Disclaimer: This story is not intended for anyone under the age of 18. This is purely a work of fantasy, and a work of parody fantasy at that. Dexter and all characters thereof belongs to Showtime and the showrunners. Buy their seasons on DVD, they deserve it.
SPOILERS!: This story is sort of an AU idea that takes place around the first three or four episodes of Dexter Season 7. In this reality, Dexter, who began to see the "spirit" of his brother telling him what to do for a few episodes in Season 6, never got rid of his brother and his advice, even after *SUPER MEGA SPOILER* Deb discovered Dexter's secret. If you've already seen that far into the series (you should; other than Season 6, it's a great show, and Season 7 is amazing), and that's not a spoiler for you, then read on.
Codes: MD, MC, NC -> Cons, oral, MF, FF, MFF, BDSM
Dexter: Driving Force Part 1
I'm starting to think that my Dark Passenger is becoming more of a backseat driver. And that wasn't as much of a problem when it was Harry giving me directions. But now that Brian's leading the way, the complications are piling up. And with Deb breathing down my neck, this is the worst possible time to be fighting with my dead, serial-killing older brother.
"Sorry you feel that way, Dex," Brian says. "I'm just trying to do what's best for both of us."
"The best thing for both of us is to lay low," I respond, again, explaining the obvious as though I weren't talking to myself. "If we slip up and Deb finds me holding the knife again, we could be looking at a very short life in a box."
"So you'll, what, give up killing?" Brian gets up from the bed and peers over my shoulder at the knives I'm polishing and packing away.
It's only been a few days since Deb discovered my secret, since she caught me standing with a blade in a man's belly, since she ransacked my apartment, found my slides, found my knives, found out who I really am. Now every night is the same: Come home early, send Jamie home while I sit with Harrison, then, when my son's asleep, I wallow in the darkness, pouring regretfully over memories of a life I might have to leave behind for good.
"You can't just leave it behind, Dexter," Brian insists. "It's not as simple as turning it off. You have a bloodlust in you, a need, and if you don't channel it, don't use it, then it'll come bursting out of you. You could hurt anyone. Your sister. Your son. Can you live with that on your soul?"
"Shut up," I snap. "I know all of this, I've lived with this long enough to know how it works. But Deb wants me to give it up, to cure it, and I can't think of a way to do that other than to just drop it cold turkey."
"You need another option, brother. You need to find another way. I can help you with that."
I wave him away. I just want to be alone with my memories right now. I can't deal with all of this just yet.
"Fine," he says. "Ignore me if you think that'll help. Maybe I won't tell you how to solve this after all."
"Won't tell me?" I spin around, and Brian is sulking near the closet, arms crossed. He's pacing. Or....stalking?
"Oh yes, baby brother, I know exactly the way to fix this whole thing. I can take care of your need, your sister, all of it."
"Leave Deb out of this," I growl. "I won't kill her, and nothing you say will change my mind on that."
"Who said anything about killing?"
I study my brother, but I can't figure out what he's thinking. Or what I'm thinking. Wait-
"Dexter, you think too much, and yet somehow your best ideas are always just out of your reach. But they're not out of mine. No, I've plucked a fruit from your mind that you didn't even know was growing, and I'm gonna use it to solve all of your problems, to change everything. Starting with that little bitch Debra."
"Enough!" I slam my fist on the dresser. "If you mention Deb one more time, I'll never listen to you again. And besides, you can't know anything that I don't, so you're full of shit."
I go back to polishing my knives when Brian says something I've never heard before.
"I'm sorry, Dexter."
Did he really apologize? Or was there malice there? Why can't I tell the difference?
When I turn to see his face, he's crouched in a springboard position behind me.
"What are you doing?"
Suddenly, he springs at me, grabs my throat, and I can really feel the air being constricted from my windpipe, feel the energy to fight leaving me. How is this possible? He's dead, he's not real, and yet, as his grip tightens, my arms go weak, and I start to fade out.
"Just testing a theory," Brian grunts, and I can't hold on anymore. I black out.
Where Dexter lay sleeping, Brian stood, examining his body. A little sore from the scuffle, and a little tired, but alive. Well, alive enough. Enough for what he had planned.
Watching the numbers change over on her digital clock, Deb longed for a night when she could sleep at an hour in double digits. As '1:59' became a '2:00', she knew tonight wasn't going to be the one.
It was Dexter. It was....everything. She had to admit to herself that her sleep hadn't been right in years. Really, it hadn't been good since Rudy. Or Brian. Whatever the fuck his real name was. The Ice Truck Killer. That was as real as he got. Ever since then, it had been like every shadow was a killer coming to cut her up and throw her in the ocean.
But knowing Dexter is just like him? Maybe even worse? It was just making the hours spent staring at the clock even longer. And the creaks and bumps in the night were still serial killers, were still men with dark eyes coming to get her, but she wasn't afraid of them anymore. Now she wanted them to come. She wanted whatever they had planned for her. Just to let her sleep.
Maybe that's why she didn't jump when she felt the needle pierce her neck, or the drug flowing into her bloodstream. Sure, it surprised her. But it let her sleep.
And sleep she did.
Deb awoke with a start, and immediately she felt a sense of cold deja vu.
She couldn't move her arms. Or her legs. Every time she tried, she heard squeaking and rustling, like plastic wrap wound tight over her naked body.
Holy shit, she realized. She was naked.
And strapped down. It was all happening again. Just like Rudy. Just like-
"Dexter?" she choked weakly, fearing the answer.
Had he decided to get rid of her? Did digging up his secret finally drive him over the edge, make him want her dead?
