The gold embossed Swiss inspired mini grandfather clock ticks its slow way through the morning. A double insulated steel mug chills to the side fizzing with the just poured in Diet Coke. A wide shouldered, slightly overweight, just over six foot tall man sits. Back hunched over looking at the computer screen.
That’s me. Pel of Darkling Spire Security. It’s ok. I’m sure you’ve never heard of us. We provide discrete services to discerning clients. Discerning mostly meaning willing to pay at least in the low six figures. Don’t let the mahogany desk or wood paneling fool you. This isn’t the office of a country lawyer or a conservative think tank. What we mostly do here is protect people from being killed or very rarely protect someone by killing someone. Though the latter service is not one we generally advertise.
I’ve been doing this for twenty years. An eternity in this kind of business. Especially for a small firm. I am both the most dangerous and least dangerous person I employ. I can put boots on the ground in any country with a name and a few without in 36 hours. Every person here is a heart breaker and life taker. Even my secretary, Janice, has a body count.
I’d put my secretarial pool and the mail room boys and girls against most branches of the armed services worldwide. Where numbers were equal, that is.
I handle the contracts and the glad handing. The political situation and the personnel. And a few special projects.
One such project is sitting on my screen. The remains of a dozen or so men and women. Tortured and murdered over the last 5 years. Not in some battlefield shit hole, but in my city. Among people who should have been treasured and protected.
There’s even a little video. It’s a cross between the Saw films, Hostel, and some fucked up eastern European sex trafficking thing.
Why am I even looking at this kind of thing? Don’t I have analysts for this? Sure I do. And they are combing over this, looking for information. But there are a few rules for this kind of life.
One, Never give an order you know will not be followed.
Followed closely by Two, Never ask your people to do something you are unwilling to do.
As to why am I looking? Other than rule two, my girlfriend Tara almost fell prey to this very thing. The only reason she is alive now is their methodology. It seems that they break their prey. Making them crave what they are doing. Then they release them. Until the person comes crawling back begging to be taken back into their care. It’s a power trip and a way to torment the people they enthrall.
In that brief window, I found Tara. And failed to find even the hint of this in my preliminary background checks. Beautiful, inexperienced, and adventurous, she fell for her Masters Fetlife profile hook, line, and sinker. That’s right, she is a submissive. From what I can gather she was a Pet. Animalistic and fox in her fursona. And he seduced her and damn near broke her.
Beware of people calling themselves Master, at least without contactable references. It’s never a good sign.
I glance over to the picture of Tara cuddled up with my wife Sara. I close my eyes. The horror of these pictures. Against the thought of either of my girls in that situation… Yeah, a little exciting. But only if we talked about it and only with consent. And only Sara. Tara is far too fragile for that kind of game.
And that’s the other shoe, I fucked up pretty badly recently. Sending Tara into a full blown ptsd flashback. Sara is helping as best she can but we’re not equipped for this. And therapist that knows the lifestyle as a positive thing and sees polyamoury in a good light who are equipped to handle Ptsd and other traumas, not as plentiful as you might think.
But this, finding the ring of people doing this and shutting it down, hard? This I can do.
Pelgris 