Page 35 of Painter's Obsession

Pulling into the garage, I park the van and lean back for a moment, my hand resting on the steering wheel. My breath steadies as I pull out my phone from my cargo pants. I scroll through my app folder, my thumb landing on the small blue square that opens the feed to my studio cameras.

There he is—still sleeping. Or maybe pretending. Trying to fool me. But I see the quick rise and fall of his chest, the telltale signs of life. A smirk curls on my lips. Amateur. As if he could catch me off guard, as if this is my first time playing this game.

It’s not.

I’ve done this before. One time, I found a flower who hid her Thorns so well it almost cost me everything. The only flower I ever plucked until there was nothing left but skin and bones.

“Night night,” I murmur, slipping my phone back into my pocket. Opening the van door, I climb out and head inside through the kitchen. I pause in front of the fridge, staring blankly at its cold, silver surface. For a moment, I consider eating something, but the thought feels pointless.

Instead, I move from the fridge without opening it and head upstairs. I walk down the hall to my room, stripping away every layer of clothing and tossing them into a plastic bag that will be discarded tomorrow. Naked, the cold blast of the air conditioner bites at my skin, raising goosebumps.

I think of Byron and wonder if the pain in his cock has stirred him from his sleep. Is he still unconscious, a slumbering beauty, or writhing in agony from the discomfort? The thought curls a slow smile across my lips. Reaching for the floss, I begin my nightly routine. Appearance matters, after all. Even perfection demands maintenance.

Once finished, I clap my hands, and the water in the shower turns on instantly. Thanks to technology, it adjusts to the exact temperature I like. Even my water has to be flawless—hot enough to cleanse, but not enough to burn. I step into the shower, letting the heat wash over me as my hands run through my hair.

Then, the glass door slides open.

I freeze, every muscle in my body locking tight. My hands instinctively move to shield my cock.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby,” she whispers, her voice low, laced with something I can’t quite place. Shame, maybe.

I look down as her red nails trail slowly down to my abs. “You’ve grown so beautifully,” she says, her voice thick with something both sickening and familiar. “My beautiful boy.”

My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears. My blood rushes south as her hands move lower, every motion excruciatingly slow. “We’re going to do something about this,” she whispers, tugging lightly at my foreskin. My body betrays me, stiffening under her touch. I just nod, unable to look down at the throbbing evidence of my shame.

My head slams into the tile, the sharp sound reverberating through the steam-filled shower. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block her out. It’s a futile attempt.

The loop never ends.

Not even her death freed me from this. I used to believe that killing her would rid me of my sickness, but all it did was spread it, like a cancer. Vicious. Unrelenting.

Her lessons changed me. I guess, in the end, she did mold me into the perfect man. Or close enough. I consider myself near perfection—the only thing I lack is emotion. But who needs that when you’re young, successful, and rich? The world is full of options, even for someone as fucked up as I am.

It’s guaranteed I could find someone willing to marry me, someone eager to settle down. But that’s not me. I’m too broken to bring kids into this world. My hands ball into fists as the memory hits me like a bulldozer, my body trembling as I relive that afternoon in vivid detail.

I’m slamming into the maid’s tight cunt, trying to recreate the feeling she gave me. But it’s not the same. Maybe because the maid is knocked out—or possibly dead. I don’t really care. That’s what happens when you try to take pictures and blackmail someone.

I couldn’t resist my curiosity. I’ve never been with anyone else. She was my first. And if I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands, she would’ve been my only.

My hips keep moving, each thrust smearing blood from the back of the maid’s head onto the pristine white marble. Each motion leaves another streak, another swirl, another mark.

The door bursts open.

“What are you doing?” she spits, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

I don’t bother to pull out. It doesn’t matter—she’s dead anyway. I keep going, my pace quickening as her presence only fuels me.

She storms over, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back. I hiss, thrusting harder into the maid’s lifeless body, defiance and desire intertwining in a sick knot.

“I’m pregnant,” she hisses, the words like a gunshot in the stillness of the room.

The memory snaps away, and I’m back in the shower. My eyes remain fixed on the white marble tiles, my knuckles turning white from the pressure of my clenched fists.

“Pregnant,” I whisper, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.

I grab the soap and scrub my body furiously, trying to cleanse more than just the sweat and grime. My cock throbs, but I ignore it. That’s a problem for later. Tonight, I have other priorities.

Tonight, I’ll show him power. I’ll remind him who’s calling the shots. Only after I’ve shattered his walls completely will I pay him a visit. But first, I want to show him my reach. I need him to understand.

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