Then she heard them: Footsteps. Coming closer. She couldn't see him. Couldn't see anything. It was pitch dark.
"Help!" she screamed. "Somebody help me! Hel-"
A hand over her mouth muffled her cries.
"Shhhhh," came a deep voice startlingly close to her ear. She felt hot breath on her lobes as he spoke. "No need to scream just yet. I haven't even started."
He uncovered her mouth, and she couldn't help herself. She began to sob.
"Dexter!" she wailed. "Why are you doing this? Please, just stop!"
"Dexter's asleep," the voice told her. It was a thrumming, deep voice. She knew that voice. She knew it was her brother. "And you don't even know what I'm doing just yet. Trust me, when this is all over, you'll thank me."
"What are you talking about- Ah!"
A sharp pain stabbed into her right breast, piercing through the plastic and finding its way into her nipple.
"Dexter, what the fuck?"
"I told you, Dexter's sleeping." The voice was somewhere to her left now, in the dark void of the night. "And I don't like your tone. If you want me to answer you, you've got to say 'Please.'"
"What was that, what the fuck did you just do to me?!"
"Say please," he hissed, and she felt another prick, in her left breast this time. She yelped in pain. Were these needles? Was he injecting her with something?
She felt something between her legs. She gasped; her legs had been tied so tightly, she hadn't noticed their position. They weren't wrapped together like last time. They were spread out, and elevated, like she was in stirrups. This must be a gynecologist's table, she realized. And in her naked state, she felt cold air over her open holes.
This wasn't like last time. And that scared her.
"P-please," she sputtered. "What are you doing? Please tell me."
"That's so much better, Debra! You're starting to sound more polite already."
She knew where he was standing now, knew he was right where she feared he would be, over her private areas. She had to keep him talking, so she could figure out a way to stop him from doing something awful.
"Yes, fine, please, just tell me what's going on," she pleaded.
His voice was so callous and deep that it rumbled in her stomach when he spoke. Being so near her womanhood didn't help to settle the feeling.
"Well, Deb, since you've asked so nicely, I'll let you in on what's going on here. But first...."
Deb gasped. A hand was parting her folds. 'Oh god,' she thought, 'not this. Anything but this.' And then, another sharp jab. Right into her clit.
"Yeah, that one's gonna smart a bit. I should have said something. Oops. Now, where were we? Oh yes. The plan."
She was just coming down from the excruciating pain of having her clitoris injected when she felt a pressure on her anus. He was feeling around for something. She'd never felt so violated in her life.
"Oh, don't be so embarrassed," he said. "I cleaned you up down here. You're as fresh as you've ever been in your life. I know it's important to a woman to be well-groomed and presentable down there for her man."
"Fuck you!" she spat, but her indignation was cut off by another injection, right into her rosebud. "FUCK! MOTHER FUCKER!"
"Alright, alright, that's it, let it out. Don't worry, that part's over. That's probably the worst part of the whole procedure. I would have done it while you were still asleep, but I'm afraid you woke up a little too soon."
"Please!" she screamed. "Please stop this, whatever this is!"
"Now, Debra, let's not get dramatic. There's just one more thing to do and then we can get started."
She heard clinking, metal on glass, like a surgeon feeling around for his tools.
"Okay, here we go. You asked what I'm doing, and I'll tell you, if only because you knowing what's coming won't change a thing."
Suddenly, the veil of darkness started to lift. A dim light began to fade up over Deb's body. It was right on top of her, so she couldn't see much around her, and her head was strapped down so she couldn't really look down much, but she could see her feet, elevated like she'd suspected, and she could see the reflection of white off her pale skin.
"There. That'll make this next part easier. For me, at least."
A hand. A needle. That's all she could see. The syringe was filled with something blue, something she didn't know, and as his hand came towards her, she could swear she saw her face in its surface. It was afraid. She was afraid.
"What is that?" she demanded.
"Do you remember the Brennan case?" he asked.
"Brenan? The- the white slaver?"
"Exactly. Nathan Brennan was a sadistic slave trader, picking up stray girls off the streets of Miami, breaking them, and selling them onto the black market. And you saw the brutal conditions he left behind, the way girls lived like animals, and you knew that he was keeping them against their will."
Deb remembered the case well. It had obsessed her. She'd tried everything to get that fucker sent away for life.
"But," she remembered, "but he got away with it."
"Legally, yes," he confirmed. "None of the girls would testify against him, and all the blood work and toxicology came back clean in their systems, so for all intents and purposes, he was able to claim that he was just running a brothel and that the girls were living there voluntarily. With his wealth, he got an attorney who was able to get his sentence reduced to a fine and some time under house arrest, while most of the girls got locked up for prostitution."
"So what?" Deb asked. "What does that have to do with-"
"Shhhh, Deb, you talk too much. Do you always yammer on so much? Even during sex?"
"Fuck you, you sick piece of shit!" she shouted.
He laughed. He actually laughed.
"Yeah, I knew it. Good to know. Well, as I was saying, Nathan Brennan got to walk. And you could never figure out how he'd gotten those girls to take the fall for him, and why they'd said in court that he was practically a saint, never beat them or threatened them or anything. You never understood. But I did."
"Well, The blood work might have been a little more interesting than I told you. See, you found the girls he was selling, but I knew that a monster like Brennan wouldn't just have a stable of broken girls in a hole he could control. Some people just don't break like that. So I searched through his methodology, and found two things: One, this-" he pointed to the syringe, out of which he was flicking the air bubbles, "little concoction, which is how he broke the girls he sold. And two, I found what he did with the girls that wouldn't break."
