Quod Me Nutrit Me Destruit: That Which Destroys Me with The Alternate Ending (4 page)

Who The Hell Does He Think He Is?

I was
SO
ready for that interview. I walked in that bitch, head high, shoulders squared. Ready! Until I saw him again for the first time since I was thirteen years old. I’m almost certain I was able to pull off my nonchalant attitude. Well, until he told me to close my… What did he call it? Pretty fucking mouth?

Yeah, after that, I knew I had to get the fuck out of there. All that ‘
mine, you are mine’
bullshit didn’t surprise me at all. It’s classic Wesley Jacobs. C-l-a-s-s-i-c. Wesley. Jacobs. He hasn’t changed at all in the last fourteen years.

So no. I was fully prepared for that little dirty, sexual innuendo-riddled speech.

Well… I guess it’s time for me to explain why I was so adamantly set against doing my internship with Jacobs Publishing. I’m not sure if I’ll ever tell Trina, but you… You probably should know this tidbit to fully grasp what the hell is going on, as well as fully understand my reaction to all this.

I was probably nearing the fourth foster home when I landed in a new home. They lived in a small town in northwest Louisiana. I was excited when I first met the family. They had the whole Brady Bunch thing going on with a daughter of their own as well as two other foster boys. The house was clean. It was a little small and old, but it seemed nice.

I settled in quickly, but never could really seem to fit in. I tried to adapt my personality as best as I could, but it was impossible. My shy and quiet cards didn’t work. My abrasive stand-up-for-yourself cards also didn’t work. When I combined the two decks, shuffled and tried playing those, shit just got even worse.

The friendship I initially hoped would form between Jessica,
their daughter, and I never even had a chance. She told me within the first twelve hours not to speak to her. That we were not sisters and she planned for my ass to be gone before the week ended.

The boys were older than me, but Sam, the oldest, seemed to take me under his wing. If he and his friends were going to a baseball game, he always let me tag along. If they went out to the lake to fish or to just hang out around the bonfire at night, he’d also let me come.

I zeroed in on Sam’s friend, Wesley Jacobs, the first time I laid eyes on him. He was beautiful. I didn’t care that I was only twelve. In my mind, I was close enough to thirteen; so him being seventeen was easily brushed aside in my preteen fixated mind. I truly believed I was in love with him and that if I could change myself enough, in time, he would notice me and love me as much as I loved him.

As a product of the foster care system, you immediately conform—you become a chameleon. Your survival depends on your ability to become whatever or whoever others expect you to be, and by foster home number four, I’d honestly thought I’d mastered this skill.

I was sorely mistaken.

I turned t
hirteen in May. By the time mid-summer came, I was at the pool almost every day. The sun had tanned my skin to the perfect golden tone and puberty was making itself known by causing my boy straight hips to fill out and my breasts grow into a decent B cup. Before going swimming every day, I would French braid my hair and spray a mixture of peroxide and water to help the sun create natural looking highlights.

By the time the Fourth of July weekend rolled around, I had completely transformed myself from the pale skinned, dull, dark and stringy haired girl with nothing but a gaunt, boy figure into the beginnings of an attractive young woman.

Armed with a mini skirt I’d cut off to mid-thigh (it was originally long enough to reach my ankles) and a white eyelet strapless bustier top, I slipped my old ugly black rubber flip flops on and ran out the back door to avoid being seen when Sam honked his horn for me to hurry my ass up.

His reaction to my choice of clothing was exactly what I was hoping to achieve from Wesley.

Sadly, that night was not only the night I lost every ounce of hope to ever find or believe in love. It was also the night I lost the only friend I’d ever had, as well as the last remaining vital part of my soul.

As soon as we pulled up to the beach at the lake I kicked my ugly flip-flops off and jumped from Sam’s truck. Excitement was zipping through me as soon as my toes sank into the sand.

Make a note of this moment, because this is the last time in my childhood that giddiness would ever consume my already grim life. Morosely, it would also be the turning page in my life, the domino that is tipped and leads to my being homeless and truly knowing what life is like with absolutely nothing.

I skipped over to where the keg was when I saw that Wesley was the one handing out the red solo cups of beer. I’d never
drank before, but what the hell? I wanted to act as old as I looked.

