As he poured the hot wax over her bare chest he was reminded of the first night they met. A random meeting at a party he had not wanted to go to. Now, here they were in a dungeon playing and people, strangers, were watching them do so. Never would he have thought this day would come.

Larry had always been a bit of a loner. Not in a creepy or I’m-so-depressed-I-just-want-to-sit-alone-in-my-room-with-a-hoodie-over-my-head-and-listen-to-thrash-metal-all-day-and-night way though. He was shy, which in itself wasn’t conducive to having a large group of friends, but he also found that the way he saw things was much different from anyone he knew. After years of awkwardly trying to conform and fit in to the acceptable norm, he stopped. He was quiet and kept to himself. He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t unhappy either, he just was.

If you are out riding bike with your friends and come across a dead cat beside a bike trail, what do you think of it? Many would just think it was gross, others would be tempted to poke it with a stick, you know, make sure it was really dead and show their friends they had no fear.

Larry saw the cat and thought about what had led to it being there. He wondered what had caused its death, what it felt like as its life drained away. He wondered if the cat was scared, if it fought to the end or succumbed to its inevitable fate. He wondered if it had been aware it was dying. Mostly he wondered if the cat was excited by it all, like he was when he thought about it.

Larry was a sadist. He liked control, he liked to cause pain, and he liked to watch his slaves react to him. He didn’t care for the mushy love and hearts stuff. Cuddling? Go do that with someone else.

He has had many over the years, slaves that is. They wouldn’t all consider themselves slaves, but he would. He did love them though, in his own special way. He loved the feeling he had when he used them, when he saw the welts and tears, when he felt them shaking beneath him, when he heard their moans and pleads begging him to stop. He loved to see the fear in their eyes, the wetness that betrayed their fear.

What he loved most of all, what he lay awake reliving and yearning for, was observing that moment when they broke, when they finally gave in and accepted the pleasure that came from the pain, when they craved the pain itself. It was a symphony for him, building to that final movement. Once he reached it however, once he broke them, he was done. He could find no pleasure in the broken ones. They were for somebody else’s pleasure now.

Jeanine was different. He couldn’t break her, he didn’t need to. She had always known the pleasure pain could give her. But this is Larry’s story, I’ll tell you all about her another time.