He brought the syringe closer and closer to Deb's face. She struggled desperately, pulling every way she could on her bonds, to no avail.
"His other secret, his greater darkness, was a crypt. It was hidden under a factory his brother owned, a hidden service hatch leading down to a muddy underground tunnel, where the bodies of his throwaways would be washed into a rocky part of the ocean where people rarely went...but where sharks were oddly common. He was a killer, and an efficient one at that. So I took everything from him. I took his life. I took his money. And I took his supply of this."
"Wh-what is it?"
"This drug is a strange, biochemically engineered marvel. You see, it was designed specifically by slave rings for slave rings, and only the top earners got to even know of its existence. It's highly potent, works almost instantly, and offers a number of nifty features. It heightens all five senses to almost superhuman levels for the first few hours after injection. Then, when it wears off, anything that was touched while it was running through their system will feel pleasant and tingly. Well, until withdrawal sets in, then it will get kind of numb. But that's just the physical part. The beauty of this drug is its different levels. On the physical level, it spreads quickly, settling particularly in areas with targeted receptors, little particles that act like magnets. Receptors like the ones I just injected into your sensitive areas."
"But that's nothing. While the drug is making your body feel in ways it's never felt before, it soaks into the brain, suppressing fight or flight responses, messing with some higher brain functions, reducing anxiety, and opening the mind to new...associations. Like Pavlovian responses, when it's done with your body and mind, certain feelings, words, faces, they'll trigger...well, whatever your brain is programmed to feel. That's how Brennan did what he did; he changed the women from the inside, made them respond how he wanted them to respond, and supplied them with as much of this drug as they could handle. It's pretty addictive, but apparently its damage is permanent. One injection should be enough to change you for good, but a lifetime supply of it...say, the amount that I swiped from Brennan...should make you a whole new person."
"Dexter, Jesus Christ, don't do this, this is crazy!"
Deb didn't know if what he was saying was true. It sounded completely insane, or at the very least he could have been exaggerating or trying to scare her, but something about his tone, the way he was so casual about what he was telling her, made it sound so real and so horrific. If he could say or do those things to her, maybe he really was the monster she'd feared.
He pushed a finger into her forehead.
"How many times do I have to say it before you get it into your thick skull, Debra? I'm not Dexter. But I'm doing this for him. Well, a little bit for me too."
He leaned down over her face, and she saw him: Red hair, strong cheek bones, piercing eyes. It was the face of her brother, she knew it, but something was off, something in his eyes was different.
"Hi honey," he said. "Sorry I didn't make it to our wedding, but I think I've found just the way to make it up to you."
Deb's eyes went wide. "Rudy?"
Before she could scream, the needle sank into her neck. He pressed the plunger down, and right away, she could feel something, a warmth, a tickle of heat spreading through her throat, moving, traveling down, into her heaving chest, her breathing quickened, her heart pounding with fear, but it was also traveling up, up into her head, and though she was tethered down by the strap across her forehead, she suddenly was feeling very light, very spacey. She knew something was happening to her, but as her thoughts of escape got quieter in her head, so did her feelings of terror. Her heart rate slowed down briefly, and it was almost as though she were truly at peace.
'Am I dead?' she thought. 'Am I floating up to Heaven?'
Dexter's face got closer to hers and smiled.
"It's Brian, actually. But you'll be calling me Master soon enough."
Jamie Batista was worried.
Normally, Dexter checked in when he was out late. And it usually wasn't a problem; sometimes he was out so late she slept over. But he always let her know.
And he'd never been gone this long without calling.
It was the second night straight that he hadn't come home. He'd called for her to come over the night before, and then she heard nothing, not that night, not the next morning, or at all during the day. Thankfully Harrison had preschool for most of the daylight, but now that dark was setting, she was thinking about something her brother Angel had said.
"Keep an eye out for Deb too," he'd told her. "Same story; no one's heard from her all day, and she's not at home. And Deb's not the type to just ditch out and not tell anyone, so if they're on vacation or something, we should have heard about it."
Jamie had to agree, and now that Harrison was asleep (he'd been asking for his daddy all day, but she had to lie and tell him daddy would be home by morning), she couldn't shake the feeling that she was forgetting something.
"Oh!" she exclaimed quietly in the living room of Dexter's apartment.
She rushed over to Dexter's laptop. He usually hated it when anyone touched his things, but this was an emergency. She pulled up the program Dexter had installed and showed her: "SafeTrack." It connected with the GPS in his cell phone and in his car and showed approximately where he might be at a given time. She was only supposed to use it in case something happened to Harrison, like the car got stolen with him inside, but now she needed to find Dexter, for the sake of his son.
The GPS coordinates were just numbers to her, they didn't mean anything, but when she pulled up the map, it seemed strange. It looked like both he and his car were in the middle of an old industrial park. She knew the place, sort of. She'd driven by it many times when she lived on the less desirable part of town. It was all abandoned warehouses and rusted out factories, all fenced off.
If Dexter was there, he might be in some kind of trouble, she surmised. She picked up her phone to call Angel, but then she remembered: His daughter was visiting tonight, and he wanted to have a quiet night in with her. With Deb gone and Angel busy, she didn't know anyone at their department who could help. Qunn was probably blackout drunk somewhere. Masuka was a lab geek. La Guerta and Jamie weren't on speaking terms since her and Angel got divorced. And if she just called it in, she was pretty sure that low-jacking her boss was illegal, someone would be asking questions. She couldn't afford to waste time explaining how she knew where her boss was.
