Hansel 1-4: The Complete Series (8 page)

When I open my eyes, he looks tired and drained.

I feel so alive.

*

Lucas

I’m satiated. Pleased, in the most literal sense of the word, with my naughty non-submissive Leah-not-Leah.

I can’t deny it. She’s incredible. An incredible double. My secret-not-so-secret fucking fantasy.

“If we do this,” I tell her, lying out beside her on the bed, “I’ll be in charge. No more shit like what you pulled today. I’m dominant, and you’re my bitch.”

Her mouth tucks up into a smug grin. Her eyes are bright. Playful. So much like Leah, my chest aches. “Unless I want to help decide how to give you pleasure,” she says, still speaking in my required whisper.

“You lead things?” I snort. “It would never work. I would never let it work.”

“I think we’d do well together.”

“You’re the sub.”

She nods slowly, and I can tell by the slant of her mouth that she’s unhappy. “But I want to treat you a certain way,” she says slowly. “Ways you might not…want for yourself.”

I pinch her nipple. “What do you care? I’ll say how I’m treated—every time. If you don’t like that, get going.”

She nods again, and I can tell she isn’t sure.

I push up on my arms and throw one leg over her small body. I’m hard again, already, pressing into her hip.

“Do you want more of this?” I ask.

She nods.

“So do we have a deal?”

“Yes.”

“Master. Yes, Master.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispers.

It sounds so good—so Leah—I lift her up and carry her to my shower room. I’ve never taken another sub here, but right from the offset, this one is breaking all the rules. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I’ve grown…needier. I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter. I’m in charge, and this is what I want.

I start the tub, and while I wait for it to warm, I set her on a leather couch and clean her pussy with a warm, wet towel.

“Thank you,” she whispers as she closes her legs.

“Thank
you
.”

I could let her walk to the tub, but because I want to, I carry her. I ease her into the chest-level water and lean over the side so I can bathe her.

I wonder what it is that makes her seem so different.

“I’ll have to have your submission.” I look into her eyes as I drag a washcloth over her breasts. “You will have to trust me. I won’t hurt you.”

I can tell she’s lying about being hurt. Somewhere, sometime, someone hurt her. I’m not sure she wants to submit to me fully—not yet—but I have the sense that even if she did, it would be a struggle for her.

I watch her mouth and eyes, all I can see around the mask, and find myself wishing I could lift it off and wash her hair.

As I bathe her arms and shoulders, then move lower down her belly, the bubbles rise to meet me, hiding her from sight. Making me hard again.

Her eyes peek open and a lazy little Leah smile twists her small mouth. “Get in with me. Please?”

“Please, Master, you mean?”

“Please, Master.”

It’s not a good idea, but I’m feeling weak; the way she looks at me…as if she’s pleading with her eyes. The way my cock feels: hungry.

I hoist myself over the side. I sit facing her and pull her in between my legs, as if I might hug her. Instead, I smooth her damp hair off her shoulders and look down at her mask-covered face.

What is it about her that reminds me so much of Leah? Part of me wants to pull the mask off and look at her face. But if I do, I’ll have to let her go. The only comfort I get out of my subs is from pretending that they’re Leah.

My chest aches, wanting the illusion to be real.

As if she knows, her hands rise out of the water, filled with a steaming washcloth. She touches it down just above my sternum and drags it downward, moving gently and carefully as she makes her way toward my happy trail.

“What are you doing?” I choke.

Her eyes flick up to mine, and I can see she looks confused. “I’m bathing you. The way you did with me.” Her lips quirk up. “Unless you think you’re clean. And I can guarantee you, you’re a very dirty man.”

“Damn right.” I snatch the towel from her hand, and she climbs on my lap.

Alarm bells peel inside my head.

She starts to fight me for the towel, laughing as she plays.

Who is she?

Does it even matter?

When she wrests the towel from my hand, she covers her hand with it and reaches down between my legs.

The way the terrycloth brushes over me feels incredible. Incredibly good. Painless…and yet, I’m getting hard.

