Quod Me Nutrit Me Destruit: That Which Destroys Me with The Alternate Ending

  That Which Destroys Me:

  The Alternate Ending

  Quod Me Nutrit Me Destruit Copyright © 2014 Kimber S. Dawn

  Published by Kimber S. Dawn

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: Kimber S. Dawn: 2014 authorkimbersdawn@gmail.com

  Cover Designed by Kimber S. Dawn with images purchased and owned by Kimber S. Dawn from Shutterstock

  ***This is a story of perseverance, trying to overcome the transgressions that others inflict on you, it’s a story of love gone wrong and obsession gone mad. This book contains explicit descriptions of violence and sex, obscene language, torture, rape, assault, none of which is limited to persons over the age of consent. This book is intended for MATURE AUDIENCE MEMBERS ONLY, and NOT intended for the weak at heart, nor persons with any triggers.***

  Chapter One- The Fucking Good Life

  Chapter Two- The Fucking Shitty Life

  Chapter Three- Families are a Bitch—Even the Rich Ones

  Chapter Four- Families are Bitchin’—Even the Poor Ones

  Chapter Five- Who the Hell is She?

  Chapter Six- Who the Hell Does He Think He Is?

  Chapter Seven- Convince a Woman to Submit

  Chapter Eight- Defying a Dom

  Chapter Nine- Fucking Answers

  Chapter Ten- Fucking Questions

  Chapter Eleven- Beasts Crave Beauties

  Chapter Twelve- When Beauty Fights a Beast

  Chapter Thirteen- And So the Lion Fell For The Lamb

  Chapter Fourteen- What a Stupid, Scared Lamb

  Chapter Fifteen- Monsters in the Dark

  Chapter Sixteen- Pawn to Rook

  Chapter Seventeen- Disappointment Causes

  Chapter Eighteen- Rectify a Betrayal

  Chapter Nineteen- Pieces

  Chapter Twenty- Monsters Under the Bed

  Chapter Twenty One- Talk

  Chapter Twenty Two- Cinder-fucking-ella

  Chapter Twenty Three- That Which Belongs to Me

  Chapter Twenty Four- Rust

  Chapter Twenty Five- The Desecration of Beauty

  Chapter Twenty Six- Not an Explanation

  Chapter Twenty Seven- I’m Sorry…Fucking What?

  Chapter Twenty Eight- Vengeance

  Chapter Twenty Nine- Teacher Vs. Dom

  Chapter Thirty- No Choice

  Chapter Thirty One - Red & White

  Chapter Thirty Two- Investigation

  Chapter Thirty Three- Beauty & I

  Chapter Thirty Four- A Soul Becomes Sand

  Chapter Thirty Five- Stella

  Chapter Thirty Six- Why?

  Chapter Thirty Seven- That Which Destroys Me

  Chapter Thirty Eight- Lost & Owned

  Chapter Thirty Nine- Breaking Beauty

  Chapter Forty- The Quiet Little Boy in the Shadows

  Chapter Forty One- Missing Angel

  Chapter Forty Two- Monster in the Shadow

  Chapter Forty Three- Ghosts

  Chapter Forty Four- Life

  Chapter Forty Five- Destroyed Angels

  Chapter Forty Six- Wisteria, Hope, & Lilacs

  Chapter forty Seven- Monster

  Chapter 1

  The Fucking Good Life

  Jesus Christ, her voice may have raked down my spine like fingernails on a chalkboard, but her mouth felt like a goddamn hoover on my cock. No, better yet, like a Dyson. Their slogan is ‘It never loses suction’, right? I'll be damned if I haven't been fucking Cindy? Candy? Whoever's throat for a solid twenty minutes... and I must say, she hasn't lost suction.

  I drive my hands in her hair yanking, thrusting my hips harder, forcing her to take it all. In between her gagging, the head of my cock slips through the ring of muscles, bringing me further down her throat. I'm ready for this shit to be over. I'm ready to get this bitch out of my penthouse in all honesty. "Yeah, bitch. Fucking swallow that cock like a good girl. Mmm hmm." I smack the side of her face and clamp my fingers around her chin bringing her eyes to mine, "Be a good little cum slut. Don't you dare spill a drop, you hear me?"

