1: the derivation of sexual gratification from the infliction of physical pain or humiliation on another person — compare
Cover Model(s):Tug James
By definition, a Sadist is one who receives sexual gratification from causing pain and degradation to another.
That’s me to a T.
I only play with those who understand what it means, those who are willing to indulge my devious desires.
Any masochist who seeks me out knows that if they trespass, I will gladly shatter them and walk away, leaving them for someone else to put back together.
Yet the cowboy and the pretty boy have given themselves to me. They have agreed to play by my rules and there is only one: THERE ARE NO RULES.
I have warned them. I’m not looking for companionship or love. I don’t want to be their friend, their confidante, or their lover. I’m in it for pleasure only. In the form of pain.
I am ruthless.
I am a Sadist.
And I make no excuses for it.
THIS WAS MY SAFE HAVEN.
This was where I fit in.
This was the one place I could go where I didn’t get wary eyes pinning me in place, curious as to whether I was going to do some serious damage.
I was used to those looks, the ones from strangers who weren’t sure what to do with the man who didn’t buy his clothes off the rack because even the big-and-tall store didn’t know how to outfit six foot eight inches, two hundred eighty pounds of solid muscle.
No, here in the club, I was the giant with a sadistic streak a mile wide, a Dominant every masochist hoped would look his or her way. I was the king in this particular realm, the man who wielded all the power.
And just like every other time I was in the club, I gauged the submissive pool, wondering which of these eager fuck toys would become my plaything for the evening. I would bring at least one to tears tonight, of that I had no doubt. It was my mission, my goal in life. I wanted to break them, to hear them beg and plead, tears streaming down their faces as I brutalized them the way they fantasized about.
Some people craved sugar. I craved doling out pain.
While they were prancing around in an attempt to catch my attention, I was trying to figure out which submissive could handle me. Even if only for a few minutes. Which one I wouldn’t cause irreparable damage.
I had yet to meet the one who could endure the darkest side of me. I figured one day I would find him, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
“Master Zeke?”
I turned to see a sweet little fluff of a girl with wild eyes and glossy lips, weighing in at a buck five soaking wet. I knew without asking what she wanted from me. This one wanted a firm hand, someone to smack her ass and make her beg for mercy while she giggled and pleaded for more. If I had to guess, she’d heard about me, knew the pain I ached to bestow, and she hoped to experience it for herself.
I knew her type. She was too soft, too sweet. No way would she allow me to have my way with her, to treat her like a piece of furniture, to manhandle her before I breached her virgin ass with my nine-inch cock. Hell, her ass wasn’t even as big as my fucking hand. I would likely fracture her if I attempted to spank her the way I needed.
She couldn’t handle me on her best fucking day.
Those big eyes peered up at me full of hopeful anticipation. She wanted the big, bad Sadist to toss her around a little, then pull her close and shower her with praise and attention.
I was not that man.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Not in this lifetime.” I shooed her away with a flick of my hand, dashing that hope in an instant. She wasn’t my type.
Not only did I want a man, I needed a man. One with power and stamina, hide as tough as leather, an ass made to be plowed, a throat strong enough to take the brutal pounding of my cock.
A scene caught my eye and I sauntered over, crossing my arms over my chest as I stared over the heads of the other bystanders. I couldn’t see the submissive’s face because he was facing away from me, his hands cuffed above his head, legs spread, ankles chained to hooks in the floor. Long limbs, thick muscle, juicy ass.
It was the tattoo blazed across his back that caught my attention. A dragon rose up along his spine, wide body curling over his shoulder blade, the head disappearing on his other side, lying over his chest.
I knew this because it was a tattoo I’d seen before.
Recently, in fact.
I watched as the baby Dom laid the flogger tails across the submissive’s broad shoulders, hitting hard enough to thud but not nearly hard enough to leave a mark. The submissive’s body was rigid, but not from shock or pain.
“What’s your color, sub?” the baby Dom questioned.
Sadist Rule One: Colors are for kindergartners.
