Page 16 of Their Ruthless Sadist

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.