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«The Bastard The music oozed and throbbed a sort of hardcore lounge mix, synchronized to the dark strobing lights. The ones in control, the ...»

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The Bastard

The music oozed and throbbed a sort of hardcore lounge mix, synchronized to

the dark strobing lights. The ones in control, the Dominatrixs and Masters moved with a kind

of languid cool that matched the atmosphere. The place smelt of sex, sweat, and blood. Subs

and slaves crawled on the floor, dangled from chains, were locked in cages, or tied down to

crosses. Tyler cruised through the sea of PVC, cold metal and sex with measured disinterest.

He’d been here before, he didn’t know how many times. At these bondage sex parties, small details changed from city to city, party to party, but the overall results were the same; women with too much make-up in PVC, bustier, and riding crops, middle aged men in cock rings, dog collars and ball gags. Women with men, women with women, men with men, people who were neither woman nor man, in every combination imaginable.

Tonight was an offshoot party of Torture Garden, strictly invite only, at The Garden Club.

Tyler got an invite for two reasons; he was a regular with a good reputation and he was a good draw for the event. Experienced and somewhat known in the London BDSM world, he could have been their poster boy. Tonight he looked the part, black leather motorcycle boots and trousers (he had to remind himself that in England ‘pants’ meant underwear) and nothing else but his tattoos. He was a big guy, 6’4”, 20 stone (or 280 pounds) of muscle, his head shaved bald and his skin naturally pale he looked like a Master. He bought a far too expensive bottle of beer and leaned back on the bar just as Barbara came up to him. Dyed black hair and still too much purple and black eye make-up. She only stood at 5’3”, which was apparently the appeal. The outfit was new at least, purple PVC bustier, black silk G- string over garters and fishnets, with matching PVC stilettos that buckled up to just below the knee.

“Tyler darling!” she said pushing close to him. “We were worried you weren’t coming.” “Purple’s the colour of insanity, you know?” he said swigging his beer.

“Perfect. So, see anything you like?” “Just got here, let me get past the cottage cheese cellulite and I’ll tell you” “I know what you mean, you should see the barrister I have caged up in the next room, all rolls and greying back hair.” She said in a mildly disgusted voice.

“So why bother?” he asked, almost interested “Why not get yourself a fit toy boy…or girl?

You might even have an orgasm.” “I’ve got my rabbit for that sweetie. Besides I’m almost thirty, I have to think about my future.” “Why do I get the impression that if I said the word you’d bend over for me?” He asked looking to the crowd again. “You’re supposed to be a Dom.” “My barrister might like that” she said stroking his bicep, then pushing off to leave “besides, I like to broaden my horizons” He watched her saunter away and for a moment considered it, then remembered that he hated Barbara.

He kept scanning the crowd. Finding an attractive girl who was also a sub was difficult, as this party was invite only hardcores it would be more so. By his fourth beer and sixth walkthrough he was seriously thinking about giving it up, or at least taking on Barbara, when he spotted a woman at the stairs leading down to the club.

She was quite tall, 6’ with short blonde hair and a thin tight body. He would have preferred bigger tits but otherwise she was perfect, only problem was her clothes didn’t indicate whether she was Dom or Sub. In fact with the clothes she was wearing she shouldn’t have been allowed in. Dark heels, stockings, short skirt (cotton not PVC or leather) a short cropped turtle neck sweater in green that left her tight belly exposed, topped with a fur vest, defiantly not the right gear for this scene. Maybe it was just that which interested him. More likely it was those cold blue eyes that locked with his for just long enough to be more than a glance.

He didn’t even notice the rest of the crowd with her.

They paced each other around the bar. She would glance his way then duck around the caged twins with matching ball gags. He would catch her eye then disappear behind the dominatrix whipping her “crucified” slave, and so it went until he finally took a seat on an unoccupied leather couch against a dark wall by the entrance.

