CHAPTERFOUR
TRENT
It must be wellinto Sunday morning by the time the house empties and I haul myself off to sleep. The house is a shambles but nothing that a baker’s dozen of cleaners shouldn’t be able to put right by the time my father’s private jet touches down at six in the evening.
He’ll be most pissed about the missing bottles from his private stash of dark spirits but there’s a chance he won’t discover those for a few weeks. In the first flushes of a new relationship, he’ll be spending time with his new wife and indulging her taste for champagne.
A few weeks, maybe a few months from now, when the shine wears off, he’ll be back to drinking alone in the evenings and pretending it’s because he’s deep and serious instead of a man who mostly hates people and wants to be left alone.
I strip off and slide between the sheets, keeping my discarded tee close by for mopping up duty. When I close my eyes, I see the dark blonde beauty from my dad’s study. The grainy images of her from the internal cameras and the far better vision of her in real life.
My phone is handy, cued to the start of the encounter in the library. I have to shake my hand, opening and closing my fingers a few times, before my swollen knuckles can safely grip the device. I should probably have my hands soaking in ice water right now, getting the swelling down before it does more damage.
Instead, I force them to curl around the phone and hold the screen steady.
The replay lacks the excitement of the moment but it’s good. Better than good. Great, even fantastic, when compared to what my overseas service providers have managed so far.
Her face is so expressive. The changes from moment to moment exquisitely detailed. The two boys are crowding her now, one with his hands in her hair, the other rolling her dress up her thighs.
The video flutters at the point I cut it, then repeats from the start but I toss it aside, imagining an alternate ending. One without a knife and a standoff. One where I didn’t come barrelling through the door, taking out the punishment I deserve on the lads who were following those same inclinations in real life.
In my head, she gets dragged off the stool, the boy twisting her hair to force her over its seat instead, shoving her dress up and her tights down. He barely waits until she’s uncovered before jamming his dick deep inside her. When she opens her mouth to scream, the boy in front crams his cock down her throat, gagging her more effectively than any muzzle.
The boy at the door moves across, still stroking himself, waiting until the boy pumping into her gives a last trio of grunts, then pulls out of her, satiated. He shoves him out of the way, using the cum he left behind as lube to thrust his way deep into her arse.
I come with a low groan, catching most of it in my t-shirt, stripping it off to wipe up the rest.
Fuck. I want the real thing. My eyes want to be open, watching her struggle and gag and scream as his hard cock penetrates the soft tissue of her arse. I want to see the fear in her eyes grow dull as she realises there’s no way out, not this time, not for her.
I want to watch as the guy face fucking her withdraws and the guy coming in her arse wraps his hands around her throat to put her out of her misery.
I want that, but while still keeping her around to film the whole thing again.
This time, when I close my eyes, I don’t see them. I see me. See me touching her and running my hands over her body. Twisting and turning her to maximise my pleasure, taking exquisite satisfaction from her deepening distress.
Anything I want.
Because it’s not real.
I sit up, walking across the room to toss my t-shirt into the laundry hamper. A delightful surprise for whoever’s tasked with washing my clothes this week. I don’t need things to be real. I just need them to look that way.
It really doesn’t seem that much to ask.
As I try to fall asleep, the image plays on an internal loop. The caution turning to fear. The dawning realisation that things have gone well beyond her control and the only way back is to comply. To submit.
There’s something seriously wrong with you.
No shit, Sherlock.
I roll on my side, curling my knees towards my chest, flexing my fingers to make the injuries burn, the only punishment for the evil tainting my soul.
* * *
The tighthead propon the opposing team clips my shoulder as I run past, a shit-eating grin in full swing, letting me know it was deliberate. Or, if not deliberate, something he nevertheless enjoyed.
I let him pass, remembering too late that Zach missed kick-off so isn’t flanking me, ready to give a physical demonstration of why that shit doesn’t fly. Not with us.
The jolt of recall ignites a burn of distemper. He’s been late to far more matches than usual, lately. If he doesn’t watch out, he’ll be off the team, even the reserves.