Jamie bit her lip nervously. If she left and something happened to Harrison, Dexter would probably kill her. But then, if Dexter was dead, then Harrison would need someone to take care of him, and that should be Deb. With Deb gone too, that left either Jamie or Harrison's grandparents, who lived too far away to help now, in the middle of the night.
She looked back at the map. It wasn't that far a drive, maybe fifteen minutes from Dexter's place. She could go, see if his car is where the GPS said it was, and call the police if something looked amiss. 'Who knows,' she reasoned, 'maybe there's a perfectly normal explanation for why he's there, something I can't think of.'
She grabbed the keys to her little blue Honda and carefully slipped out the door. After stopping at Dexter's neighbors' place (an older couple that was hard of hearing but very sweet to Harrison on the rare occasions they popped their heads outside) to leave a spare key and some emergency contact information, she sped off into the night, in search of her missing boss, hopeful he wouldn't be too hard on her when he found out she'd left Harrison alone.
Deb was in no position to fight, but damned if she was going to stop trying. But, somehow, her fight wasn't like fighting was supposed to feel, she knew it; every time she had an urge to break free or try to attack her tormentor, it went away as quickly as it came, like she was checking off a list in her head of things she wouldn't do.
"That's it, Deb, cum one more time from my touch, aaaaaaand, now!"
Strapped down as it was, Deb's body could only buck so much, but her muscles still twitched like mad, and she felt it all, from the inside, as though her skeleton was trying to escape, and a rolling wave of wet joy rained onto her from head to toe. A distant voice cursed her brother for doing this to her, but a much louder voice was telling her how much she loved his touch, how he could make her cum just by putting his hands on her.
No, not her brother. Brian. She had such a hard time accepting it at first, that it was really him, and though she knew it was impossible, and though he looked like Dexter in every way, the way he talked and acted was so much like Brian, and when he started torturing her (if she could call it that), she couldn't bring herself to think of Dexter's hands doing these things to her. So she pretended, like he pretended, that it was Brian, her ex-fiance, the Ice Truck Killer.
"Tell me what you learned from that, my dear," Brian commanded.
Her voice was automatic, like there was a recording of herself and she was just pressing 'Play.'
"I learned that I love your touch, that you can make me cum just by laying your fingers on my body," she said.
He put his face up to hers and smiled, and, like she'd been trained to do, she smiled back. It was getting to the point where it didn't matter whether she meant it or not. Or whether she knew what it meant to mean it or not anymore. It just was. It was what she did. It was her.
She was on her second cycle of the drug now. The first had been a struggle. He was right that the injection suppressed her will to fight and reduced her anxiety, but the logical part of her brain was still telling her that she should keep acting fearful, should keep acting like she was fighting, because that's what she was supposed to do. Her training as a detective had left the rational part of her brain stronger than normal, he'd said. Hers would be a tough nut to crack, he'd said.
But he'd said it with such a sinister grin on his face that she knew it was exactly what he'd wanted.
"My oh my, Deb," Brian sighed. "And here I thought you were trying to play difficult. But it seems like you really are an obedient little toy, once that angry scowl gets wiped off your face. Repeat: You are a toy for me to use."
"I am a toy for you to use," Deb droned. And just like that, it was true. He proved it just by making her say it.
The first session had been all about automatic responses and obedience. He'd explained how connections were made in her brain, the way that her synapses fired in sync and created little bridges between ideas and actions. The first bridge he built was between her speech and her understanding of the truth. It wasn't hard for him to do this, he said. He just needed to trick her thinking.
He spent about half an hour abusing her to make it so she couldn't lie to him, making her quiver in blissful pleasure when she said something true and making her quake in agony when she said something false. After a while he didn't even need to touch her; like a mouse in a lab, she associated lying to Brian with pain, and the truth with pleasure.
The drug was a gift from God, she thought. She tried to think of it as something evil, but she couldn't. Everything was magical when she was on the drug; the dim light over her head was like pure sun. The potpourri he'd set next to her table was mingled with the scents of her own arousal, and it left her thinking of her pussy like a sweet-smelling flower. When she was really really good, he put drops of strawberry water on her tongue, and it was pure ambrosia. She almost came just from the taste. Their voices echoed from every wall. But when he talked to her, just idly talking, he had fingered her, and now the sound of his voice made her wet.
Touch was the greatest of all. Though her pert breasts were trapped in a thick layer of plastic, the body heat trapped by her bonds kept them constantly burning. Her pussy was an endless pleasure center; even when he tried to hurt her there, by slapping or pinching or flicking or whatever other horrible torment he could come up with, it still sent her soaring. Even the sharp pressure in her asshole when he slid a finger into her was divine. Her every cell was vibrating at a higher level than she'd ever dreamt possible.
"It's time to play a bit with your feelings towards me," Brian said.
The briefest flash of fear spiked in the back of her mind, but it didn't last long enough for her to do anything. She just lay there, accepting, waiting for his next trick.
"Repeat after me-"
When he'd made it so she couldn't tell lies, he moved on. Now, if he told her to say something, she had to say it. The same torture was used: Pain if she defied him, pleasure if she said what he told her. He kept commanding her to repeat things she knew were true while her ever-weakening thoughts blurred further with the jarring physical reactions until it became impossible for her not to say whatever he told her to say.
"You love me."
"I love you."
After that, it was a simple matter of rearranging her logic. Now, because she said what he told her to say, and she couldn't lie to him, then whatever he told her to say must be the truth. It wasn't perfect; with really hard ideas, she had to repeat it a few times before she accepted it. That's why he was still running little experiments on her like the touch test; he didn't just tell her his touch was enough to make her cum, he showed her, and so when she said it, there was no hesitation.