After waiting for the five people in front of me to collect their cup I walked up smiling at Wes, waiting, hanging on his every word and body movement.

He never even spared a glance in my direction. His fist pumped the keg filling the cup. Then he handed it to me before grabbing some chick’s ass as she walked by. Somehow, I managed to blink the tears away and swallow the lump in my throat, then I tucked my tail between my legs and quickly walked away.

Sad, huh? I know. There is honestly nothing that leaves a deeper wound than being so
that when you do, in that fleeting moment, everything you’ve obsessed about and yearned for - for months - would all finally transpire. Only it doesn’t.

I wholly believed that entire squabble of bullshit for merely five more hours of my life. Having drunk more than three cups of beer, I knew my ass needed to keep itself planted right where it was: On the log near the bonfire Wes had made. Yep. He walked right past me, dragging logs then dry grass before sitting on his haunches less than two feet away and kindled a fucking fire. He never looked my way, not one damn time.

Most of the party guests had either left or wandered into the surrounding woods to take their groping a few hundred steps further while I sat and stared into the fire until nothing but embers remained.

I wasn’t naïve, being molested the first three or four years of my life, then raped repeatedly by my father as well as two different foster fathers… I knew what the hell was going on. I’d just never, well besides Wesley, actually wanted to participate in any petting or groping, much less taking it further.

I heard some yelling coming from the woods to my left, but shrugged it off and kept stabbing the embers with the stick I’d found and had been hanging out with for the last two hours.

I was a little shocked when Sam and Courtney came out of the woods. I covertly ducked my head and watched from beneath the veil of my hair only to witness her rearing back and slapping him across the face. Snickering too low for anyone to hear, I went back to poking the coals and charred wood.

A few minutes later Sam stumbled over to me, “Stell, come on. Time to go.”

“Thank God! Sorry, but this party freaking blew.” I stood up dusting the sand off my ass and started following Sam as we made our way to the parking area. Once we were close enough to Sam’s truck, I realized Wes’s truck was parked diagonally in front of Sam’s. When I saw him stand on unsteady feet and begin unbuckling his belt and pull his thing out, I blushed in embarrassment and then
mouthed “Thank you, Jesus.”

A smirk crept its way onto my face, but quickly dissolved when I heard a female voice purring right before Wes told her, “Goddamn right you little whore. Fucking
suck that thick cock.” His hands delved into her long blond tresses before he yanked her face into his crotch and his head fell back. “Suck until I cum or I’ll spew my load into your fucking eye. You hear me, bitch?”

To say I was sickened was a horrid understatement.

I was so overwhelmed with disgust, my mind utterly consumed with hatred for this fucking asshole that I’d placed on a pedestal and worshipped for the last eight months that I didn’t realize what was happening when Sam let down the tailgate of his truck.

Honestly I didn’t know until he had me pinned, bent over with my skirt flipped up over my ass and felt the metal grating of his truck biting into the flesh covering my hipbones. He shoved his hand between my legs before he grabbed the panties covering me and yanked them down.

I screamed, as loud as I could. I let the cry for help, the shrieking words, “Wes, please! Help me Wes, please fucking HELP ME!” tear their way from my soul, claw up my throat and pierce the night with nothing but moans and grunts as an answer to my pleas.

When Sam shoved my panties so far into my mouth, I gagged struggling to breath around the suffocating material.

And vaguely, somewhere between my sobs and tears, I remember - I’ll always remember - as my best friend, my only friend, my brother shoved himself from one hole into another, having to listen to Wesley Jacobs reach orgasm.

The sound was so disturbing, it caused me to heave every drop of beer I’d consumed that night. And after I lost the contents of my stomach, I then drowned in it.

That’s why… You wanted to know why I was so goddamn fucking set against working for him? That’s fucking why.

And never fucking
ask again.

Sam tossed my lifeless ass out of the back of his truck, and hauled his ass from what I could gather.

I woke up in a hospital days later—utterly shocked. I honestly didn’t understand why I was still alive. I’d been hanging outside the pearly gates with some woman claiming to be my mom and an older woman that kept apologizing for her ‘shitty piece of shit’ son. So yeah, I was confused when I woke up in a hospital bed. But not too confused to know I needed to run if I planned on staying alive.

