Glorious monster

“I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses.”— Friedrich Nietzsche

Fresh paint. New glass. Clean lines. Control. That’s what this place is.

A bar, sure. A business? Technically.

But really—it’s a fucking cage. A container. For me. For the chaos I can’t unleash on the outside world.

A fucking vault for the beast inside me.

It’s the only place I can breathe without snapping someone in half. An outlet for the dark shit I’ve spent my whole life trying to hide. The need to own. Command. Fucking possess.

Money? Not a problem. I’ve got more than I could ever spend. Filthy fucking rich.

But I’ve played that game—waving cash around like a cock on parade.

Been the mark. The prize. The dumb bastard every leech crawls toward.

But I don’t show it. That’s how they get you. Every tear-streaked sob story. Every woman with a fake laugh and a tight dress. They didn’t want me. They wanted the gold card and the power trip.

People smell cash like blood in water. Every leech comes crawling. Every pretty girl with empty eyes pretending she’s special.

Now? I keep my wealth buried so deep they’d need a shovel and a death wish to find it.

And women? Please. I could have anyone.

Your mum. Your sister. You too, if I wanted.

Yeah—you. The one reading this. Eyes wide. Legs clamped shut. Pulse thudding in your throat.

Don’t fucking doubt it.

Don’t pretend you’re not into it. You’re soaking through your knickers already. You want my massive cock. Stretching you wide and pounding your sweet little cunt.

You’d be mine in a heartbeat. My good girl. My obedient little plaything.

I’d make you scream until your throat’s raw. Make you cum so hard you’d cry.

You want to be owned. Broken open. Branded.

I’d tear you in two and make you thank me for the privilege.

But I’m not that man anymore.

Not the one who fucks a woman ‘til she forgets her name—And then tosses her out with the rest of the mess.

Not the predator. Not the ghost.

That’s the lie I keep telling myself.

No more taking what I want just to feel something. No more perfect little victims who think submission is just another kink to tick off between yoga and brunch. No more fucking pretty little things until they cry, then tossing them out like spent cigarettes.

I quit that life. Cold fucking turkey.

Because the next time I let go? I’m not sure I’ll stop.

Tried the apps.

Every profile reads the same: “Kinky.” “Adventurous.” “Looking to surrender.”

Bullshit.

They don’t want surrender. They want theatre. What they really mean is: “Slap me, fuck me, make me cum.”

They want chaos with a safe word.

A quick, rough fuck in a pair of novelty cuffs.

A bruise to finger in the mirror.

They don’t want to be owned.

They don’t want truth.

They want the fantasy.

The costume. The character.

They want the image of the wolf—Not the teeth.

They don’t want to be owned. They don’t want truth.

Not the kind I offer.

They don’t want control.

Because my control doesn’t stop.

It seeps in. Corrodes. Consumes.

You give me your body— I’ll take your soul.

That’s why I stay clean.

Keep my hands busy. My thoughts buried.

I’ve burnt the costume. And I buried the character six feet under.

I’m not playing dress-up anymore. Because if I slip again? Someone’s gonna fucking burn.

My bar.

I renovated this place with my bare hands and bloodied knuckles. Made it clean so I wouldn’t have to be.

It holds the monster. Contains it. Just.

The newest bar in town—Wallaby’s. The name’s a joke, with me, Damo, your friendly, hot Aussie behind the bar. People will remember this place. They’ll think it’s about fun, about being wild. But this? This is precision. Every fixture, every track light, every playlist cue—I built it all. Not for profit. Though I intend to make a killing. Not for legacy. For discipline. For the ritual of keeping my mind sharp and my hands busy.

Opening night—half-price drinks all night. Adam’s idea. Brilliant bastard, poached from the hottest bar in London and costing me a fortune. But he’s hot in every sense. I love him for his ability to run this place; the ladies will love him for his killer smile.

