotomy, and they’d have a varied tale of who they believed I was. I’d heard plenty of adjectives whispered about me. Mean, cruel, distant. People dissected me in varied ways, but I could say the majority of them didn’t understand me even on a base level.
I didn’t make small talk with every Suzy Whatsit who wanted to chat about how she hoped to get fucked by the big, mean man. I wasn’t interested in pussy.
Nor did I entertain those I knew I wouldn’t have anything in common with. I didn’t go to the club with the intention of slapping around some eager-eyed submissive who wanted to believe I would get off by smacking their ass. What I wanted surpassed that shit by a country mile.
I was primal in nature, a beast to the core. I had a deep desire to destroy, but not out of anger. My deviously kinky brain should come with a warning label, something to let trespassers know I would gladly shatter them and walk away, leaving them for someone else to put back together.
I was a loner. I didn’t need the company of others to feel complete.
I wasn’t looking for companionship or love.
I didn’t want a relationship; I wanted to fuck.
I wanted to expel the urge, then allow it to build again.
I wasn’t interested in having some little fuck toy wake up in my arms, believing there would be rainbows and unicorns coming out of my ass when I walked away.
I preferred the mind fuck. I craved it. Watching a submissive mentally writhe while desire filled them until they couldn’t breathe. No one but me truly knew what I was capable of. And I liked it that way.
But for whatever reason, I felt a connection with the pretty boy and the cowboy. Nothing deep, mind you. I didn’t experience that giddy, lovestruck feeling. I might’ve been born with that gene, but it had long since disappeared, consumed by the overwhelming urge to dominate and destroy.
However, when it came to the pretty boy and the cowboy, there was a physical attraction that was undeniable.
They definitely made my dick hard. And the thought of beating on one or both of them tripped my trigger.
I’d seen firsthand what the pretty boy desired.
Hell, I’d delivered it. And I’d thought about it every day since.
I peered over at Tank. “How long should I make them wait, boy? Think I should put them out of their misery? Long drive from Texas to here.”
Of course, Tank didn’t acknowledge me. He didn’t care what I did as long as he could tag along.
Grabbing my phone, I decided it was time to get this underway. After all, I still needed to figure out if this really was something I was willing to pursue.
Or it was merely a passing fancy.
Brax (the cowboy)
I didn’t mind waiting. Not usually.