Darker Shades Of Obsession Read online

  Darker Shades of Obsession

  JR King

  Copyright © 2014 by JR King. All rights reserved. No part of this Ebook may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact [email protected]

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Elena Anderson: The Ex-Girlfriend Agitation

  Elena Anderson: The Smart Pet

  Alexander Turner: The Third Week

  Alexander Turner: The Incestuous Paradigm

  Elena Anderson: The Great Escape

  Elena Anderson: The Fourth Week

  Alexander Turner: The Valerie Variable

  Elena Anderson: The Expected Return

  Elena Anderson: The Following Day

  Alexander Turner: The Audition Process

  Elena Anderson: The Cohabitation Catalyst

  Elena Anderson: The Sensory Deprivation Tactic

  Alexander Turner: The Customary Turbulence

  Elena Anderson: The Syllogistic Reasoning

  Elena Anderson: The Dinner Party

  Alexander Turner: The Great Meal

  Elena Anderson: The Sixtieth Floor

  Elena Anderson: The Carina Deviation

  Alexander Turner: The Layoff Predicament

  Alexander Turner: The Fight

  Alexander Turner: The Saint Andrew’s Cross

  Elena Anderson: The Jealous Lovers

  Alexander Turner: The No. 9 Park Twittering

  Alexander Turner: The Nightmare

  Alexander Turner: The WhatsApp Addiction

  Elena Anderson: The Other Turner

  Elena Anderson: The Gift Of Submission

  Alexander Turner: The Vineyard

  Alexander Turner: The Reunion

  Alexander Turner: The Bad News

  Elena Anderson: The O Ya Date

  Elena Anderson: The Adventures Of A Girl In Love

  Alexander Turner: The Adventures Of A Man In Love

  Alexander Turner: The Sex Club—Part One

  Alexander Turner: The Sex Club—Part Two

  Alexander Turner: The Sex Club—Part Three

  Elena Anderson: The Zürich Contemplation

  Elena Anderson: The Surprise

  Alexander Turner: The Romantic Challenge

  Alexander Turner: The Paris Proposal

  Alexander Turner: The DNA Glitch

  Elena Anderson: The Stranger You Love

  Elena Anderson: The Airportless Country

  Elena Anderson: The Monte Carlo Casino

  Elena Anderson: The Louis XV

  Alexander Turner: The Claudia Crisis

  Alexander Turner: The Grumpy Old Man

  Alexander Turner: The Man’s Birthday

  Elena Anderson: The Geisha Reincarnation

  Elena Anderson: The Troll Reaction

  Alexander Turner: The Girl’s Birthday

  Elena Anderson: The Planning For Revenge

  Alexander Turner: The Role-Playing Initiation

  Alexander Turner: The Homecoming Gift

  Alexander Turner: The Jimmy Kimmel Talk Show

  Elena Anderson: The Date With Lingerie

  Alexander Turner: The Romantic Business Trip

  Alexander Turner: The Claudia Interruption

  Elena Anderson: The Extremely Drunk Man

  Alexander Turner: The Scene

  Elena Anderson: The Plan

  Elena Anderson: The Action

  Elena Anderson: The Conclusion

  Elena Anderson: The Extremely Angry Man

  Alexander Turner: The Black Swan

  Elena Anderson: The Insecure Girl

  Elena Anderson: The Kiss Of Betrayal

  Elena Anderson: The Monster You Know

  Alexander Turner: The Things That Happen

  Elena Anderson: The Things That Will Not Happen

  Alexander Turner: The Outcome

  Elena Anderson: The Masquerade Ball—Hers

  Alexander Turner: The ICU Situation

  Elena Anderson: The Little Girl

  Alexander Turner: The Night Nurse

  Elena Anderson: The One-Month Rule

  Alexander Turner: The Sexy Healing Process

  Elena Anderson: The Reluctance Games

  Alexander Turner: The City Of Vices

  Alexander Turner: The Christian Grey Conundrum

  Elena Anderson: The Ex-Girlfriend You Hate

  Alexander Turner: The Changed Man

  Elena Anderson: The Breakfast In Bed

  Author’s Note

  DSOO is a work of fiction and any resemblance between its characters and real people is purely coincidental and for literary effect. The same can be said for references to public figures, businesses, buildings, and brand names. Incidents are products of my imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Commercial products and prevalent services are also used fictitiously and are not intended to disparage any company’s products or services.

