Catch the Thunder

Always Greener on the Other Side

Laxus had a leather flogger in his hand. In front of him, stretched out with hands and neck bound in stocks, was some fat piece of flesh. He didn't know the name, and he didn't care. The man was familiar, likely some politician or maybe even an actor. Laxus had no clue, only that he had seen this man's face on TV. Now he was just another client, some sick fuck who wanted the God of Thunder to crash apart his world.

Music blared through the room. Rather than the dance tunes at the club, when Laxus worked a client his music was darker, ominous, meant to make the person's heart race and instill fear. Fear of him! Obedience! Right then, Metallica's Ride the Lightning was blaring, guitars shredding.

Flash before my eyes.
Now it's time to die.
Burning in my brain.
I can feel the flames.

Normally, this put Laxus in the mood to dole out pain, remembering the past, the pain, the terror, all trust sliced into pieces as his own father hurt him, cut into him with surgical precision, did things to him, experiments that were excruciating, things young Laxus did not understand. Maybe his father's experiments worked. He had been a feeble child, almost died many times from fevers and easily getting injured. His mother had constantly fretted over his health.

Now, he never got sick, he was large, muscular, taller than almost everyone else he knew. People around him whispered about steroids. Likely, that was part of it. Maybe more. Laxus had no clue.

Sometimes, he wished it had not worked. If he was still weak and sick all the time, maybe he would have stayed indoors, studied more, focused on school and friends, instead of being an outcast, everyone terrified of him, roaming the streets just to escape his family life, so consumed by anger that things like an education were secondary to his lust for revenge.

He slapped the flogger over the flesh. Lumpy fat jiggled, and the skin darkened with serpentine red marks.

"Sickening!" he muttered.

Just seeing this man was disgusting. No wonder he never got aroused before. He used to think that just the act of hurting someone should be enough to arouse him, so he thought maybe he was asexual, since none of his clients, nor the women he had dated, stirred him. Nobody aroused him!

Now, he had come to know an athletic body, thin and taut muscles, firm flesh toned with youth and hard work, not saggy and wrinkled like this man. There had never been pleasure in his job before, but now Laxus was intensely revolted.

"Master!" the man groaned.

"You're repulsive," he sneered.

"Yes! Yes, I am, master."

"Shut up!" Laxus cracked the flogger over the flesh. The man groaned in masochistic pleasure, and the sound turned Laxus' stomach.

When Freed had called him master, that desperate whimper had shocked Laxus. Freed said the title as if nobody else in his life would ever be master, only Laxus.

Only him!

He liked that. He liked knowing there was a man who wanted that sort of exclusiveness.

This fat bastard had probably had dozens of Doms before hiring Laxus. He certainly had a wide variety of devices, his own sado-maso playroom in his mansion's basement, designed to look like a dungeon, so he was experienced in this sort of perverted play.

"The butt plug, master. You promised. Twenty lashes and I can have it."

Gross. Laxus wanted to vomit. This man's flabby ass stuck out, stripped red from the lashes he had been getting all night. Laxus had made the requirement of twenty lashes because he sincerely hoped the man would not make it that far. Either his arm was swinging too gently, or this man's pain tolerance was incredible.