"You've always loved me."
"I've always loved you."
This was how he was remaking her, he'd said. By making her remake herself. It was ingenious, he'd told her, and he'd made her say it, so she knew it was true.
"Loving someone means you want them to be happy."
"Loving someone means I want them to be happy."
What was most frustrating to Deb wasn't that these thoughts were invading her mind, but that these were her truths now, and they were getting in the way of her anger. She felt like someone who believed one thing for her entire life, and then someone came along and proved her wrong, and now she had to re-think her entire belief system. Every new truth was inconvenient, because it meant that everything she knew before was less and less correct, and she always hated being wrong.
"You love me, and you want me to be happy."
"I love you, and I want you-"
He stared into her eyes. She was blinking rapidly, her mind fighting the idea of wishing happiness on a man she knew was torturing her.
"You want me to be happy."
He put his face up to hers and smiled. It was another trigger. His smile made her feel good, instinctively. It was the physical manifestation of the idea he was trying to plant into her right now. And if he could break through this wall, the rest would fall into place. She smiled back, without meaning to.
"See?" he said. "When I'm happy, you're happy. And you want to be happy. So you must want me to be happy. Just say it, you know it's true."
She paused for a moment, trying to pull from the clouds in her mind any thought that might disprove what he was saying to her. But nothing was coming. She searched and searched, and all she came up with was what he'd told her.
"I....want you to be happy."
"You want me to be happy."
"I want you to be happy."
"You want me to be happy."
"I want you to be happy."
He smiled again, and she smiled back again, but this time she felt a burst of bright sunshine in her heart when she did. He was happy. She wanted that. It made her happy to see him happy. He was so right.
His hand stroked its way down her body, and with her heightened senses, it was almost overpowering, her need, her desire. Her pussy was soaked, she could feel it in the chill air. And when he was touching her like this, her whole body was a clit. The glide of his hand was bringing her closer and closer to the edge of another rattling climax.
"Keep repeating, Debra, you're doing very well."
If her head weren't tied in place, she would have nodded.
"You want to make me happy."
"I want-oooh-I want to make you happy."
It was so hard to talk when he was doing that to her. His hand was moving so slowly, downwards, down to where it would do the most good.
"Making me happy makes you happy."
"Making you happy, AH! Making you happy makes me happy!"
"When you do what I tell you, it makes me happy."
"When...when I do what you tell me, it (FUCK!), it makes you happy."
"When you do what I tell you, it makes you happy."
"Yes! When I do what you tell me, it makes me happy!"
"You want to do what I tell you."
"I want to do what you tell me!"
"You love to obey me."
"I LOVE IT! I love to obey you! Oh god!"
At once, his hand reached her honeypot, and with a sly twist of his fingers, he slid a digit into her dripping sex. That was all it took. In her supercharged arousal, with bliss tied to his fingertips, she came, screaming out in joy while what parts of her mind were able to think through the explosions of sexual ecstasy were focused on obedience, on doing as she was told, so she would forever associate obeying his commands with sexual gratification.
When she came down from her sexual high, barely awake from the exhaustion of so many orgams in one day, he patted her cheek, and she opened her eyes to see his finger in her face, the finger he'd just used to enter her, soaked and glistening with her juices.
"Suck my finger," he commanded, and put it to her lips.
She wasn't able to move her head, but she didn't hesitate to part her lips and let his appendage, drenched with the flavors of her body, into her mouth. She tasted herself, and in the heat of the drug, it was incredible. She'd had sexual experiences with women before, certainly, and she didn't despise the taste of womanhood, but to taste herself, like this, was unbelievable. Long after the flavor had soaked into her tongue and vanished, replaced by the tactile sensations of his knuckle on the roof of her mouth, she kept sucking, because he'd told her to, and it made her happy. She loved it.
She couldn't even conceive of hurting him, of biting his finger off and spitting it in his face, like she might have done just hours before. He'd finally given her truth that didn't make her feel wrong. Quite the opposite; everything else made more sense now. She was eager to please him, because it would please her right back.
The warehouses were rusty and clearly unsafe. Graffiti on every wall made it plain that this area was not in control of any law enforcement or government office. This area belonged to the gangs, and even if the buildings still looked decrepit and abandoned, there was still an uneasy feeling of occupation. Like ghosts walked the alleys between the buildings.
Jamie knew she shouldn't be here, that she was a prime target; she was young and attractive, the sister of a cop (what thug wouldn't want to get their hands on a cop's family?), and she was getting increasingly lost with each passing minute.
Everything just seemed to blur together out here. The lights on the sides of the buildings were a blessing and a curse, because for every well-lit corner of the industrial park, there was a pocket in equally heavy darkness. Worst were the flickering lights, the ones just barely holding on, which cast strobe shadows and disoriented her with every step.
"What the fuck am I doing?" she cursed at herself. If she'd been thinking straight, she would have just called dispatch and told her where she thought Dexter might be. But no, she had to rush out and see for herself.
Maybe it was because of the crush she'd had on Dexter for months now. It was impossible not to feel it; he was muscular, strong, intelligent, and a good father. She saw him, and something inside of her screamed, 'VIRILE MALE! DO HIM NOW!' She'd quelled the voice inside her for a long time now, but it was starting to consume her thoughts. Maybe some sick, sad part of her thought that if he was in danger, and she saved him, he'd fall in love with her.
Her mind reeled with how pathetic the notion was.
