Page 2 of Run

“Remind me later to change out those flowers in the entryway will ya, baby.” I say to my prize bitch as I strip off mysoaked leathers, dropping them unceremoniously in the hallway outside my bedroom door.

A soft grumble of acknowledgement follows me into the master suite as she jumps up on the giant four poster bed and settles herself into the super soft duvet.

“Daddy needs a shower, then I’m going out. It’s Friday.” I say, scratching her head before leaving her to herself so I can warm up my frozen bones.

It’s a lonely existence being here without human company, but I’m thankful I have her. She doesn’t nag me or make me do things I don’t want to do. She doesn’t care that I have the activities that I enjoy, and she sure as shit isn’t telling anyone what happens inside these walls.

Still, a woman would be nice. Maybe someday I’ll meet one who also enjoys the same things as me.

The water heats up instantly. The multiple shower heads pouring out torrents of steam, filling the large room quickly until it’s so hot it takes your breath away. The stone walls weep with a shimmery condensation, and the vast, frosted glass enclosure becomes opaquer as I step inside.

“Oh fuck yeah.” I groan, stepping under the scalding heat that feels like millions of tiny hot pokers sinking into my still chilled flesh.

My muscles tremor, their corded knots loosening as I lean my sculpted body against the shower wall and the water massages away the day. If my skin was made of tin, the rivers running down my body and over my eight pack abs would sound like a washboard being used, and I watch with a calm serenity as the water falls from me and disappears down the drain.

Most evenings I’d be closing my eyes and wrapping my hand around my cock, watching as the devil tattooed on me from finger tips to forearm gobbled it up, but not tonight. Tonight I want to save every drop of cum in my full sack for later.

It's still a beautiful sight though, as I wash myself, with my black and grey ink passing over the rest of my body as I rub the soap between my palms then smear it over myself. The scent is almost mossy, you know, how the woods smell after a light rain. It’s natural, manly, and anything but overpowering. It's subtle. I like subtle. I want the women I’m with to have to be against me, their noses in the crooks of my skin to smell me. It draws them in and keeps them there while I do with them as I please.

Olfactophilia is, by definition, the sexual arousal of scents emanating from the body, a pleasure most women experience but don’t even recognize. I like to play on kinks and unexplored fantasies with my toys, and it begins with something as simple as my choice of soap. If I said it didn’t arouse me too, I’d be lying. There’s nothing sexier than a partner, or victim that smells good enough to eat.

Shaking off my concupiscence I finish scrubbing then wash my short, cropped hair, making sure to condition the frosted tips and the dark roots so they’re soft and touchable, the complete opposite of the rest of me. I’m a hard man on the outside, with thick skin and large muscles. Intimidating tattoos of demons, vines, and Japanese warriors shedding blood in scenes of violence are etched permanently into my flesh, making me ominous and unapproachable. That is until I open my mouth, and my sliver of Russian accent laces the words I so eloquently speak.

I’m the man your mother warned you about, the kind with unclean intentions, that will sweep you off your feet with promises of romance then destroy your body and soul. I’m a giving lover, and a taking man. A hunter who will draw you into my sights, then pounce on you before you know what has happened, and if you’re lucky, you survive the night with me. If you’re not so lucky, you end up in the back of my pickup truck, taking the ride down the rutted driveway to a place where you’ll never be found.

My father aptly described me, when he graced me with the name Hedeon, which in my native language means destroyer. It’s like he knew I would adopt his perversions, with the undeniable force of nature winning over the gentle nurturing of the angel that was my mother.

?? ????? ??. Fuck him.

Hedeon Zverev is my identity, and I live up to it. I’m a destroyer, a ruiner, a beast, and a force to be reckoned with in the bedroom, boardroom, and dungeon. I’m ruthless, unforgiving, and vile. I’m a sexual deviant and killer. I’m…me. Love me or hate me, I couldn’t care less.

The heated bathroom floor is toasty warm under my feet when I step out of the shower, wrapping a fluffy white towel around my hips. Was it necessary to have something so frivolous added to my house? No. But I have more money than I know what to do with, both from inherited family wealth and my career, so why not make things more comfortable for myself?

“Woof.” Magnolia greets me as I come back into the bedroom, her large body sprawled out on my bed, with her head hanging over the edge of it like a silly thing, making me smile.

“Hey baby girl. You gonna watch the house for me while I’m gone?”

Sometimes I think the conversations I have with her are better and more intelligent than ones I have with other humans. With another quiet huff, she watches me as I stride over to the walk-in closet and open the mahogany door, exposing rack after rack of designer suits, casual wear, and my stock pile of disposable stuff for my in-home play dates. Tonight I need suave, sophisticated, dark, and dangerous.

A pair of black slacks, a crisp white dress shirt, and a tailored black suit jacket drape over my arm as I pick out a pair of shiny black shoes and my favorite belt. The metal buckle clinks quietly as I toss it over my shoulder and flip through my tie rack.

“What do you think girl? Silver or red?” I ask, popping my head out of the closet and holding up the two ties. It’s not like she can actually tell me, but whatever. “Red? Good choice.” I chuckle, tossing the silver one back onto the spinning display with all the others.

Grabbing a black trench coat, I toss it on the bed, then dig through the small chest on top of my dresser. The masks and blindfolds swish around as I drag my fingers across them, picking out the perfect one for tonight’s festivities. Black, with red piping around the edges, and a little shimmer to the fabric will go nicely with my attire. It covers three quarters of my face, leaving just my cheek and chin exposed on the left, like the one the phantom wore when he terrorized the opera.

Perfect.

Chapter Two

The storm rages even harder as I pull out of the garage in my sleek black i8. Rain fiercely pelts the windshield of the two-door sports car, and lightning streaks across the dark sky. It’s an ominous omen of the night to come. The destroyer is on his way to find his next plaything or things, depending on how the evening goes, and he’s thirsty for some fun.

The gates close behind me as I pull from the property and head north towards I-87. Looking back in my rearview mirror the house, illuminated only by the lightening, looks like something from a horror flick, all big and empty, inhabited only by the canines that prowl quietly through the dark. Just the way I like it.

“Le Chateaux” is busy when I arrive and hand over my keys to the black vested valet. He takes them with a silent nod, handing me a little slip of paper for later when it’s time to leave. I don’t need it. Everyone here knows the car, and the masked man it belongs to. I straighten out my clothes, close the single button on my jacket, and head to the main entrance, passing by a gaggle of people waiting to get in. VIP’s get instant access and I pay a good yearly membership fee for that status.

“Good evening, Sir.” Greets the young man with shaggy blonde hair at the door as he sweeps it open for me and steps back, his eyes never raising from their downward position.

“Good boy.” I praise him, patting the top of his submissive head as I pass by. “I’ll tell your mistress she’s trained you well.”

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