Monday, February 18, 2013

The Art of Breaking - Part 15

A door somewhere opened and slammed, dogs barked and trashcans banged from the neighboring houses. Nikolas let out a curse as he came fully awake. “This is a joke.”
Then he remembered his new regime. From this moment on he was on hiatus unless ordered otherwise, and with it came thoughts of any man with a sassy glint in their eyes and temptation written all over a submissive body. One that would equal trouble in Nikolas’ mind. The last thing he wanted was to add another to his already confused state. There were a thousand reasons for keeping his hands to himself.
Nikolas drew back the black cotton sheets and got out of bed. He'd tossed and turned so much he was wrapped like a mummy in a sarcophagus when he woke up. Adrian once joked about them, calling his choice in color Morbid “R” Us. “Sure.” He said it like: didn’t everyone do that. Lying came easy. It was probably his third talent. Being a Master Dom was his second. Killing was his first.
He stretched, feeling no better than he had. His muscles protesting the earlier than expected rise out of sleep that went with the odd insane hours he kept. Nikolas got to his feet. The only indication that the move cost him was the muscle that ticked in his jaw and the thin line into which his lips compressed.
Bounding out of the bedroom, his long legs carried him away from the pain and anger and the memory of death in his dreams to the kitchen. But he knew, gut-deep, that running wouldn’t help. It never had. Pausing at the kitchen doorway, he stared, his heart now a sledgehammer. The only ones that gave him that rise in the world to feel any kind of emotion to show he was human these days were dead.
Nikolas closed a set of double cupboards and leaned back on his hip, arms crossed; pondering whether to order out, or to hop in the car and grab a few things to tide him over until he could go shopping. Not having to face life in general won out. Moving to the phone on the counter near the sink, he picked up the receiver and punched in a few numbers. “I'd like delivery. Whatever the special is tonight. Sure. Cash.”
Seeing as he had enough time, he bounded back up the steps to take a quick shower. He slapped his towel over the holder and turned on the steaming spray. A slow smile tugged on his lips as he plucked up the soap from the holder and started scrubbing the sweat and sleep from his body. His soapy hand ran over and down the length of his cock, but even that wouldn’t make it twitch or harden. He wasn’t that old, yet the idea of needing Viagra to get it up wasn’t something he was willing to accept. He wasn’t going to grow old gracefully. “Guess Braxton was right and we are stressed.” Giving his cock a firm squeeze, he moved to continue washing himself. He obviously couldn’t stay under the spray forever.
He finished showering, dried off, and wrapped a towel around his trim waist while he shaved. The razor dragged across the two-day old growth of facial hair, and it took twice as long as usual to get rid of the whiskers. Nikolas stared into the mirror when he was finished. Clean shaven and without his pants and boots he was just like any other man.
Right! He looked more like a teen who hadn’t aged in a decade and had an abnormal growth spurt. Except for his height he’d gained at an early age, which he was mocked and teased about growing up, and a build he’d worked hard at while conditioning his body during training, no one would think him to be the age he really felt deep down. He’d seen more than his fair share over the years. An old soul is how he looked upon himself. He shook his head and looked away from the image that mocked him.
Nikolas slipped on his time-worn, but most comfortable jeans, scooped up the remainder of his clothing, and looked outside the window. The bedroom was on the second floor looking over a large background with an in-ground pool that he swam in daily. He had a feeling it was going to be another long lonely night. The chime of the doorbell drew back his focus.

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