Page 1 of Shades of Red

Flames dance along the walls in flickers of burnt orange and gold, the burning heat from the large fireplace on full blast in the middle of goddamn summer causing my balls to drip sweat. Fucking Finn and his fucking theatrics. He’s the only one who wants to feel like he’s literally dicking someone in the fiery pits of Hell, and the rest of us get the privilege of suffering for him. And I’d much rather dole out torture than endure it.

I run my fingers through the bright ribbons of red on Satine’s back as I slam my cock into her wet cunt. I thrust with enough force to make her lose her balance and fall on her face. She shrieks when her soft flesh makes contact with the hard floor, but I just keep pounding into her from behind. I fuck all my subs on the floor—it keeps them from getting any of the stupid, romantic ideas that come from being fucked in a soft bed. They are here to be used and abused for my pleasure and nothing else, and I’m courteous enough to make sure they know that ahead of time.

I press my index finger into one of Satine’s deepest cuts, the blood from her back being split open with my bullwhip already dried. Shescreams when I press my finger hard enough to break the skin again. A small bead of blood blooms in the divot of her spine. The sight of it makes my cock swell so thick that it feels like her tight little pussy is strangling me.

“Do you like the pain, little sub?” I ask as I continue to tear into her warm hole. I can barely fit my thick, metal-studded cock inside her, but ruining her cunt for anyone else is part of the fun.

“Yes, Master Greyson,” she whimpers, struggling to take everything I give her with a pretty, pained smile on her lovely face. She’s a good sub—one of my favorites, actually. And since I use a rotation of twelve different ones at Finn’s Pandemonium themed kink club, that’s saying a lot.

“You take the pain so fucking well.” I rake my nails down her raw and welted back, and the sound of her scream sends me over the edge. I lean over her and wrap my hand around her throat, choking her while I come harder than I have in a long time. My hands are brutal and bruising as I force her body against me and shoot my load deep inside her. I thrust my hips hard, my bare balls slapping loudly against her ass as I stuff her so full that she’s bursting with cum.

When I finally pull out, my shaft is still hard, white dripping like icing from the silver ring piercing at the tip of my cock. I bend down and spread open Satine’s cheeks, licking the mixture of our cum from her gaping hole. The taste of sex bursts on my tongue, and I absolutely love it. One day, I’ll create a dish that embodies that moment when you slide your tongue through a girl’s sweet cream mixed with your own spunk. It’s the only kind of cream pie I enjoy.

I give Satine an indulgent slap on the ass and get up to grab her a damp cloth from the bathroom.

“Thank you, master,” she calls softly before I leave the room. She’s slipped into a kneeling position with her back turned toward me. My cum is leaking out of her pussy, and my marks are all over her skin.I’ve used her and nothing more, so I can only imagine her gratitude is for the orgasm I allowed her to have while my dick was deep inside her.

I make no answer as I walk toward the open door to the adjoining room and grab an assortment of medicinal supplies with the addition of a wet towel. She’s still kneeling by the fire when I come back into the room, the flames casting shadows on her warm brown skin. I drop to my knees behind her, the heat scorching my bare, tattooed chest and arms. I slip the wet cloth between Satine’s legs, wiping any sticky remnants of me from her skin. Then I rub disinfectant over her lashes and cuts, making sure they’re clean before placing bandages on the worst of them.

“Thank you,” she whispers again as I unwrap the last bandage.

Something in me bristles at her misplaced gratitude. “Do not thank me for fixing you after I’ve broken you,” I retort with the bitterness of burned espresso. “It is not kindness—it’s basic human decency, which is the very most my depleted sense of morality demands.”

“You aren’t as harsh as people think you are, master.”

Her voice is warm and adoring, and I want nothing more than to shatter all her dreams and reveal the nightmare that lurks behind them. The naive girl has no idea of the harm I’m capable of inflicting. “You’re right, little sub,” I answer, soothing the last bandage against her tattered skin. “I ammuch fucking worse.”

Satine looks over shoulder, her pretty brown eyes sparkling with something terrifying when she stares at me. And when she opens her red lips, I already know I should have whipped her fucking harder. “I love you, master.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Get dressed,” I command, ignoring her impulsive declaration entirely. I stand up and start to put on my shirt, my frustration so overpowering that I can barely handle the small buttons with myfingers. Satine was my favorite, and now I’ll never be able to fuck her or whip her again. Damn girls and their damn fucking feelings.