  Dumb bitch nods before I grasp my fists back into her hair and yank her face back where it belongs. I feel her gagging again around my cock and her tears trickle onto my thighs right before I shoot my cum down her throat. "Fuuuck!"

  Well...now shit’s just awkward. I want to tell her to go, but I don’t want to be a total dick, especially with mine still out and within her reach. You know what I mean?

  "Oh my gawd, Wes... Please, please baby tell me I can suck you until you're hard again, let me ride you. I need it. SO bad."

  Chalkboard, nails... yep, fuck politeness.

  "Nope, sorry sweet tits, but it's about your bed time and my bed don't have time for you." I stand and tuck myself away, securing my johnson behind the metal gates of my khaki pants zipper. I grab the C named woman up from the floor and ignore her childish pout while leading her toward and out the door of my penthouse. "But Wesley..."

  "Goodnight Cindy, and seriously, I meant it when I said don't call me babe, I'll call you." I wink before shutting and locking the door.

  I hear her muffled voice through the door, "It's fucking Christy you asshole!"

  Oops, hey at least I remembered it started with a C.

  After I shower and grab a beer from the fridge, I sit on my bed with my laptop going through this evening’s emails. I’m usually at the office Monday through Friday, however I never really have a day off. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have to work my ass off by any means, I just always have to be available and prompt with responses to emails and texts and shit.

  My cell rings after I’ve responded to the necessary emails and logged off my laptop. “This is Wesley.”

  “Hello, Mr. Jacobs. This is Rachel. How is your evening?” I grab another beer from the sub zero fridge chuckling at Rachel’s polite and demure behavior.

  “My evening has been shit, Rach. You know there’s this thing called caller ID on all cell phones, so there isn’t any need for you to introduce yourself when the person answers.”

  “Yes, sir. I am aware. And I apologize for your having a non-satisfying evening. That is a terrible shame.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t misunderstand me, it was satisfying. Just sucks when they won’t disappear immediately afterward.”

  Her audible gasp is something I find hilarious. However I keep my laughter suppressed.

  “Come on, Rach. I just had you on your back, as well as bent over my kitchen table last night, love. There’s no need for you to act as though I’m the scandalous one, now is there?”

  I almost spew the mouthful of beer across the black, veined marble counter top wh
en she clears her voice and returns with, “Mr. Jacobs, please. We are both professionals, surely we can act as such and keep our personal affairs out of our professional business.”

  “If that’s how you want it sweet tits. So, whatcha got for me Rach?” I fall back into my oxford leather couch and relax, sinking into its comfortable texture with a sigh.

  “Well I have over ten messages from your father that have gone without a reply. He is threatening my employment if you don’t reply to his eleventh. Can’t you just grab any damn intern and shove them into the mailroom or copy room, Wesley? Don’t make me lose my job over this, please.”

  “Victor can’t do a damn thing to you or your employment, Rach. Don’t let him get your panties in a knot, babe. It’s a waste of very fine silk, I promise. Just make sure there’s a list of respectable interns on my desk on Monday morning, okay?”

  “Yes, sir. And thank you for being in my corner, too. I appreciate it very much, Wesley.”

  “Anytime, Rach.“ I tap end and toss the phone on the coffee table before running my hands through my hair and sighing.

  I really have no time to have a sniveling little intern on my heels. And if I had ANYONE to hand this shit off to, I would. I would love to put them in the mailroom, but honestly, when it comes to anything that is a product of Jacobs Publishing, if it isn’t five stars … well, it’s always five fucking stars, so never mind.

  This is just the perfect shit icing on my even more shitty cake.

  “Thanks, Pops. Can’t take that I’m running this motherfucker better than you ever did because I have the balls that you didn’t.”

  Why the hell am I talking shit to my old man out loud?