  DSOO is the second in a series; it has a proper ending.

  Being obsessional does not necessarily mean sexual obsession, not even obsession for this or for that in particular; to be obsessional means to find oneself caught in a mechanism, in a trap increasingly demanding and endless.

  Jacques Lacan—interviewed in 1957

  Elena Anderson

  The Ex-Girlfriend Agitation

  To this day, one of the most meaningful conversations I’d had was with Alexander, the day after we made love for the first time. It felt like an interview with a psychopath. Shockingly, I appreciated him just the way he was. I liked the tone of his voice, the way he smiled, the way I could picture everyone and everything he talked about just by the descriptive terms he used.

  Alexander was sitting on the bed, his eyes closed, his back propped against the headboard. One leg was stretched out, the other one pulled up. His arm rested on his bent knee, its hand dangling carelessly while his other arm rested on his thigh. He was on speakerphone. “You playing sloppy seconds, Tony?”

  “There’s no need to make a song and dance about this, champ.”

  “Get her and make the beast with two backs, tantalizingly, intensely, or what have you. You need a date for St. Valentine’s, man.”

  “Fuck pop culture traditions. How’s pretty girl? You behavin’? Got your welcome back present?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  My toes curled in my shoes when Alexander motioned me to respond. “Hi.”

  “Hi, baby girl. I’m Tony.”

  “Elena.”

  “Has he been good to you?”

  “Mostly. There’s much room for improvement.”

  “So you know about his dirty little secret?”

  “You mean Marquis de Sade’s wet dream?”

  Tony laughed out loud.

  “Opinionated little thing, isn’t she?” Alexander snorted.

  “She’s it. Dinner?” Tony proposed.

  “She needs to see her family first. TTYL.” Alexander wore argyle silk drawstring pajamas, hanging in a louche way, so unforgivably low. As he placed the cordless phone in its holder, I watched the planes of thick muscles from his biceps and upper chest flex.

  “Alex, after last night, I’m here of my own volition. Why the prolonged isolation?” I was half-hoping to throw him off balance, but it didn’t work. He seemed completely unsurprised. “Please let me go home as I’d intended after two weeks in California. I’ll stay at your place, but I must go back to work. Go back to my family.”

  Like a hung-over dream, I could distinguish the guilt in his face, but his demeanor remained evasive.

  “I’m going outside. I think I’m entitled to s
ome fresh air. Have people follow me, I don’t care.” It was a pretty desperate technique, but it worked; his eyes lit up and he nodded.

  Clothed in winter gear, I went to the back of the house. There, I found Alexander waiting for me, standing with his hands behind his back like a Victorian gentleman. To my eyes it appeared as though he was ready to launch into a spectacular Cirque du Soleil act without warning. “Ms. Anderson, I’ll be accompanying you,” he announced, firm as any good fictional butler. I had to resist the slight urge to drop into a mocking curtsey.

  “Mr. Turner,” I acknowledged, straight-faced. I tried to match his primness as I stepped into the cold outdoors. Unfortunately I was still stiff and achy from the night before and winced a little, throwing off the effect.

  He followed me and asked, “Just how sore are you?” His gentlemanly attitude was gone in favor of apparent concern.

  I shrugged. “A little bit sore and stiff, I guess. Why, did you want to apologize for being brutish?”

  There was a wicked, sharp edge to his smile. “Elena,” he started gravely, “I’m afraid I can’t apologize because I’m not sorry for pleasuring you. Each time I forced you to put up with more, you came harder.”

  I wasn’t sure whether it was the words he’d chosen, what they suggested, or just the low, throaty tone in which he’d uttered them, but something told me to change tack. I halted and retreated two steps, marveling at the splendor. Mahogany double doors had given way to a majestic garden, and far-off beyond it, white tailed deer ran amok.