Her hand wraps around me, and my cock stiffens so fast my balls ache below.

“You feel so good,” she tells me, closing one fist around my head, stroking my inner thigh with her free hand.

Her eyes—what’s with her eyes? They’re…hot. They’re strange. They seem to burn behind the mask. Intense. Erotic. But there’s something more. Something soft and unfamiliar.

As if she really cares about pleasing me. Which doesn’t make a fucking bit of sense.

I groan once before I summon the willpower to move her hand off my cock. She starts to walk her fingers up my happy trail, while her flat palm drags enticingly down my thigh. My pulse quickens; I didn’t tell her when or how to do this, but I like it. I’m not in control at all, and yet…the pleasure from her small hands makes me want to close my eyes.

I press my sore back against the tub’s wall, so hard I see little white stars in my eyes. Then I snatch her hand off of my leg and hold it out between us.

“I decide what’s good. That wasn’t good,” I sneer.

It felt good.

But good is bad.

I hate myself. I don’t deserve this.

Her quick, meek nod only confirms what I already know. “You’re not a good match for me.”

“I’m not—”

“Get out of the tub!”

Her blue eyes widen. Fill with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. She sinks back into the water, drawing her hands up to her breasts. “I should have done what you said, and let you be in charge. You can be in charge,” she says. “I just wanted…” She wraps her arms around herself. “I wanted to…do something nice.”

Nice? I scoff. “You’ve got the wrong guy, baby. And you’re the wrong woman. You don’t have a submissive bone in your body, and you don’t obey. It was fun for a little while—something different—but let’s not lie. It won’t work. I don’t want it to.”

I stand up in a waterfall of tiny bubbles. Step over the tub’s side. Grab a towel with my shaking hands.

“Get out,” I snap.

She stands up. I swear to God, I see her lip quiver.

“I’m sorry for that,” she says as I wrap her in the towel. “If you let me stay, I won’t take charge like that again.”

I shake my head. I curl my hand into a fist and flex it restlessly; then I shove her toward the door.

“Get out,” I tell her as she turns to look at me. “Take your shit with you and go.”

She pauses for a long moment. I see twin tears drip from her eyes. They disappear behind the mask.

“Go on,” I growl, taking a small step toward her.

With one last wild-eyed glance at me, she turns and grabs the doorknob.

As she rushes into my room, I think how ironic it is: This one was more like Leah than any of the subs I’ve ever hired.

How’s that for fucked up fantasy?

In the wake of her kindness and my own assholery, my cock softens faster than it ever has.

I grab a towel for myself and lean against the counter, stroking viciously until I’m hard again, and ready for whatever pain is next.

PART TWO

CHAPTER ONE

Lucas
 

I don’t want to hear her scurry through my room, so I start pacing. My bare feet on the damp floor mask the sound of her retreat: stride,
slap
, stride,
slap
, stride,
slap
. I try to let it occupy my mind.

My heart beats harder, faster—till it’s throbbing in my chest.

Her words swim in the ether of my memory.

“I think we would be good together.”

“Please don’t make me go. I’ll do things your way.”

“I want to do different things than you do. Things to give you pleasure.”

I don’t need her...what is it? Her care? Consideration? Judgment?

I don’t need her fucking kindness.

Who the fuck does this Leah knock-off think she is?

“I’ve been fucked before. Just not in a while. A long while.”

*

“It might hurt you, too.”

“I don’t mind. A-at least I…don’t think so.”

I stop pacing, look over at the bath.

“I’m trying to bathe you, the way you did me. Unless you think you’re not a dirty man?”

I can see the way her lips tilt, the way her eyes crinkle behind my mask as she teases me. As if my domineering manner and my fucked up desires don’t bother her at all.

I’ve got her dressed to look like Leah—covered up her face and barking orders at her—and this girl climbed onto my lap and tried to just…be normal.

Again, my mind screams: Like Leah.

