The Executioner Read Online Free PDF Page B

is going to, for the first time in her life, open up. She will do this opening up by writing me a bedtime story every night and it has to be a real, raw, gut-wrenching autobiography.
    Yes, I’m a crazy, fucked up individual with a high IQ. I’m also a man who has studied the BDSM lifestyle for more reasons than one. I’m a man who likes a girl with some fight in her and that goes far beyond tying her up and taking her; I want to get in her head. The same way I love a woman who makes me take her physically, I love a woman who puts up a fight mentally.
    I want to split Kansas open from top to bottom. I want to immerse myself in her. I want to take every cell and molecule of her being and invade it until we are no longer two, but one. I want to bond with Kansas but, even more so, I want her to bond with me…

Kansas
    “You want me to do what?” I look up from where I’m kneeling at the feet of the man I choose to call Executioner for reasons just such as these.
    “I’m not writing a fucking memoir for you or anybody else!”
    With no warning, his hand swipes out towards the side of my head, twisting until he has a handful of hair relentlessly gripped down to the roots.
    “Fuck that hurts!”
    His voice is laced with venom as he leans down and whispers, “Good, your pain pleases me.”
    “Why are you doing this?”
    “You were willing to talk to him but you won’t talk to me?” A sardonic brow rises in warning.
    “I didn’t open up to him.”
    “Well, you’re going to open up to me or you’re going to suffer the consequences.”
    He pulls at the leash, walking me through the industrial kitchen and into the foyer that houses the double winding staircases leading up to the room where I will be staying. Just how far will this crazy fuck go to prove a point? If he is willing to go so far as to make me crawl around on my hands and knees for the mere offense of touching him without his permission, then how far will he go if I try to leave?
    “Where are my clothes?” I defiantly ask, as I pull against the leash.
    “You’re a smart girl, you’re also sneaky. You can’t go anywhere without clothes. You can’t go anywhere period!”
    “Why are you doing this?”
    “I like you.”
    “Charmed, I’m sure.”
    He jerks on the leash he has attached to my collar so hard that it picks me up off the floor. I’m hanging mid-air as he holds me out with only one of his large hands. He’s eyeing me but saying nothing.
    “I’m sorry,” I choke out the words, barely able to breathe.
    His face is hard, his features still and unreadable, as he watches me begin to cry.
    “You’re going to write me a fucking bedtime story. There had better be pieces of you in it or I won’t be happy. You won’t like me when I’m not happy.
    I don’t like you now! I have enough sense to think the words without speaking them. He’s right. I won’t like the results I’ll get if I’m the cause of him being unhappy, not that he appears to be happy at any time I have viewed him thus far.
    Simply put, writing means I have access to a computer so I’ll do it. I’m not considering it so much for the prospect of being able to escape, it’s just that writing keeps me sane.
    He drops me back down to the floor, leaving me in a pathetic pile at his feet, once he is convinced he has made his point. I rub my neck as I crawl behind him and we make our way to a large door. I am not prepared for what I see when he opens it. The room he has taken me to looks like something out of a fairytale but more age appropriate for a woman. It is the epitome of femininity.
    The bed is huge with large, solid posts that look like the columns on a castle. A sheer canopy is pulled back to reveal a duvet that has small rose petals sprinkled throughout it. A mural is painted on the wall to the left and it has a painting of an open field with a woman perched against a tree reading a book.
    The French provincial furniture has been painted an eggshell color with mint