“Green, Sir,” the submissive said with a bored monotone that would’ve been obvious to an infant.
“You want more?” the baby Dom asked.
Sadist Rule Two: Don’t ask what they want.
“Yes, Sir,” he replied, no inflection in his tone.
The baby Dom swung the tails again and again, over the man’s ass, the backs of his thighs. There was no power in his swing, no effort to inflict pain whatsoever. It was the equivalent of a fucking massage.
“Tell me when you’ve had enough,” the baby Dom told the submissive.
Who the hell was this asshole and where did he think he was? This submissive wasn’t here to play Twenty Questions. Dominants didn’t ask permission, they set up the structure beforehand, had a plan and an end goal. A good Dominant didn’t ask them what they wanted. A good Dominant merely gave it to them because that was what they needed.
After a few more swings, the baby Dom turned and I noticed he was covered in sweat. He’d been at this a while from the looks of it. His eyes met mine and I instantly recognized the respect there. I got it everywhere I went. Not because of my size, either. I’d earned it. And I’d come to expect it.
“Master Zeke,” he said, grabbing a bottle of water while he clearly took a break.
Sadist Rule Three: A submissive should not wear out the Dom.
Yeah. Fine. I just made that one up.
I nodded to the sweaty baby Dom, but my eyes shifted back to the submissive. I could envision myself standing behind him with my whip, applying the stinging burn from the knotted ends that would have him jerking and twitching, his cock so hard he could hardly breathe from the need to come.
That thirty-five-tail deerskin flogger the baby Dom wielded was the equivalent of a feather as far as this particular masochist was concerned. An attentive Dominant would’ve known that.
I glanced back at the baby Dom, who was clearly out of sorts, unsure what to do to make this submissive beg.
“Hit him harder,” I said, the deep rumble of my voice causing several heads to turn my way.
“What?” The baby Dom appeared confused. “I’ve been at it for thirty minutes. He’s not in the right mindset.”
Mindset, my ass. That was a Dom’s excuse as to how he’d fucked up a scene.
“You’re not hittin’ him hard enough.” I turned my attention back to the restrained man. “He’s not a goddamn toddler. Hit him harder.”
The baby Dom clearly didn’t like that I was correcting him. Not that I gave a fuck. It was a Dominant’s responsibility to see to the needs of his submissive. This fucker was failing in every respect.
“Think you can do better?” the baby Dom taunted.
I jerked my gaze over and cocked an eyebrow. This time, his tone lacked any respect whatsoever. Normally, I would shrug it off, but there was something about this situation that didn’t sit right with me.
“I don’t think I can. I know.” The crowd parted as I moved forward. When the baby Dom held out his little toy, I chuckled. “Your five-and-dime toy’s useless.”
The baby Dom huffed, then turned to walk away.
“Uh-uh,” I snarled. “You stay and watch.” I leaned in closer to him, keeping my voice low so no one else could hear. “And don’t you ever disrespect me again. Understood?”
The baby Dom’s eyes widened, but he managed a jerky nod.
“Good.” I turned my back to him and focused my attention on the masochist.
Wanting to get a feel for the submissive’s state of mind, I walked over and pressed myself against his back, leaning down and putting my mouth close to his ear.
“Tell me what you need, pretty boy.”
The pretty boy’s head shifted only slightly. “Pain, Zeke. I need pain.”
“Do you want me to deliver it? And remember, I don’t provide aftercare. I’ll ensure you fly, but I won’t bring you down after.”
“Yes,” he said on a breathless moan. “Yes, Zeke. I want you to deliver it.”
“Tell me your safe word.”
“Red, Zeke.”
“I trust you to use it should you need it.”
He nodded and I stepped back, allowing my gaze to run the length of his naked form as I retrieved the whip I had attached to my belt.
It was time to show the pussy Dom exactly how to handle a masochist.
And it was time to show this squirrelly pretty boy exactly what it meant to submit to me.
The question was…
Could the pretty boy handle it?
~ Copyright 2018, Nicole Edwards Limited.
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