The Beast Read Online Free PDF Page A

accented voice. He hadn’t answered, simply run the tip of the crop along her naked body, enjoying her jump as he touched her between her legs with the crop.
    “Who are you?” she’d asked again, even though she knew the deal. A great deal of cash, more than most make in a year of work like hers. She wasn’t supposed to know who he was. She knew this.
    Her second question resulted in a sharp smack of crop on her bare thigh. She’d jumped, but gotten the hint and stayed quiet unless spoken to after that. He had reached up and grabbed her throat with his gloved hand. He had gripped it tight, enjoying her wordless protest, her body swaying as she had tried to escape his grasp. He hadn’t wanted to choke her, not then anyhow, he had simply been testing her limits.
    As much as he enjoyed his sexually destructive side, his pleasure bloomed from their need for him. Even before the fire ruined him, he had only gained real pleasure from making women want him. In making them beg, then using them, and leaving them, Dimitri found his purest pleasure.
    He closed his eyes and tried to remember what fucking had been like before his injuries. When he would strip down in front of a woman, let her run her hands all over his muscled body and drink in her purrs of admiration and appreciation.
    Now his fucking was furtive. He was...not exactly shy...but not as proud of his body as he had been before. He could have plastic surgery, skin grafts to help smooth over the bumps and puckers of damaged flesh, but he had vowed to wait until Sergei was dead. He wanted to wear this scarred face until Sergei could gaze upon the monster he had created and weep for his life. He wanted to wear his ugliness on the outside until he could unleash it onto Sergei.
    He shifted on the bed and trie d to concentrate on his throbbing need. He hungered to release this tension before he destroyed something beautiful, a whore or a priceless work of art, either would be a tragedy. He slid his hand up to the tip, cupped the head and played with the sensitive ridge. He gave his cock a squeeze and closed his eyes. He imagined a pussy, any pussy, clenching and teasing him there.
    He went back to the model. She had been the last woman he worked over, so naturally she was still on his mind. He tried to recall her scent, the taste of her skin as he had bitten her neck and breasts, marking her with dark bruises.
    The words from a poem he read long ago fluttered through his mind at that moment…”as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar…” His eyes snapped open and he sat up in bed. Dimitri was not a man given to emotional outbursts, even previous to his time with Sergei. He had been trained to control his movements carefully or risk a beating, or worse, from his father. He let loose then though, rage and despair erupted from deep inside of him and he howled his protest against Vancouver’s unflinching skyline.
    Never before had he been unable to complete his act. Not until a week or so previous, when some invisible stress had choked his balls off from his cock and prevented him from completion. His impotent anger at Sergei’s attack and subsequent life of confinement had now wreaked its own literal form of impotence upon Dimitri’s body. Put simply, he could not come.
    The scar, the line about the scar. The scars that filled his left torso and a portion of his face. Was there pleasure in wearing them on his body?
    At this moment there was none. He briefly considered if he had descended into madness, but could not determine whether he had or not.
    Unconvinced of either, Dimitri slid to the side of the bed, tucked his hard cock back into his loose pants, pulled them over his hips and stalk ed back to his office to keep his eye on Sergei once more.
    On his way out, he spied a priceless Tiffany lamp, a hideous affair in stained glass pink lotus flowers. Something he’d once taken pride in, perhaps, when he first moved here. He’d seen a lot of the antiques and objets