  I make my way into the master bath and turn the shower full blast on hot before heading into my bedroom and pouring a tumbler full of scotch and downing it.

  I really had well laid out intentions to stick to just beer tonight, but… I don’t know how much, if any, more I can take off my old man trying to still dictate my life from afar. I just don’t.

  After I pour myself another crystal tumbler of scotch, I head back into the bathroom setting it down on the vanity counter top a little harder than necessary. I strip and walk into the reason I bought this penthouse.

  Double-sided shower stall the size of the average American’s bedroom. Over 75 showerheads… Um yes, I’ll take it, and the penthouse too. Just saying.

  As soon as those beautiful showerheads begin pummeling my skin and easing my muscle tension, the migraine that Cindy’s or Candy’s, or whoever she was, voice created begins to ebb.

  My muscles are so loose that I barely manage a quick scrub and wash my hair before getting out of the shower.

  I hook the towel around my waist, grab my scotch, and flop into bed without spilling a drop.

  No, this isn’t a superb practiced maneuver, I’m just that fucking good. Well that and it’s damn near a nightly routine.

  I hate to sound like a spoiled little pussy, but I have found myself asking this question more and more lately, when in the fuck did my life become so goddamn sad?

  I don’t understand this conundrum. I have every rare car available. I own a penthouse in every major city, plus homes on four different beaches, one in the Colorado mountains, and the ranch in Wyoming that I’ve only been to the one time I signed the papers on it. I have women falling over themselves to get the chance to choke on my cock and I have more success than I know what to do with on every level.

  So I ask: When and how did my life become so goddamn sad?

  The only time excitement even strikes is when I’m at Chained, the BDSM club that is the only reason I made NYC my home.

  That’s what I need.

  I need to get my ass back to Chained. Find a suitable sub.

  ‘Cause these bitches like Candy or Cindy… They closely resemble eating baked lays, when what you really want is a damn fat ass bacon cheeseburger.

  Yeah, I’m putting a call into Chained tomorrow.

  That’ll shake me out of this shitty funk I’m in.

  Chapter 2

  The Fucking Shitty Life

  “Seriously? Trina there isn’t one fucking internship! Not one! Gahhhhh! Why? Dammit, I just won’t do the internship leg of this program. I refuse.”

  I can’t take it anymore. My head hits my keyboard, as my perfect, angelic, sister from another mister sets a glass of chilled Moscato next to my laptop. “Babe, listen to me. You need to pipe the fuck down. This is it. Right here, Stell. Everything you want is at your fingertips. Now jump on that motherfucking bull and ride that bitch for 8.” She leans over and pulls my pony tail until my neck is arched at an odd angle and locks eyes with mine, “And then, You. Are. Done.” Her smile is one she stole from Satan himself. I know it.

  “Let go of my hair, bitch.” Trina kisses the air then heads towards the couch in the living room. I grab that perfect, beautiful, delicious glass of wine and chug that bitch. After a pleasure-filled moan and a exaggerated sigh I set the glass down and ask her over my shoulder, “You get enough bottles to get us both drunk, sis?”

  “Nope, just one bottle. Not even enough to get one of us drunk.”

  “The hell? You fucking tease. That’s a waste!” I stand up and hurry into the kitchen and fill my glass to the rim with the chilled wine. I look up smirking like the Cheshire cat at my best friend from across the butcher block island that separates our loft’s living room from the kitchen. She is glaring knives at me. “What?”

  “You know what,” she sets her kindle down on the end table. “I’ll let it slide tonight. Go on, get it all out. You’re pissed, you’re upset. Now come on, lets get this pity party done and over with so you can accept what you can’t change and move on with it.”

  I damn near swallow half the contents of my glass. “Trina, I will not work for that asshole. He is a player. He is a pompous dick head that thinks he’s God’s gift to women. No.” Shaking my head to emphasize my adamancy, “Will. Not.”

