The Executioner Read Free

one who introduced her to this lifestyle, is an aphrodisiac to me.
    She groans as if she is agonized and I raise her unchained leg over my shoulder and forcefully thrust my cock into her, splitting her open and taking what is mine.
    “Aahhh fuck! Please don’t hurt me,” she begs, wincing in pain.
    “Say it now!” I hiss.
    “Please, please, please, fuuuuuuuck, please, let me come, Executioner… Please, I’ll do anything.”
    I slow down pumping into my little victim and eye her. She has her eyes squeezed so tight, like she is scared she will accidently open them and get into trouble.
    I begin to taunt her as I rub her clit, watching her face while I fuck her; I love to watch her come.
    The crazy girl dubbed me ‘The Executioner,’ because of the hood I wear. I watch her body rack with pleasure over and over before I finally unload into her.
    As much as I love the pleasure and the pain we bring one another, I hate when it is over. I can’t reveal my true identity to her but we both know I will be watching her and she had better be on her best behavior until next time.
     
     
     

     



Chapter One
    Kansas
    I swat at the alarm which, in turn, falls to the floor without a cease and desist on its torturous digital beep. I can feel the effects of lack of sleep and I have an appointment at the women’s prison today. I force myself out of bed and into the shower before my body has a chance to fight the inevitable task of starting a new day.
    What is it with these dreams that plague me? Lack of a sex life is all I can figure. I allow the water to flow over my body and make the decision to adjust it to a tepid setting because the heat and steam are only lulling me back into a state of relaxation.
    I quickly finish and make my way into the kitchen to retrieve the thing I love most on days like this—coffee. I will need it today to get me through due to the fact that, once again, I’m going on practically no sleep. It is becoming more difficult with each new day to hide the dark circles and bags under my eyes. It has gotten so bad that my boss has forced me to seek out counseling, actually a shrink. Protests of “I’m not crazy,” have only served to get answers like, “Nobody thinks you’re crazy. This guy is the best at probing the subconscious to reveal hidden issues.”
    The problem is… I don’t want anybody probing in my fucking head. In fact, I don’t want anyone in my head, heart, emotions, or anywhere else they might decide they want to take up residence. I don’t get this whole thing about needing to bond with people; I do fine by myself.
    Hell, my psychiatrist is so damn good he has already labeled me as being afflicted with a disorder known as Reactive Attachment Disorder. Apparently, I’m unable to bond emotionally due to abandonment issues . It must be nice to have the whole world figured out the way he does. Everything is so tidy and neat, labeled and wrapped up with a pretty little bow. Screw him and his disorder. I like being detached. He has only met with me a few times and already he thinks he has all the answers.
    I grab my sweater and head out the door in minimal make-up, jeans, a t-shirt, and a scarf around my neck. It’s one of the things I love about my job—no frills in the wardrobe department.
    I pull out of my driveway and slam on the brakes as I realize I left my coffee on the roof. By some miracle of the coffee gods, it’s still there and I reach out the window, grabbing it and chugging half of it down one gulp. I speed into work, juggling my coffee and phone, and ignore the construction workers at the next light as they ogle me. I have no idea what they could possibly see in me. My highlighted brown hair is twisted up with a pencil stuck through it to hold it in place. My hazel eyes are accentuated by a light shade of brown eyeliner and that’s it for the day. I’m far more concerned about dealing with a prison mother who holds no allegiance towards her child. Maybe I can talk