“Let her come to me,” he thought. “Otherwise, I’m walking.” After about five minutes she came over, beer in hand. There was smoothness to her slow walk that exuded pure animal sensuality.

“Corona, right?” she asked holding out the beer to him.

“English accent.” he thought. “Probably Essex.” with all that implied. He said nothing and just accepted the beer and patted the seat beside him.

“I’m pretty new to all this” as she sat next to him, crossing her long legs, her skirt riding up to expose her stocking tops. “I don’t really know how to play the game” “Easy enough” he said in his low baritone. “Just relax first off. No one here makes any kind of judgement” This statement seemed silly. She was completely at ease, despite what she just said. He could play along. “What is it you’re looking for?” “I think I know but tell me what you’re after.” she smiled seductively.

“A sub.” “Someone who wants me to take control.” He explained when she gave no reaction.





“Bondage, punishment, bloodletting…whatever I feel like, see?” “I knew it.” She growled, her demeanour changing startlingly as she leaned in close enough for him to smell her breath.

He was suddenly light-headed; it was the scent of blood on her breath.

“Who’s your handler you bastard?” “Wha…? No. I don’t submit…?” “Oh you will half blood.” She snarled pushing him back hard and pinning him to the spot with one hand on his chest. “I’ll bleed you slow and leave you starving, I’ll beat you and torture you until you can’t remember anything else.” Panic struck.

He had never felt so totally helpless; with just one hand pressed casually over his heart she controlled him more completely than anyone else in his life. He forced against her, he flailed out wildly smacking her hard in the head and upper body.

No effect.

“In the end.” she continued calmly. “You’ll beg to be my dog, or to die, and still I’ll play.

Ten years from now I may allow you one or the other.” Other faces, hungry and maniacal, loomed up behind her. His right arm pinned down by a phenomenal pressure; his elbow felt it might get bent back the wrong way. His heart pumped hard in his ears and with a strength born of desperation he thrashed for release.

Nothing. He couldn’t get loose.

She leaned forward so their lips brushed as she spoke. “Let’s taste my new bitch.” His left hand, still free, closed over a bottle on the table. Without a thought he swept it up and slammed it against the side of her face, showering them both in beer and shards of glass.

She cried out in anger and reared back.

The smell of blood, hers and his, drove him wild.

He grabbed her by the throat and heaved her over the coffee table using the momentum to get up off the sofa.

There were three others around him, two guys facing him and a girl who had her face pressed between another brunette’s breasts. The brunette was trying desperately to pull away as blood sprayed like a fountain from her bare chest.

The woman who had attacked him was getting up shaking blood and glass from her face and hair. He jammed the end of the bottle he still held into the side of one guy’s throat and shoulder slammed the other as he sprang for the door.

The club was a blur of violence as he rushed for the stairs, with only photoflashes of the carnage around him. A naked man pinned down by a woman who straddled his prone form, fucking him as she chewed open his throat. Another man held the same victims’ torn off arm over his gaping mouth and was drinking the flow of blood with relish.

Another man with his fist embedded to the wrist in a woman’s face.

They were monsters, these newcomers, their faces contorted with violent glee. He skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs leading to the street. There, halfway up, was a young man was raping a blonde.

“Come on, luv.” He laughed as she flopped about limply on his lap. “Shake it a bit, you want me to call back.” She looked like a rag-doll bent impossibly backwards so Tyler could see vacant eyes and her torn, shredded chest. They were both soaked in the girl’s blood. Tyler only stopped long enough to swallow back the bile then sprang up the stairs. The rapist, enraptured with his carnal delights, didn’t even notice Tyler until he was right in front of them. The young guy laughed, pumping away at his victim, his bright red Mohawk looking like a huge bloody blade in the gloom. Tyler, in a furious rage, roared as he leapt straight up and slammed a heavy boot in the fucker’s face as he landed. His boots slid and skidded in the sticky blood that soaked the carpeted stairs. Tyler grabbed at the banister and stairs, desperately scrambling upwards as a gurgling hiss of mauled profanities bubbled from the rapists ruined face.