  “Why? I don’t understand that part, Stella. You of all people can handle anyone, and I mean anyone. That’s just his reputation, hell you’ll probably never even see the bastard!”

  “Pasta’s ready, you want one or two pieces of garlic bread, babe?” I say while rationing out a cup on each of our plates.”

  “Ahh, just half of one.” Trina fills both our glasses with the remaining wine before she and I head to the living room and sit at the coffee table to eat our supper.

  This is the norm for us. Neither one of us has ever understood how people can sit in hard chairs to eat at an actual dinner table. To us, it’s at least in the lower twenties of our ‘Why the fuck do people?’ list.

  I’ve known Trina for more than five years, we instantly became friends in junior college. She’s my kinda bitch and I’m her kinda bitch. Neither of us take shit from one another; but at the same time, we never hold back.

  Trina’s a real ass bitch and I honestly love the hell out of her for it. One thing about me you’ll probably learn pretty quickly is I can’t stand being around fake ass bitches.

  Another reason that I have always considered Trina my sister is because anytime I try to twist some shit up in my head, either to point the blame on me or on someone else and it’s bullshit, Trina calls my ass out. Calls it like she sees it and I’ll be damned if she isn’t always spot on.

  I’d like to say I help her mentally overcome her own demons and shit too. But I get the feeling that if this were a friend competition, yeah… she’d kick my fucking ass.

  “Stell, answer the question. What is it about Jacobs Publishing House? You lived in complete and utter hell for the first sixteen years of your life, why can’t you live with working in a prestigious firm as an intern for one year?”

  After I swallow the food in my mouth, I take a sip of wine. Setting it on the table, I look up at my friend. “You’re right, T. I can do it. I’ll be fine.”

  She picks up a noodle and tosses it at my face, “Answer the question!”

&nb
sp; “Shit! Just… look, okay I don’t want to fucking talk about it. Period. Just leave it alone.”

  I scrape the remaining pasta into the trash, rinse it off in the sink and set it in the dishwasher. “You’re night to do dishes. I gotta go hop in the shower. I have five more firms to meet with tomorrow morning, starting at eight.” I sigh padding across the hardwood floors towards my bathroom.

  Once I’ve showered and done my nightly routine—brushed my teeth, flossed, applied night moisturizer—I hop in bed and curl up with my Kindle and this hot as hell yet perfectly twisted motherfucker named Twitch.

  Fuck yes, Twitch. Slap a belt around my neck and fuck me like you’re mad at me, baby.

  I know, it is extremely odd that given the abuse I suffered by foster fathers, brothers and even weird ‘uncles’, you’d think I’d be more apt to find a nice boy. One that opens doors and holds me before and after making love. But, in all honesty, I can’t even make it through one date with a pussy-ass little boy.

  Not that I date. Hell, if my hymen hadn’t been obliterated by my bastard father, then the bastard men I lived with in foster care... I’d probably still be a virgin… No, who am I kidding? I would still be a virgin.

  I do just fine with my Twitch’s, Caleb’s, and Jesse Ward’s… Thank you.

  My eyes begin getting heavy somewhere during a non-sex scene and I finally end up passing out. My dreams are fun at first, Twitch laden, if you will. But they take a dark turn right before I slip into a REM cycle.

  Blood. Blood is everywhere. Soaking my hands, knees. It’s everywhere. I’m scared. I’m cold. There are no lights on. It’s dark, but I can still see his form silhouetted by the sliver of moon just outside the dirty trailer’s window. It’s cold. The blood is seeping into my sweatpants. It’s everywhere. So are the screams. They are everywhere too. I cover my ears to stop them, but the blood on my hands smears on the sides of my head. When I feel the blood drip down from the sides of my face and onto my neck, my vision blurs from my tears. Why am I crying? I don’t like this man. I hate him. I can’t remember a time where I didn’t hate him. All he does is hurt me. It’s all he has ever done, for as long as I can remember. He’s never been kind like my friend, Jill’s, daddy. I don’t know why my tears are falling. I don’t know who keeps screaming. But I need them to stop.