  “Too cold?” A tiny frown flickered across Alexander’s brow.

  “I’m fine.”

  The garden teemed with leafless oak and maple trees, rakish charm looming over it because of hibernating laburnum and ropes of wisteria. Wide lawns had grayish, bald copses of flowers and trimmed boxwood in animal shapes, and a muted roar of water pouring down and rushing off reverberated throughout the grounds. It was also rigged out with recumbent statues, statuaries holding javelins, and an eye-catching ornamental fountain stood proudly in the middle. The waterfall that should have been cascading into the unending infinity-edge swimming pool was turned off, a cover drawn over the pool. Having planted a moonlight garden together with grandpa, I recognized a separated garden plot that was most likely dedicated to devil’s trumpets and angel’s trumpets and other variations of vespertine flowers essential for such a garden.

  I saw Alexander loosen his arms, as if waiting for me to say something. I didn’t lack the temerity to question him, but of all the questions floating around in my head, I was sure that whichever of them would be voiced would be the wrong one.

  “Don’t hold your breath, help yourself, pet.”

  So you see, what should have been a rant trailed off into a pitiful question. “You’ve never had other women kidnapped?”

  “Never,” came his response, after a short pause.

  “Why me?”

  He didn’t circle the wagons for too long. “You blew the lid off. Tipped the scales.”

  I stopped and eyed him. “I don’t understand.”

  “I keep the tightest leash on my primal, dark urges. I would never materialize them, but I like fantasizing about forbidden things, kidnapping a girl fits the category,” he began explaining. “I tried fucking hard, and you kept being a killjoy. And for what? Were you undecided? Were you too proud? Jesus, you were masturbating while crying out MY name. By snatching you I took the choice away from you, twisting your arms to deal with your denial.”

  “So the record on invading privacy reflects. I don’t get it.”

  “You wouldn’t. It’s brutal. It’s a guy thing. Tug of war. I’d never up and quit, I had to pull harder.”

  “How often do you fantasize about awful things?”

  “Not often, but whenever I do, it’s hot. Gets my juices flowing.”

  “Do you fantasize about forcing women?”

  “C’mon, Elena. You’re smarter than that. It’s not a fair question.”

  “It isn’t supposed to be a fair question.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to trick me.”

  “Why? Because of Peter?” My eyes found his.

  “Well, what else?” His eyes flashed with undisguised irritation. “The damn answer is yes, I fantasize about rape.” The rumble of his voice tore through me like a jacketed bullet.

  “Did you…have you raped?”

  “Do you really want to know the answer?”

  NO. Revulsion unfurled fast, and I struggled to breathe. I took a deep breath, trying to placate my ambiguity as best as I could. “I’m asking, so I must.”

  “I haven’t. I do practice forced rape. Obviously, this BDSM art is a fine line to walk. With full understanding and consent of the intended target, it’s enjoyable for both, without the emotional burden and mess the real act leaves behind.”

  “Why is it enjoyable?”

  “Because it’s fucking hot.”

  “Why’s rape hot?”

  He frowned, and again, a moment passed. “Because it’s wrong and it’s exciting, an absolute paradox. Consider cheating on a lover. People aren’t always inclined to have sex outside their couple, but the adrenaline rush you can get from having an affair is compelling. Erotically compelling. That which is forbidden only becomes more attractive, so by saying no to me you became much more attractive than you already are. Were there a Vulcan mind-melt, it would create more problems than solutions, because listen to this; in fantasies people can be themselves without feeling guilty. I’m afraid I’m not much of a gentleman in my own head.”

  “Is it a specific woman you fantasize about? Or women you meet?”

  “Both. Depends on my mood.”

  “Is it violent? Belittling? Humiliating?”

  “A little of everything, sometimes, sometimes it’s not. Again, it depends on my mood. The fantasies aren’t limited to violence.”

  “Like...with blood or some such thing?”