He burst through the heavy steel fire doors out into the damp London night and barrelled straight into a kid in a Ramones hoodie and torn jeans. They tumbled to the cobbles of Covent Garden market in a heap and the kid’s sharp teeth dug deep into his shoulder. He shoved out hard, heaving the kid off him and roaring in pain as the mad haze of his tortured mind enveloped him.

He ran on pure instinct with no conscious thought as to where he was going. He went straight through the square and down a tiny alley where he found a drainpipe and climbed. He scrambled across rooftops and up walls; he leapt over gaps and swung around obstacles.

Finally, scraped, bruised and bloody, when his muscles felt like liquid and he breathed razorblades, he found a hiding place in the open spire above Tesco’s. He looked out over Covent Garden working hard to control his breathing and watching for pursuit.

“You did well to escape,” came a voice from a rooftop behind him “but if they had wanted you, you haven’t run far or fast enough”

Female voice. Strange accent.

His blood was still up but he was thinking clearly now.

“Who are they? Your friends back in the club?” “You know what they are but you won’t accept it. Say they are the enemy for now, and if you don’t want them to catch you, you come with me.” “And you are?” He asked, finally turning and squaring up with the girl standing on the ledge behind him.

She was just short of 6’, maybe more in the boots, leather outfit in dark burgundy, bandana over her lower face and boxers headgear to match. Her dark eye’s shone out of the shadows, her dark hair tied back in a high tail.

She had a.45 levelled between his eyes and stood far enough away that he couldn’t do much about it.

“They call me Jinx.” “There aren’t a handful of people who’ve pointed a gun at me an’ can talk about it little girl.” There was no reaction from her, just cool professionalism.

“Best shoot me now or put it away.” “Try to keep up.” She said evenly, sliding the automatic into a shoulder rig inside her coat.

“It’s not far.” She turned and disappeared over the roof.

Who did this chick think she was?

Did she think he was some kind of whimpering simp?

It didn’t matter in the end, something dark happened tonight and he didn’t know what. He’d worked too hard to disappear. He wouldn’t let anyone screw that up.

In the end it was simple survival, ignorance equals a gruesome death and while he’d accepted that this would be the way he’d go, he’d be damned if he’d go like an ignorant lamb.

He caught up quick and followed her close. She moved with supple grace, like a dancer, her long limbs flowing unerringly through the motions of movement. She hardly made a noise or left any sign of her passing. Tyler on the other hand chugged along, his boots thumping and crunching across the roofs. She slid down into a tiny alley between a coffee shop and a Mediterranean restaurant as the rain went from an annoying misting to proper drops.

“Clean that blood off.” She said, watching St. Martins lane from the dark of the alley. “There are rubbish bags behind you and a drainpipe.” He turned and tore open one of the Grey Westminster Council bags spilling sloppy leftovers and other garbage out for inspection. He found some used napkins, slimy paper towels and wiped down his bloody face and torso. She came over as he stood wiping rainwater over the slime on his chest with his hands, and sniffed.

“Good enough, but you are still bleeding.” She said squeezing the bite mark on his shoulder.

“Drink any blood?” “No.” She took a jar of white paste from her backpack and scooped some out with her fingers.

“We must be sure.” She said smearing paste into the wound.

“Fuck! That shit stings.” “Garlic paste and holy water.

No serious inflammation.

You alright?” She asked without sympathy. There was no point in responding.

She took off her headgear and bandana, putting them in her little backpack, then let her dark hair fall free. She was young and beautiful, dark eyes, full lips and high cheekbones.

“The theatre crowd is out.” She said indicating the crowded street and the Albery Theatre beyond. “Put your arm around me. It’s a short walk.” “Don’t think I’ll stand out a bit?” “This is London.” She said simply, putting a slim arm around his waist and guiding him into the flow of the crowd.

She felt frail under his heavy arm. Like a bird.



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