She rounded yet another weird corner in the twisted maze of all these buildings (it was a grid, she thought, but in the night light it just made her feel like she was wandering in circles, lost in the woods). She came upon yet another dark passage. But something was different. She switched on her pocket flashlight, and she saw it: An SUV. Familiar plates. She crept closer, and sure enough, it was Dexter's.
She quickly examined the exterior of the car, looking for any signs of damage or distress. Nothing.
Jamie was peeking into the passenger side of Dexter's car when a piercing cry rang out from a fairly near distance. It was a woman's scream, and as Jamie's heart pounded in fear, her natural instinct to help others was searching for the source of the voice. She ran the light along the wall of the metal warehouse to her left. Long blue walls with no entry until...a door!
She darted for the entrance, not caring for the danger, just hoping her boss was okay.
Deb had been called a slut before. And though she hated to admit it about herself, she did have a fairly long history of men who'd lined up to be with her, and she'd bedded many of them. It's not that she was especially easy, or that she didn't think of sex as a big deal. In fact, she wouldn't have sex with a guy unless she loved him. It was just that she fell in love a lot, and it never seemed to work out.
But now she was starting to believe that she really was a slut after all.
"Oh FUCK!" she screamed. "I'm a slut! I'm a slut!"
It was Dexter's cock. She'd been in denial a long time, and maybe he was too, since he kept telling her that he was Brian, but there was no denying it anymore; his muscular body, even under his green shirt and the pants half-slid down his thighs, was her brother's, and that body was attached to his thick cock, which was pushing in and out of her dripping slit with undeniable power.
"You love being a slut," he told her.
"I love being a slut!" she repeated.
She'd been coming down from the second cycle of the drug, the cycle when she'd learned just how much she loved her brother, just how much she wanted to make him happy, despite what he was doing to her (or maybe because of it). The incredible sensations were dulling to happy little bubbling feelings of humming lust, less a soaring symphony of touch and more of a warm hug on every sensitive place of her body where Dexter had touched her. But he'd wanted to keep going, wanted to finish what he'd started. The more tired she was, he'd said, the easier she'd be to break. And she wanted to be broken. He'd said that she wanted to be broken, and she'd said it back, and it was true.
He slammed his cock to the hilt, and the slapping of their thighs so roughly made her shriek.
"You'll do anything for cock," he grunted.
"Anything!" she replied.
"Say it!" he growled.
"I'll do anything for cock!"
He went back to fucking her, and her overloaded mind burst again as she came.
"You'll do anything for my cock," he continued
"Unnnnnggghhhhhh, I will, I'll do anything for your cock!"
"You'll do anything for me."
"*Pant* I'll do anything *pant* for you!"
When he'd first pressed his cock up against her womanhood, she was so blissed out on the drug she couldn't do anything but moan. He'd filled her up with ideas, told her things, but the only thing that mattered was the feeling of his head on her wet hole. She'd all but forgotten the fear, the terror that had gripped her when he'd injected her clit, when she'd feared that he was going to rape her. Not rape now, she realized. She loved it. She'd do anything for his cock. She was a slut.
"My cock controls you."
She was enraptured by the feeling of pressure building as he pounded into her, her legs splayed in the stirrups of the old chair, her limbs still bound, though she wished she were free, wished she could pull him in closer, could squeeze her meager tits and dig her nails into-
He slapped her face and broke her out of her reverie. The ache was unbearable, and she cried involuntarily.
"My cock controls you!'
"Your cock controls me!"
"I control you!'
"You...you control me. You control me!"
"You're a slut."
"I'm a SLUT!"
"You're MY slut."
"I'm your slut! All yours!"
He reached up and fondled her chest as best he could through the thick layers of plastic wrap. She cooed happily. So slutty, she thought. So happy and slutty.
"You belong to my cock."
"I, I do, I belong to your coooock!"
"You belong to me."
"I belong to you!"
"I'm yours! I'm so yours!"
"You're a slave!"
He sped up his thrusts and pressed his thumb on her swollen clit.
"You are a slave," he said commandingly.
Still she hesitated. He slapped her again.
"You are a slut," he explained. "You belong to me. I control you. You are mine. You are a slave."
She slurred her words, rolling them around, feeling them out. "I...am a...sssslave?"
He circled a finger around her clit tenderly as a reward. She moaned.
"Say it again."
"I am a slave."
He jostled her love button up and down, playing with her, making her squirm in her bonds while he continued to fuck her hot cunt.
"You are a slave."
"I am a slave!"
"You are my slave."
"Yours. I am....I am your slave!"
"Repeat it until it sinks in."
He gripped her hips and drove himself into her. He felt his own orgasm building, but he had to make this last, had to hold out long enough to see this through to the end.
"I am your slave, I- OH! I am your slave! Fuuuuuuck, I am your slave, I am your slave, YES! YESSSS! I AM YOUR SLAVE!"
He had to slow his thrusts, to salvage his efforts lest he lose control. He could see in her glazed eyes that she wasn't fighting what she was saying anymore. It was time for the last step.
"You are my slave, and I am your Master."
"I am your slave. And you...are my Master?"
"Yes, Deb," he said with a smile, which made her smile. "Your Master. I control you. I own you. You will call me Master when I tell you to, because that is what I am, forever. Do you understand?"
She shuddered, and the last of herself fell away into what he'd made of her. "Yes," she said finally. "I understand."
"Yes what?" he said.
"Say it again."
"I own you."
"You own me."
"You are my slave."
"I am your slave."
"Being my slave makes you happy."
"Being your slave makes me happy."
"You love being my slave."
"I love being your slave!"
"You love your Master."
