Bleeding Inspiration: Alexander

Author's Note: If you know my series, Fighting Dreams, you know this is going to be twisted and three shades of fucked up. So don't read it and then complain about Alexander getting off to pain. That's the definition of a goddamn sadist.

"Cry little ones, but your tears are in vain. I feast on your cries, your tears, and your pain."- Dark Christmas by Aiyun.

"Do you regret asking for this?"

Licking the salted sheen off her neck, he savored the shiver that followed. Good, the stress of the position was starting to fatigue her. Fifteen minutes could feel like hours in those bindings; he'd tested it himself. The twitch of her strained arms made the low tone of grinding metal, that unstable dance on her toes... anticipation always made them taste all the sweeter when he worked.

Each one was a canvas, unmarked and waiting for his brush. Some pale as a page of paper, others so perfectly caramel toned as she was. Each needing a special touch to unleash the potential underneath.

His fingers seized the tender flesh of her chest. Curling the tips in, he tightened his hold under the silence broke with a strained groan. There it was. That little admission of weakness, of pain she'd try to fight. But they never won.

Her head tipped to expose her throat to him, her eyes turned away as she rolled under the intense sensation. This one seemed to be pulled under already; would she even last a few minutes? Or so he thought before a giggle bubbled up from her core and erupted like sunshine through the bleak concrete room.

Bright, honeyed eyes gazed up at him. The smile on her lips held only delight. She leaned into his chest, her body opening to expose itself to his eyes and hands. "Why would I?" she questioned. "You're everything I love."

Turning his wrists until she squealed, he let her marinate in the sensation before releasing her. The impatient whine when he stepped away drew a rare smile. How unique. He'd had his doubts, but this was proving.... entertaining. Would she show a tempered strength or snap like so many pretty things that thought they wanted to play with him?

His belt held the tool to test her.

Uncoiling the plaited leather, he tested a swing of the single-tail which snapped beside her. He caught the sharp breath in, but she remained still. He rewarded the stillness with a sharp snap to her curved ass and took in the tension that coiled down to her toes as she whimpered but did not scream. That would do nicely to set color in place.

Leisurely swings painted her unmarked flesh in lines of red. Steadily conducting her misery, he turned her vocalizations of pain into his serenade.

Heat rose with his tempo. He chased the merriment from her eyes. The speed of his strikes drove her pitch into agony; her hands clutched her restraints with white knuckles. But as his lash paused, the golden eyes found his dreamily in moments and the smile returned. "Thanks for the massage."

Her will alone straightened her body to take its proper place in abject defiance. The cock of her head, the playful smile at her lips ignited something deeper. The relaxation of her form even as tremors ran through her arms mocked him.

The length of the whip wasn't close enough. Not for this one. He needed her closer, in his hands. He wanted to taste the audacity in her, to feel her body break in his hands as it wept its life. No, he needed to feel this bold star collapse into a black hole.

And that would need a different tool.

He took the black gloves off the tray, slowly pulling them on. The glimmer of black spikes drew the eyes in the light; his fingertips, palms, and knuckles sparkled under them.

He eyed her flesh, taking his time as he approached her. "Your application said you have a high pain tolerance," he recalled from memory. "But that's not quite the truth is it, Saati?"

Her eyes narrowed at the use of her name and he smirked, lightly caressing her jaw so that she could feel the prickling drag of the spikes nip her skin. He curled his fingers slowly into a fist. Each spike clicked against another in her ear as his voice dropped to a cruel murmur. "You're actually a pain whore."

The punch to her diaphragm took her off her toes for the barest second; he felt the spasm of her muscles as the breath left her body. She couldn't breathe, yet alone answer. He inhaled, breathing in the heady mix of sweat and desire in the air. With every breath she tried to take, his fist slammed into ribs to drive it back out.

Defiant eyes widened to the panic of futile struggle as her cheeks flushed and cries cut to coughing fits. Crimson painted her sides in narrow bands as the speckled punctures wept. Only as the panic began to glaze into oblivion did he allow her a reprieve from the beating. Though she gasped, not a tear glistened on her cheeks as she came back to reality.

Gods, she was beautiful when dressed in fear. He needed more. He had to have more from this little sunburst.

Capturing her in his arms, he drug one hand up to her throat as the other dipped between her thighs. He relished the twitch of her body, the whine of discomfort as the spikes caressed the swollen flesh of her labia. He held her tight against his body, slowly stroking her into a mess of hypersensitivity. When she bucked to escape it, he removed her breath for just a moment until she forced her body to tolerate his touch.

"I can smell it," he stated softly in her ear. "I can feel your cunt dripping all over my fingers. You don't just love pain, Saati. You need it."

"No... please.... Please," she sobbed as his fingers probed her sex.

"Shh. Don't worry. I'll take good care of you," he crooned, placing a kiss just behind her ear. "I know what you're craving. And I'm not afraid to give it to you."

Her scream pierced the air as his teeth sank deep into her shoulder. Writheing in his hands, the pitch rose as his fingers impaled her sex. She struggled against their relentless drive in and out as instinct drove her to fight; he punished the resistance by adding another finger to bolster the maddening sensation.

Forcing her to the edge, he dangled her over it as he raised the painful pleasure in her body to a fevered height as she thrashed. Sensing the precipice's approach, he slammed his spiked palm against her soaked flesh. The rigid silent cry answered; the dam broke.

Desire and strength rushed from her body in waves as she trembled in his arms. He drank it from her, feeding on each convulsion he pulled from her unwilling flesh until all that remained was a spent marionette in his strings. Only when her head lolled lifelessly into his hands did he remove his touch to leave her hanging in her chains.

Alexander couldn't help the smile that stayed wide on his lips as he clicked the controls to lower her to the plastic-coated floor. When not a sound came off her crumpled form, he shook his head. At least this one had provided some amusement. But just like all the others, the fight never lasted and all she'd wake up with was fear. Fear of him. Fear of pain. Just like he programmed them to for the House.

Taking off the gloves, he dropped them back to the metal tray as he turned to press the call button on the door. The House team could sanitize the room; he'd have Maribelle sit with her until she woke.

"You're utterly wonderful."

He froze.

The pile of limbs shifted, turning her to look at him. Exhaustion glazed the brown eyes, but they captivated him as she slowly sat up.

"...can you do that again?" she murmured with a satiated grin blooming on her lips. "No one has ever managed it before."

No tears. No fear. Just the hopeful and orgasm-drunk gaze that stared at him as if she'd found a deity worth her worship. What the ever living fuck had fallen into his lap?

Collecting the first aid kit, he walked back over. His gaze swept down her form, lingering on the bare white band around her neck. Unowned. Unproblematic. No wonder Devon had put this one in his queue. This wasn't a Canvas to be painted once and sold... this was one he could paint again and again in every shade of his darkness and she'd beg for more.

"It'd be my pleasure," he replied.

Perhaps there might be someone who would appreciate his artwork after all.