Sorry for leaving everyone confused. Just to ease the perplexity, I will try my best to post a new chapter everyday. Anyway, thank you for all your comments! They're very much appreciated. The fact that you take time to read my work already means a great deal to me. Everyone can say what they want about this story: the good, the bad and the ugly. That's how free speech works, right? You can also choose to read it or not. If it stresses you out, then better not read it. I'm just grateful for the traffic. Have an amazing day!

Chapter 3

Christian POV

A year ago

Fun fact: No matter how good it gets, life screws you over. All the fucking time. When it decides to give you a great wife, the best even, and a child as the cherry on top, better expect a blow in the nuts in return. The fucking Venn diagram of life states that good people should randomly intertwine with fucked-up assholes to create the people like me. You cannot ignore the shit because it comes back to haunt you, no matter how you try to avoid it.

Two weeks ago, I met a man in his death bed. Rather than be repentant and remorseful, he was a complete motherfucker. No really, he was a worthless piece of trash. He told me over and over again that he didn't know me but he already hated me. I was the bastard who destroyed his life. He called me 'bastard' over and over again. Bastard. How many times have I been called that? A lot, by my estimation.

I try to do the whole Tuesdays with Morrie shit and listen to the assfuck berate me. But all I wanted to do is beat him up with my bare hands. Beat the living shit out of him and make him pray that he never wanted to live.

And what a bastard I turned out to be. God he's worse than my mother and that pimp of hers.

No really, objectively, in the eyes of the court and five states of America, he is worse than Ella and that pimp.

"Paul O'Daly," I say to myself, listening to my own tongue speak words of the devil. He was a serial rapist on the run, and Ella was once his favourite plaything. Ella, was the naive, village idiot who clung to the asshole's every word. She was a low level whore in the hierarchy of whores – she was usually unemployed as she wasn't that charismatic among her peers, sells her body for drugs and sometimes for free. I feel like taking a million showers after I was informed of that fact. She's also had three abortions. I was meant to be the fourth, but somehow, I hung on to her like a vine. Thank fuck for that.

A bastard. I was really, legitimately, a bastard. Fucking piece of shit.

I prop my head back on the pillow, closing my eyes, trying to visualize the good things in my life, probably the only two good things: my wife and child.

My sweet wife. I love her, fuck her and love to fuck her. I doubt it'll ever change. Then there's my child, innocent and pure.

The fucking deal with both of them is that they love to defy me. They enjoy pushing my limits and making me bend over back for them. 'The power of the relationship lies with the one who cares less', and that's not me. I am not the man of power inside my own house. It lies in my wife who probably doesn't care if I get a coronary over her antics. It also lies in my son who cries his heart out, succeeding in making me feel like a failure.

I love them with every fiber of my being, but I can't help but be an outsider as of late. I care too much by what they think of me – me, a bastard.

I look at the bedside table and see my friend sitting proudly: Xanax, just what I need. I pop a pill and a drink a cold glass of water, letting it calm me down.

I close my eyes once more, thinking of the sweet ways I could make Paul pay for all his transgressions. He needs a come to Jesus moment and I wouldn't think twice of handing it to him. I laugh.

I've probably mentally killed him off more than a hundred times. The fucker doesn't deserve to live.

Once I open my eyes, I wonder what I've been doing here, in Escala – in my former subs room. It seems like a million years ago when I fucked for pleasure. These days, I am a fucking sissy who fucks for love... and pleasure.

Anastasia makes love to a bastard. How comical. And we have a son... Probably conceived from a mindless and careless fuck. A bastard by affiliation. No! No! Teddy's too good for that. They're both too good for that. Too good for me.

I need some fucking control in my life and I fucking need it right now. I need it more than my next breath. I need it more than I need food or water. I need to break something, someone. I fucking have to get in all in order. I am calmed by being in Escala, in these jeans, and possibly in this room. I am fucking calm here because I am the boss in this house. I am in power. I am in control.

I feel the aggression of my past slowly seeping through my blood. Claude has quit being my trainer after I whooped his ass big time. Sure he was bleeding, but he's got to man up and quit being such a pussy. Taylor has also been driving me insane. If it wasn't for Ana, i'd probably fired his ass right now. He's been giving me side-eyes and looks of disapprovals. You work for me and you should do as I say.

Fuck there's something wrong with me. I know it. I feel it. I need blood, bones and flesh. For some reason, seeing Claude pleading for his life made me happy. In my head he was the cunt Paul, begging me for mercy. Pretty good for a bastard fuckboy,don't you think?

Now if only I could've done that to Paul in reality. Break his bones and chokehold him to death. I know my knuckles are curling and my fists have gone pale. They've seen too much action back in the day, and I'm glad they're getting work done again.

I should probably call Elena and beat her with a whip. She'd love that.

"No," I hear myself say.

What the fuck Christian? You have a gorgeous wife and a bright baby at home. You don't need this!

"But you do," I say, smiling.

I take my water and my Xanax and head to the playroom.

"Let's have a little fun, shall we?"

The scent of the playroom is still the same since I last set foot on this place. I've gotten rid of a few toys that Ana may not like to use, but other than that, it still is the same. The bed, the chair, the mahogany closets and floors. The same.

I internalize being in this place and realize that I miss it. I feel like a big man in this room, as I should be in outside of it.

Now if I could only ask Ana to come in here with me. I'd love for us to play. But a part of me is embarrassed to ask the mother of my toddler.

I take a flogger out of the closet and inspect it. I grip the end with the palm and briskly slap my other hand. Ahh! It feels so good.

I repeat it over and over again.

Next I take the belt, but as soon as I grapple it tightly. "Ten." Smack. "Nine." Smack. "Eight." Smack. "Seven." Smack. "Six." Smack.

"Stop!" I exclaim. Anastasia consumes my mind. She said "Stop" and I had to stop. She then left me. Good God!

I lose my balance and find myself sitting on the bed, occupied by the thoughts of my crying wife.

What am I doing? Why am I so angry? What is wrong with me?

I should probably just lie down.