Page 94 of Heart of Stone

Suppressed memories threatened to resurface.

I willed them away.

Don’t go there…

But it was hard not to. The dream was like an unwelcomed punch in the face, a reminder of many childhood beatings. And about how the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

I stared back at my reflection in the window. I had inherited my mother’s eyes and her dark waves. But my face mirrored my father’s, a constant reminder of how much I was like him. Bile rose in my throat.

I am not my father.

Or so I had been telling myself for years. I had read all the psychobabble online that said there was no truth to the claim that BDSM stemmed from childhood abuse. But it was hard not to question the theory when I know who I am.

And I know where I came from.

My father was an abusive asshole with no particular preference as to who his target was. My mother was the complacent fool that let him use us all as punching bags – it didn’t matter if it was Justine, her, or me.

I am not much different from him, only I can justify my actions because I obtain consent before doing it. But the nagging voice of my conscience reminded me that only a sadistic bastard got off from hitting women, and that it didn’t matter which way the story was told. Even though I would never get a high out of blackening a woman’s eye, I do find it pleasurable to mark one with a whip.

I only share his face. I am not him.

An internal struggle began, so familiar, although I hadn’t experienced it in years. The reality of what I was and of how I came to be came crashing down around me, the truth dating back to the first time I had sex – young, naïve, looking to get it on with Nikki Tyson, the hottest girl in school. That first experience was a fumble of awkward adolescent limbs, but went off with out much of a hitch – with the exception of my overwhelming need to smack Nikki’s behind a nice shade of rosy red. The simple idea of doing exactly that scared the hell out of me. Ashamed of myself, I never spoke to Nikki again after that night.

At sixteen, I had already deemed myself to be unsafe.

I convinced myself of the inevitable and opted to tread a lonely path, choosing to stay away from girls all together. I was too afraid that I would one day bring physical harm to one of them, making me determined to stay the course. Until I met Sasha two years later, the mysterious girl with piercings and tattoos that lived down the block from me.

She was one merciless bitch.

I stared out at the stormy skies, watching the lightning in the distance, remembering a time with a girl that I hadn’t thought about in ages. A bittersweet smile formed on my lips.

Sasha had pursued me, despite my resistance. But my eighteen-year-old cock couldn’t keep her at bay for long. Once I caved, I could hardly believe my luck – I had met a girl who wanted her ass smacked. And more.

So much more.

Sasha had taught me about the world that I had eventually adapted as my own. Because of that, I will always have an appreciation for her. She had unknowingly created an outlet that I desperately needed, during a time when life seemed to be spinning out of control. She showed me how to use pain and pleasure, instead of allowing it to use me. She was the Bottom that taught me how to Top.

My time with her was twisted and had been short lived, but she made me feel normal and put me back in control of my life and my emotions.

That’s why I am NOT my father. I am in control.

I pressed the button on the wall that would lower the darkening screen. As I waited for the shade to move from ceiling to floor, I considered Krystina and where things were headed with her. Sasha had always kept things between us casual, and I recognized the importance of that after she walked away. There was a reason why I always kept women at arm’s length. Keeping emotional attachments out of the equation made things safer. Easier. It was one of my rules – one that has always served me well.

I’m more than just bending them for Krystina.

I wanted to take her on as a regular Sub. I wanted her for my own. I was contemplating the long term, to become more involved with a woman, to take on the role of a true Dom in ways that went beyond the bedroom, to satisfy this compelling urge to take care of Krystina in all things.

The entire idea was a foreign concept to me, and I shuddered to think of all the things that could go wrong. She lacked the experience that I would typically require of a submissive, and she continually tested my emotional limitations by challenging my every attempt at dominance. She was a spitfire that was only familiar with vanilla, and I was leading her down a very dark path.

Am I capable of keeping myself in check?

I didn’t know the answer to that, and I never trusted the unknown. I only knew that violence stemmed from emotion. And in the short time that I’ve known Krystina, she had managed to spark several emotions that I didn’t know I was capable of feeling. I was afraid that my father’s legacy would come to fruition, proving that I was no different from him. The mere idea of that happening caused a chill to race down my spine, despite the comfortable temperature of the room.

The bottom of the darkening screen touched the floor with a quiet thump, effectively blocking out all evidence of the lightning flashes. I turned around and navigated my way through the darkness to return to bed. I eased back down onto my back and rolled over on to my right side.

To hell with the rules – at least for tonight.

I may never tell Krystina the full extent of what happened all those years ago, but in that moment, I needed her like I’ve never needed another human being. My dream had left me feeling cold, as if frigid ice water were pumping through my veins. I needed the press of Krystina’s naked body against mine to make feel warm again.

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