  He gave me a pained, irritated look, and started walking again. It was an indication to stop the conversation, to keep my mouth shut.

  Our breaths left a trail of ice-like ribbons behind us. I considered silence, but resolved to continue and get to the point. “Alex, will you physically break me during play?”

  He paused, and I saw him stiffen. The wind lifted his coattails and its collar. “Jesus fuck, baby. I would never do that.” Brow furrowed, he gave me the most withering glare and said, “Don’t act like a stupid kid tilting at windmills. Drum it into yourself, you wouldn’t be nearly as much fun broken.”

  “When it’s me in the fantasy, do I fight you?”

  He did his best to keep a straight face, but the grin won. “That’s par for the course. You fight hard, Elena. That’s what makes it exciting.”

  “Am I up to par? Do I fight well?”

  He came closer. “You fight damn hard. It’s beautiful.” He smiled, a sweet and remarkably mild expression compared to his sharp tone. It was brief, and then he looked harsh again. “Why all these questions? Why do you want to be in my head?”

  “A girl’s gotta have her secrets. Need I say more?” I snaked an arm around his waist in light commiseration. A rumbling, inelegant stomach growl ridiculed the moment. I pinched at my navel.

  “Will you edify me? Psychoanalyze me after hours of play? Is that it? Want me to see a therapist?” A strong breeze fractured the intensity between us. There was a patronizing edge to his voice, which I didn’t appreciate.

  “God, how dumb were the Significant Twenty? What’s sure is that you need to see an eye specialist.”

  He met my eyes but said nothing.

  On the way back, we didn’t talk. The snow was cold and lush and squelched underfoot, and there was an outdoorsy scent of pine around us. Every so often I glanced to my side to see if Alexander was angry. Stunning the way the breeze sifted through his damp, careless hair that only men in magazines can pull off. When it came to rugged, unkempt physique, he definitely blew it out of t
he water.

  “Elena.” He paused before the double doors, and his tongue darted out to moisten his lower lip. “People don’t change. We change ways, we adapt, we overcome shortcomings and hardship, but our sense of agency fundamentally stays the same.

  People are as much selfless, noble, and heroic, as they are selfish, uncaring, and above all, cruel. We find ways to hide the ugliness within us when it rears its head. We learn to ignore slightly dull, enduring pains.

  To become nothing but a shardlet of normalcy, that’s my aim. Of course, to think I can be normal like the many out there is impossible, because I’m a long way off course. Not that I hate myself, but I don’t like my sadistic self either. I imagine a romanticized ideal and the possibility that it could be me, which will always, let’s face it, remain a self-illusion.”

  “We both have a lot of flaws, don’t we? Would you want to change anything?”

  “I find people with flaws much more attractive than those without.” Not only did the flash of his grin improve the moment, it also disarmed me. “I’ve never met a girl like you. Maybe Carina, but that’s it.”

  A flush of jealousy crawled over my face. I couldn’t let up. “Your ex?” I asked, trying and failing to keep my voice steady.

  “Carina Lowell. It wasn’t about love, if that’s what you’re after. With her consent, I’ve administered her pain.”

  Just when I thought he and I had a fair chance. The heiress of the Lowell family. I tried to calm myself down, channeling a self-confident attitude. Anything I felt for him had now quadrupled.

  “Want me to fix you a drink before dinner, love?” A phone buzzing spared me the need to answer. With an apologetic look, he answered the call. “This better be good,” he hissed down the sleek device, glanced back at me then lowered his voice. “I’m listening.”

  I wondered if it was Carina on the other end of the line. At the thought, long, sharp fingernails scraped down my spine, reducing me—as I heard Alexander’s vocal cords squeezing out murmurs—to a petty person. What happened next, I assumed, was due to the misshapen combination of cold and jealousy inextricably intertwined with rebellion.

  I called grandpa and casually chatted for almost five minutes before I told him I might come home earlier. Expectedly, the connection got lost, and when it came back, in anticipation of being reviled, I plainly sent grandpa a text. Before I could tread to my suite, a voice thundered down on me. “ELENA!”