If Leah were here, she wouldn’t keep a safe submissive distance. I don’t think I could convince her not to bathe me. She would do it just because she wanted to. Because she cared.
If she cared
, a little voice points out. Deep down inside my chest, I know she wouldn’t—not anymore; not ten years later—but this isn’t real life here. It’s fucking fantasy.

I fuck girls who look like Leah. Dress them in her favorite color—royal blue—and make them bend to my sick will so I can get off. I need pain; I need control. It keeps me breathing.

And while they whip and claw me, while they let me tie them up and torment them with pleasure, I dream them into Leah. Every fucking one of them is Leah. Leah would whisper if I asked her, never speaking at full-volume. Leah would wear my mask. Leah would make me bleed if I begged.

It isn’t true. She’d probably run screaming. But I need the delusion. I require the ruse. Without it, life is…so hollow.

I stop pacing again. I tuck my chin to my chest and look down at my pecs. I can see her hand dragging the bath cloth down my six-pack.

“You don’t know how to listen to my orders.”

“I can do better.”

I lunge for the bathroom door and fly into my room.

“Hello?”

I look around: empty.

I take long strides into the living area, where I turn a circle. “Are you here?”

I run into the bathroom, closet, kitchen, and I’m darting to the chair wedged in the counter, where she left her bag. I pull the garments out and smell her fruity scent. I pull the garments out, but I don’t see her mask.

I turn around and open up the top, left cabinet on this end of the kitchen. Inside is my security monitor. I turn it on and flip hastily through camera views, my body stiffening each time I see a lone female.

“Be here, be here,” I whisper.

I fucked up—I see it so clearly now.

This one isn’t wrong at all; she reminds me too much of Leah. On first encounter, it was too damn much. Her kindness burns, but isn’t that the point? I don’t take them on for pleasure. I need the subs for pain, so she was perfect.

I take a deep breath as I spot her, walking briskly down Hall 4.

I don’t question how I know it’s her; the swing of her arms, the length of her stride, stand out to me on instinct.

I glance frantically around the living area for pants and find a pair of leathers tossed over the coat rack. I only wear them on stage—usually. I jerk them on, and out the door I go.

My private hall is empty so I fly through it. Rush into the hall that’s parallel: Hall 6, and move like lightning.

I have to catch her. Long strides, two turns, one of them through a private, staff-only cut-through.

My chest is tight with anxiety by the time I reach Hall 4. I’m panting as I think of all the ways I can discipline this girl.

Leah.

I’m going to call her Leah as soon as I can get her back and spread her legs.

Leah.

She is mine.

I want her, need her, plan to keep her.

At last, for a moment, I’m behind her. Blonde hair flies in her wake like a superhero cape. The way her arms swing—God, those hands.

Leah.

Leah.

I open my mouth to yell, and it’s as if she knows; at that instant, she starts sprinting. Running for the door at the end of the hall, as if she absolutely cannot wait to get out of here.

I watch her reach up to her head and pull the mask off as she moves. From behind, I see her toss it as she pushes through the thick metal door. Clack. It’s swung open, and I run behind her.

She starts down the stairs to the back parking lot.

I call out, but she’s through the door.

I lengthen my strides and burst through a few seconds behind her: shirtless and wild-eyed, with my hands reached out in case I find her standing stationary at the top of the stairs.

That’s the position I’m in when my world freezes.

When I see her, moving horizontally across the parking lot, maskless, and with one hand raised up to her cheek.

When I see her weeping as she runs.

My eyes can’t accept it. My feet stop. I can hear her sobbing.

I know that sound. I may not know her body, but I know the sound of her tears.

Leah.

It’s yelled. It echoes through my mind.

“Leah. Leah.” Whispered words.

I grab onto the railing. Grip it hard as my legs go numb and cease to hold my weight.

That’s Leah walking toward a row of cars.

Leah is leaving.

She’s crying.

She’s fucking
here
!

It’s a miracle.

A tragedy.

A fantasy: gone bad or come to life?

I sink into a crouch and slam my palm over my mouth before I turn around and stagger back inside, where I’m sick on the hardwood floor, aglow in torch light.