Remember that deep wound and biting pain I mentioned earlier when Wes ignored my existence?

Yeah, turns out I had no real fucking grasp on what pain really was… Ten weeks later, after living on the streets and ducking from every cop car or authoritive looking adult, I fucking face-planted into the sidewalk, crippled by pain so fiercely, that even after
ALL
the shit I’d been through, lived through, remained conscious through,
THIS
pain…It took me past my goddamn knees.

The pain of an ectopic pregnancy twisting and rupturing your fallopian tube… It takes you past your knees.

It brings you to your fucking face.

easily
brushed off by someone you’ve watched for months. Someone that has consumed both your every waking thought as well as your dreams. It’s hard to describe the bite or pain you feel when you’ve done
EVERYTHING
just to capture his attention for a space in time; knowing.

Convince a Woman to Submit

From the moment Stella left my office, my worthless mind has done absolutely nothing but think of her - imagine her in every fucking sexual position - on her knees, bent over my desk, sitting proudly on my cock and riding me to kingdom cum.

None of it is as fucked up as when I stood in the kitchen downing tumblers of scotch and looked up to see her sexy little ass in nothing but one of my button up shirts, unbuttoning it as she walked towards me with a smirk on her face, only to vanish into thin air when I reached my hand out to feel her skin when she got close enough to touch.

Shit’s fucked up, right?

A shitty day, a shitty night, and another shitty day later I remove my jacket and tie, leaving them in the R8 before stepping through the double doors of Chained, unbuttoning the first few buttons of my shirt on my way into the club.

Fucking euphoria instantly thrums through my veins and I fucking love it. This is exactly what I needed. I feel alive for the first time in… Well shit, since the last time I was here.

See if I try to avoid the caged beast inside me again. You won’t. Because I’m fucking done denying myself this. Finished.

I look around the club’s main floor interior as I head toward the bar. The walls are covered in black satin with chains embedded every foot or so, each chain reaches the ceiling before it’s strung to meet in the middle of the club where an enormous crystal chandelier hangs.

Black and off-white leather chaise lounges with low tables holding several tea lights are scattered throughout this area of the club.

And because I was so fucking antsy to get here, to get Stella flushed out of my system I’m one of maybe twelve occupants on this early Friday night.

I order a scotch and unbutton the cuffs of my shirt before rolling them up my forearms. I nod when the bartender slides the crystal tumbler of scotch in front of me.

“Wes, what’s up, man? Long time.”

Shit! I don’t know this guy’s name. Joe? Jon! It’s Jon, I think…

“Yep, been a while. Paul in yet?” I ask before sipping my drink.

“Let me check for you.” He heads over to a phone at the far end of the bar and speaks to someone before heading back in my direction.

I raise my empty tumbler before he can speak, “Hey, bud. Mix me another, yeah?”

“Wes it’s a two drink maximum,” He looks at his watch, then back up at me and asks, “You sure you wanna blow through both before nine?”

My eyebrow shoots up, “The fuck’d I say?”

“All right, man. It’s your call. Paul’s headed down by the way.”

Oh shit yeah.

I rub my hands together like a kid in a candy store before I turn to face the club.

“Here ya go, man.”

“Yep.” I say grabbing the tumbler and turning back around to face the club. Thankfully a few more patrons have recently shown up.

Women in their business suits with men kneeling at their feet.

Men in their business suits
with women kneeling at their feet.

There are a couple of
Doms taking it overboard wearing a cape and shit… Yeah, they don’t have a sub kneeling at their feet.

I’m chuckling at my inner musings when Paul walks up to me.

“Wes. How are you friend?” We shake hands and I smile looking towards club.

“Doing good, Paul. You?” I jerk my head motioning at the club. “Business is doing great I see. Place looks great.”

My eyes scan the area noting the recent renovations.

And come to a screeching halt as they land on Stella Jolie Reese.

“What the FUCK is she doing here?” I realize too late that I’ve asked the question out loud.

Paul’s eyes follow my line of vision and land on the two women and guy that have walked in with Stella.

“Oh, that’s Eve Arras, she’s here for the Jacques’ Boudoir magazine shoot.” He sips from his tumbler of bourbon, “I believe Eve was the center fold of the lingerie add. Not sure though.”