The crowd starts rolling in. There’s a buzz already—first-night adrenaline, fresh gossip. They’re loud, hungry, thirsty. Perfect. Give them what they want, and they’ll keep coming back. That’s the idea.

Adam’s out front, drawing eyes like he was hired to do . That wide grin, that easy charm—I hired him because people trust him. And because they don’t shouldn’t trust me. I’m not built for front of house. I’m the shadow behind it. The one who sees everything.

I stay behind the bar, where I can blend in. My sleeves are rolled. My shirt’s tight across my shoulders. The staff treat me like one of them—because I ask them to. I don’t want the spotlight. I want silence. Order. Control.

I’ve kept it together for months. No slips. No scenes. No weakness. Then she walks in.

At first I don’t notice her. There’s a tray in my hands, music in my ears, Adam cracking jokes with a girl who looks like she’s used to getting her way. She orders ten doubles—rum and coke—and yeah, it gets my attention. Not the order. The confidence. The way she looks at him like he’s a toy she might play with later if she can be bothered.

She’s got the kind of presence that doesn’t make sense. Loud without speaking. Pretty, sure, but not delicate. And I can see Adam’s falling straight into it—grinning, flirting, eating out of her hand. She doesn’t even try. Just makes some filthy crack about carrying heavier loads, and the whole fucking bar tilts sideways.

But I don’t look at her—the tall, peroxide blonde with legs for days. She’s like all the others. Mouthy until I’m fucking her in it. And not my type.

And then I feel her. Eyes. On me. I look up—and there she is.

Not blonde. Not tall. Not loud. Small. Curvy. Thick thighs, Brown hair. Blue eyes. And staring at me like she wants to know what I look like when I come apart.

For half a second, I think she’s made a mistake. I think maybe she’s looking past me, or watching someone else. But no. Her eyes don’t move. She drags them over my chest, my arms, slowing her gaze the veins in my forearms. Slow. Deliberate. Like she’s undressing me with every blink.

Fuck.

I haven’t felt this in months. Not even a flicker. Not even with the ones who begged for it.

But this girl? She doesn’t beg. She doesn’t even ask. She stares—like she wants to own me.

I laugh, soft under my breath. No, sweetheart. You’ve got it the wrong way round.

And still—I’m the one who can’t look away.

Those fucking thick thighs. Small frame. Easy to overpower. The kind of girl I could break in half and put back together sweeter. Softer. Shaking in my hands.

And she keeps fucking looking.

I lift a crate. I feel her eyes track the movement, the strain in my arms, the flex in my back. She bites her lips. Fuck me.

I haul another box from the storeroom, heart punching behind my ribs, blood surging in directions it shouldn’t be.

She follows.

Not physically—but her presence stays with me, clinging to my skin. I can still feel her watching. Still feel her pulse from across the fucking bar.

And then—of course—she comes over.

Voice like mischief. Like trouble wrapped in honey.

“Need a hand, hot stuff?”

I turn. Slow. Like I haven’t been waiting for this exact moment.

She’s close. Too close. Her eyes flicker to my arms again, then my mouth.

Tiny. Beautiful. Fucking perfect.

“You’re tiny,” I murmur, letting the words hang, teasing. Testing. “Not sure you could lift even one of these.”

She smirks, but her eyes flash. Good. Push me, little girl.

“But I’d love to see you try,” I add, stepping closer. “Could make my night interesting. Watching you squirm.”

She fires back. “If I had arms like yours, maybe I could.”

That mouth. That fucking mouth.

“Arms?” I say, voice low. “Baby, it’s not just my arms you should be worried about.”

She freezes. I watch her breath hitch. I watch her pupils dilate.

There. Right fucking there.

She has no idea what she’s playing with.

And I’m already wondering what she’d sound like tied up. Gagged. Begging for it. Not because she’s weak—they all are but because she’s strong. Too strong. And I want to ruin that strength. One whisper at a time.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I smile. I brush past her. I don’t look back.

I don’t have to.

She’ll come back. They always do.