Welcome to part 3 of this short romantic story written by Ted Phido. It is as close to 50 Shades of Grey as you can get. There are six parts in all and you can find part 2 here. Read the story below…
Sophia His laugh does not fit him. It is high pitched and tinkly. He’s not incredibly masculine, probably just average, but even then the laugh sounds like something from a young girl.
I look across at him, this mysterious man in his baby blue sweater, and something stirs in me. I watch his throat move as he eats, drinks and speaks. I am nearly transfixed. I notice he seems edgy, impatient. He’s almost finished his food. Good … so have I.
I excuse myself. The butler shows me to the guest suite, with its opulent bathroom. I find myself wishing again that I could just enjoy this. That I didn’t have this desire. I could, you know. I could just enjoy this. I saved those two sleazeballs I met off SexSpace last year for a rainy day, everything is set, and I’m sure their families would appreciate the valentines.
I could just relax, make love to Alexander, and soak in the hot tub with some more of his wine. I could be a normal, young woman for once. As if threatened by this train of thought, my desire rushes through me again with such force I almost get a nosebleed. I have to steady myself against the granite sink.
I pull myself together and go back into the room. My overnight bag sits on the bed. I open it up and reach for my roll bag. My hand glides gently over the leather, feeling its grain. It was a 30th birthday present to myself.
When I head back out to the patio, neither the butler or Alexander are anywhere to be found. My heart races. I look around – is this a test? My eyes scan the walls, the light fixtures, looking for a hidden camera. If there are any, they are well hidden, probably top of the line.
I quickly unroll the bag, the blade of my scalpel catches the light briefly. The syringe is prepped, 25cc of Pavulon. I’m glad I don’t have to use it. It’s usually a last resort thing. Plus it’s bloody expensive and hard to steal. The other problem is I might have to intubate him so he doesn’t die too quickly. Not my favourite thing in the world to do, especially with the butler lurking. It occurs to me that I’ll have to take care of him too.
Instead I withdraw a small bottle full of crushed Xylazine from a pouch in the bag. It’s usually used by vets for large farm animals, but I find it does the job for my goals. I empty it into the bottle of wine. I shake it, thinking to myself how lucky it is that the bottle is dark so he won’t see the residue settle on the bottom unless he’s looking for it. I shake the bottle again. I’m probably bruising the wine or something. He would probably be freaking. I can’t help but giggle.
Alexander Arousal makes my hands shake. That’s what it is. Just the thrill of a new Hunt. Not my brain letting me down. I change out of the slacks and the sweater into my hunting gear. People tend to look scornfully at my kit. “City boy hunter,” some sneer; then they see my skill with a bow and it shuts them up.
I’m wearing fatigues. It gets me in the mood. When I put the camouflage jacket on, I can feel my hands stop trembling. I feel alive, virile even. I’m glad I don’t have to wear the high-viz vest, one of the reasons I prefer this kind of Hunt to the other public ones. Those vests are particularly unstylish.
I look in the mirror. Kind, shallow-shouldered Alexander has been replaced by something altogether more terrifying. I make to put on some camo face paint but Mr Hound quietly shakes his head. What would I do without him?
I walk over to the security console. I type the six-digit code, father’s death day, and mumble my voice-activation command- Jaeger. It blinks red briefly and chirps, signifying that the system is armed. Now only Mr Hound or I can disarm it. A good hunter is a prepared hunter, father always said.
He hands me my favourite crossbow. I draw a deep, shaky, breath. It’s show time.