“Really, Paul? So, you just let vanillas float around your establishment amongst the people living the lifestyle, and for no other reason than because they hit the center fold of a lingerie add?” I sigh setting my drink down.

“Oh, no.” Paul shakes his head before reiterating, “They go no further than the main bar area.”

“What’s allowed here? I mean—Shit.” I curse. I want Stella out of here. She has no damn business being in a club like this.

This entire fucking shit is absolutely absurd!

And dammit if Jon was fucking right.
I shouldn’t have used up my two drinks so early
. FUCK!

“You ready to meet the subs?” He extends his arm in a ‘right this way’ motion.

My eyes shoot back over to where Stella and her model friends are laughing, having just a fucking grand ol’ time.

“Hey! The brunette goes nowhere. You fucking understand me, Paul?” I demand as I point in Stella’s direction.

“She’s not a member, Wes. It doesn’t matter what the hell you say. They will not even know there are other areas in this building. Much less be allowed into those said areas. Do
YOU
understand?”

“Thank Christ, okay, lets go see what you have lined up for me.” I stand from the bar and head in the direction he gestured to earlier.

We’re in the elevator headed to the 13
th
floor when he speaks again. “I have two blondes and a brunette sub that are looking for Doms. All three of them are like you, somewhat new members of Chained and have the same tainted understanding of the lifestyle that you have.”

“Damn. Just one brunette?” I ask as the elevator doors slide open.

Paul stops right outside the door. “Wesley, the color of their hair is not of any importance. You know that. So before you go after a sub just based on her hair color, you need to get your goddamn head on straight. Now.”

An exhausted sigh slips out at the same time I roll my eyes. “Yes, Paul. I am fully aware of that. I just would have liked a few more brunette subs to cho
ose from, that’s all.”

He narrows his eyes on mine before opening the door and motioning for me to enter. After I’ve stepped into the small meeting area Paul closes the door leaving me with the three subs.

All three are nude with their hair pulled back in a bun at the base of their necks. All three are kneeled perfectly, palms facing up resting on their parted thighs. All three faces pointed downward, backs bowed, reminding me of something Michelangelo would sculpt.

I stalk towards the brunette first.

What? Don’t look at me like that. I want the damn brunette to fucking work out, okay?

My hand slips under her chin tilting her face up until her eyes meet mine.

Damn it. Dark brown.

Smiling at her I ask, “What’s your name?”

Quietly she responds, “Heather.”

I nod and flick my hand for her to stand before verbalizing the command as well. “Heather, stand. Let’s sit over there,” I point to the sofa and low table, “I want to know about you. And you’re going to tell me. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” She quickly stands to follow me to the sofa. I motion for her to sit.

“You may sit. Relax. We’re just going to talk, get to know one another.”

After we’re both settled on the couch, I begin. “I’m Wesley Jacobs. I’m dominant by nature and have been in and out of the lifestyle for over ten years. However, I plan on finding a sub that is looking for the same things I am from a relationship and sticking around. I’ve tried to pacify my pallet with vanilla and to be quite honest I’m fucking starved. That’s all for now, so tell me a little about you.”

Her eyes remain on her lap staring at her twisting hands. “Well, I’m twenty-three, I’m taking some courses at the junior college to get my license to be a dental hygienist.”

My fingertips tilt her chin bringing her eyes up to mine. “When you speak to me, look at me. I can’t see if you’re telling the truth without reading your eyes while you speak. Continue.” I nod urging her to finish.

Her fidgeting is already grating on my nerves.

She continues telling me her life story. But I don’t hear a word.

All I can think about is Stella in that fucking red dress. It hugged her every curve like it was made, tailored just for her beautiful little body.
All that long brown hair in big curls hanging down to her waist.

Fuck. Heather isn’t going to work.

I look at the other two subs, unmoved from their perfect submissive stance.

Nope.

Bloody. Fucking. Hell.

And then it hits me.

Paul could bring me a goddamn harem of subs, but if one of them isn’t Stella Jolie Reese, then they won’t do.

I’ve got to get inside of little Ms. Reese’s head… Find out if this girl has even one submissive bone in her body.

And God fucking help me if she doesn’t.

God fucking help her if she does.