"I love my Master!"
He was going to cum soon, he knew it. The time was at hand. His mission was complete. It was time to celebrate.
He slid his cock out of her, slowly, delicately, and, needy slut that she now was, she moaned in dismay when he pulled free from her. He decided to toy with her.
"You want my cum?" he asked.
"YES!" she practically screamed. "Please!"
"You sure you don't want me to, I don't know, spill it on the floor?"
"Nooooo!" she wailed. "No, god, please, just, DON'T!"
"STOP RIGHT THERE!"
Dexter wheeled around, and if Deb weren't strapped tightly to the table, she would have too. An angry woman's voice called out from the darkness.
"Who's there?" Deb yelled, distraught that her gift was being denied by this intruder.
Jamie Batista stepped out of the shadows into the dim light hanging over the coupling. She'd walked in just in time to hear Deb's agonized moans, her cries of "No! No!" and she'd run into this secluded room off the main floor of the abandoned warehouse to find Deb, naked, strapped monstrously to a strange chair, naked, her legs in the air, and Dexter, a vicious look on his face, hovering next to a table full of syringes and strange surgical instruments with his cock out. She'd put what pieces she had together, and assumed (not entirely incorrectly) that Dexter had kidnapped Deb and was torturing and raping her in some weird game.
So she did the only thing she could: She pulled out her taser, the only weapon she had, and held it straight out, aimed right for Dexter, in case he tried anything sudden.
"Let her go!" Jamie cried.
Dexter put up his hands. "Jamie, you shouldn't be here," he said with a strange calmness. "You should be watching Harrison."
"Don't you fucking talk about Harrison at a time like this," she snapped. "I don't want to hear another word out of you, just fucking let her go!"
Dexter sighed. With a shake of his head, he unsnapped the restraints around Deb's legs, which she flexed with some difficulty, blood rush and early onset of atrophy making them weak and tender. He took a scalpel and cut the plastic holding her head, then the plastic holding her torso. Soon enough, she was free, free from the tortuous bondage that had kept her like a prisoner for a full day and a half.
As he turned to back away from her, she felt something drop into her palm. At first Deb wasn't sure if he'd dropped something or handed it to her, but as she felt around and realized what it was, she knew what it meant.
Jamie slowly, cautiously walked to Deb's bedside, never letting her eyes, or her weapon, off of Dexter. If he tried anything, she'd be ready to strike.
"You know, Jamie," he said casually. "I wish you wouldn't do this. This makes me very unhappy. And I think you'll find you want me to be happy."
She sneered at him in disgust. "You're fucking sick, you know that? I'm calling the cops and you better hope they never catch you, because if they do, they'll make you damned sorry."
She reached Deb and let one arm wrap around her, pulling her in to help her out of the chair. She had pulled her all the way to standing, preparing to help walk her out, when she felt the pinch in her neck.
"No," Deb whispered. "You're the one who should be sorry."
Jamie blacked out and fell into a heap.
Deb looked up at Dexter, syringe hanging loosely in her fingers.
"Did I make you happy, Master?" she asked meekly, more meekly than he'd ever heard her say anything.
He just smiled. She smiled back. It made her happy to make him happy.
I feel like I'm drowning, and though I know it's a dream, I just can't seem to get out of it, can't find my way to shore. A dark wave comes over me. There is no way to escape. I know it's coming. So I sink deeper into the dark waters, and it crashes down on my head.
I awake with a start. Sitting up, heaving with labored breaths, I can feel my muscles aching, throbbing, like I've been doing hard labor for days and have just now gotten rest from it.
Something is nagging at the back of my head, but it's too far to grasp. Did something happen while I was asleep?
I stretch and climb out of bed at last, certain that something is off, though I can't place it. I chance a look at the clock. 11 AM....on Thursday?! I remember going to bed Sunday night and-
No, I didn't go to bed. Something else....
A voice in the living room. Is that Deb? Or Harrison? What has my brother done now?
I bolt for the other side of the apartment, fling open the door and find...nothing. Harrison should be at school now, back in a couple hours. If he's gone, that means Jamie must be gone too. She always drops him off and goes home by now.
The living room. Oh god, what's going on?
I'm running for the voice when suddenly, Brian blocks my path.
"Hold up, brother!" he implores.
"Brian, move, something's happening."
He won't let me around him. I can't move through him like I normally would. This is too weird, even for me.
"Listen, I have to explain," he starts, and no matter how hard I try, I can't get him to stop.
"Explain what?" I shout.
"Hey, relax. I've fixed it!"
Our argument. Deb! Did he kill her? No. Couldn't have. Somehow, I don't remember much, but I know she's not dead. What then?
"You were worried about your bloodlust, about controlling your urges, right? You wanted to stop, for Deb's sake. I hated to see you so mixed up and upset. So I fixed it."
I can't read what he's thinking. I mean, what I'm thinking. What is happening to me?
"You...you choked me," I stammer.
Brian holds up his hands. I don't mean to flinch, but I do. "Sorry about that. I had to see if it could be done! And you wouldn't do it, so I had to take over for a while."
Brian. My Dark Passenger. If he can suddenly take me over like that, who knows what he could have done while I was out?
His voice is so reassuring it almost makes me forget that it's my own voice, a sound in my head, calming me down: "I solved everything for us, brother. Deb, the killing, all of it."
"HOW?!" I snap. There are more cries from the living room. And...strange noises, something I can't place.
"How do you cure an addiction? The easiest way is to replace it with something else. A smoker might become addicted to gum to ease their habit. A gambler or a drug addict might become an alcoholic or an overeater, anything to give them the same rush without the same danger. So that's what I did, Dexter. I gave you something else to sate your urges. Something better."