“Master, please,” she pleads, still on her knees and waiting for something more than I can give.

“No, you are out of line, Satine,” I scold in a firm tone that I reserve for serious offenses. “You are here toserveme. Your purpose is to take my pain and give me pleasure. Yourfeelingshave nothing to do with me, so keep them to yourself.”

Her red lips tremble, there are tears in her devastated eyes, and she looks as though I’ve taken a knife to her heart and hacked it all to pieces. “But I lov?—”

“Not another word, Satine,” I order, cutting her off. “Get dressed.” I grab her stack of clothes from the bed and hand them out for her to take.

Trembling, she gets to her feet, her knees red from kneeling so long on the hard floor. She takes the clothes from my hand and tucks them under her arm. Swallowing hard, she disobeys me for the first and last time. “Why are you so heartless?” she asks, her voice thick with tears.

I hesitate before offering her a piece of truth that only one other person in the world knows. “Because a pretty girl like you ripped it out a long time ago.” I study Satine, so different from the girl who wrecked me and somehow still exactly the same. “Now I’m smart enough not to fall for lies spilling out of red lips.”

The air is sweltering without a hint of breeze to sweep away the punishing heat of the sun. It’s the hottest summer Paris has seen for a decade. And the hottest summer I’ve felt in my twenty two years of being alive. Sweat drips down my skin, coating my lips in a sheen of salt. I run my tongue over my full bottom lip, savoring the natural taste of it. Flavors don’t just live in food, they’re everywhere—in the air, in the earth, in your skin. You can feast before even setting foot in the kitchen. You just have to open your senses to the experience.

Bells ring out loudly, the local cathedral keeping everyone in the Quartier du Louvre on schedule as they walk or bike about their days. Eleven chimes echo through the narrow streets as birds flock to the sky, painting the crystal blue in fluctuating ripples and spirals of black. I take this walk every afternoon, soaking in the scent of warm croissants and fresh baked baguettes.

I pop into my favorite bakery, Le Fournil, waving at Sophie behind the bar. Thankfully, it’s not too crowded right now, and I don’t have to squeeze my way through throngs of people tomake it to the end of the counter. While I wait for Sophie to finish with her customer, I untuck the newspaper from under my arm and open it up toattemptto read the latest news.

I’ve been in Paris for two years, and I’m still not fluent in French, even after a couple semesters of language courses. I read the paper during the week to try to practice, but Sophie still makes fun of my French every time I try to talk to her in her native tongue. She begs me not to, but I still assault her ears with my hideous French attempts at flirting every chance I get.

Sophie is a Paris native of almost seventy years. She says she looked like Brigitte Bardot when she was younger, and I believe her. She’s still stunning, her smile lighting up the room when she chooses to give it. And I’m lucky enough to earn her rare smiles more often than most. The woman acts like I’m damn salt in her yeast, but I know she secretly loves me. And even though I give her a fair bit of hell, she knows I love her too.

I worked at Le Fournil when I first came to Paris, fresh out of my first year as a business major at the University of Chicago. I hated it. Paris was my escape, my chance to see if I could make a life for myself without having to do something that I despise every day of my life. Sophie was my salvation. She took a kid that was all passion and no skill and patiently showed him how to make pastries by hand. Hundreds of croissants day by day until I got my technique perfect. And I never did. I’m terrible with pastry, always have been and probably always will be. It’s too precise—I like to explore rather than replicate.

As abysmal as my croissantslooked, I had good flavors. Sophie was kind enough to let me experiment. Different flavors, different natural dyes in the dough, eventually different toppings and fillings. Soon, our pastries were discovered by one of the larger bistros around the corner when our lines started running down past their door at lunch time. And after an unexpected visit and tasting from the head chef, Iwas offered a job as a commis chef. I didn’t want to take it, but Sophie made me. She told me that I was meant for more than slaving away in a small boulangerie kitchen. And she told me she couldn’t wait to get rid of me because pastry work “c'est quand même pas terrible.”

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