Wait. I understand what he's saying. It makes sense. Why does it make sense? Hazy images are coming into focus. I did something. What did I do?
The noises from the living room are too much. If I did something like what I'm suddenly starting to remember, I dread what's waiting for me there.
Brian finally steps aside. "See for yourself, brother."
I can't run. I'm too terrified of what I'll find. Instead it's like I'm pulled, like I'm floating. I finally round the corner into the living room, and there, on the couch, is Debra. And she's...naked.
But she's not alone.
Kneeling on the floor in front of her, in between her legs, is a caramel-skinned beauty, long black hair draped delicately over a tight back and a taut ass, kneeling, toes wriggling out from under her like they're waving hello at me while I watch.
Deb sees me and grins that wide toothy smile of hers. "Hi, Master!" she chirps.
Jamie turns, and her own smile is graced by the slick juices on her cheeks. "Morning, Master!"
It all comes back to me, all at once, the dark wave crashing down on my head. I turned my sister and my nanny into my slaves. I tormented and abused them, raped them, twisted their minds until they loved me, worshipped me. I made my own sister into my toy, and then gave her a toy of her own, Jamie, Deb's slave, my slave's slave.
Brian's hand is on my shoulder, and it's like I can feel it, weighty, like it's all too real. "You see, Dexter?" he said. "I took your bloodlust away and left behind just plain lust. Now, instead of killing hapless criminals, you can take out your frustrations on your personal little fuckdolls. And if things get really, really bad, you've got plenty of the drug left over. You can always do it all over again! Strap them down like you used to, but instead of driving a knife into them, you can drive your cock, and instead of red spurts and blood slides, you can make do with hot cum and the taste of your conquests. Aren't you happy, Dexter? Don't you want my gift?"
My mind reels. It's true, it's all true. I did this. I let my Dark Passenger become the driver, and with my hands, he did this. I'm so horrified I could scream.
But then it hits me: I didn't kill anyone. Deb and Jamie aren't the same people they were, but they're alive. And they're happy. I made them happy. It's sick, but is it really more sick than cutting up the bodies of my victims and dumping them in the ocean? Is Brian right: Does this fix everything?
"Thank you," I whisper, because I mean it, because it means I can finally control my urges, because everything was falling apart and now my Dark Passenger pieced it back together.
I feel a sloppy warmth on my groin, and I realize that Deb crawled to me, and as she pulls my cock free and sucks it into her loving mouth, I groan. I remember her training. Before the third wave of the drug wore off, I trained her to love my cum more than anything, more than any other taste in the world, made her desperate for it, always.
She uses that yearning need in her expert ministrations, teasing me first to get me hard and then sucking me deep, down into her throat. Jamie, meanwhile, is still servicing her Mistress; she's on all fours behind Deb, my sister's ass cheeks spread far apart so the young latina can stick her tongue into her asshole.
I've broken them and remade them into my sluts so completely that nothing could ever change them back, and the thought of that brings me to the edge quickly. Deb feels my balls tighten as she strokes them, and her training kicks in.
Pulling off my with a soft pop, her big glassy eyes gaze up at me innocently. "Master, may I please have your cum?"
I barely nod, and it's all she needs. She sucks me in with abandon, pulls me deep into her throat, and I can't take it. I spurt a load in her gullet built up after days of teasing and training. It's so much that she can barely handle it, no matter how fast she tries to drink of me. A little bit of white liquid spills out of the side of her mouth, and, as if she'd smelled it, Jamie is at her face, looking up at me.
"Master," Jamie asks, "may I have some cum too?"
I smirk. "You may, slave."
She squeaks with joy. She runs a long flat tongue up the side of Deb's face, collecting the runoff of my seed and, when I've finished spasming, Deb turns and lets her slave probe her mouth for a leftover taste of my semen. The sight is pure eroticism, lust at its finest. I feel a peace fall over me, not unlike what I felt when killing, but cleaner, less marred by guilt.
My mind has been honed to think through problems in steps, and even as I come down from blowing my load, I think through what will have to happen now. Deb and Jamie are spoiled; if they were able to return to their daily lives without every day sinking into an unabated wet, squishy madness, there would still be signs, clues that might lead keen detectives, like the ones Deb and I work with at Miami Metro, to see that something is definitely different about them. They can't go back now.
I can't either. This is the turning point. I don't want to let go of this power, and I don't think I could. So what to do? We have to leave. I've got my getaway bag, my money, my fake IDs and passports. I can easily get new ones made for Deb and Jamie.
And Harrison. I'll have to bring my son with us. Especially now that his nanny is going to be living with us full-time. It'll be tricky getting him to understand what's going on, to not give us away. But he's my son. Maybe I can raise him to accept what I've done. Maybe I can even convince him to join me. Carry on the tradition. Who knows? Maybe I can get him slaves of his own when he's old enough.
Money? We'll run out eventually. But then, I've made two insatiable, hot-bodied sluts with a need to be controlled. I'm sure I can think of a few ways to make up the cash.
By the time I look back at my slaves, they're in a full 69 on the floor, and Deb, always the top, is wriggling her ass as she's eaten out from below. Her hot pink bleached rosebud is so inviting.
Running will have to wait. I look up to see Brian give me a nod, and then vanish. My Dark Passenger is in control now.
No, I realize as I drive myself into Deb's hearty backside. Not my Dark Passenger. Me. I'm in control. And now that I'm in the driver's seat, I can't wait to see how far I can go.