It’s how we met, James and I.

I had just started out. Nineteen years old, just returned from Paris where I had eloped with my French teacher. He was my first client. Still no idea how he found out about me. He was funny like that. Told me the stars brought us together- that I was just what he needed. I liked his accent. The first words he spoke to me were “You remind me of my Ma.”
I remember wondering what he would sound like with a ball gag in his mouth.

I never once asked about his past. What right did I have? I did what was I was paid for and that was that. He’d come and see me, four, five times a week… It became a sort of routine. Started with the riding crop. He said he needed the pain. I’d hit him across his thighs, over and over until he was screaming and thrashing around and tears sprang from his eyes… God those eyes… Then we’d smoke a pack of ten Sovereign between us and he’d be on his way. It was the same thing, repeated over and over.

But after a few months, he stopped crying. Stopped flinching. Stopped feeling altogether, really. It was… strange, to say the least. Behind his eyes, he was dead. Behind the shield of what once held a thousand pent up fears and emotions now held only one definable feeling.

Hate.

Hate for people and hate for life and hate for the world and he just still wouldn’t cry.

I should have guessed, really. Guessed who he would become. What he would become.

We kept in contact, Jim and I. He would help me and I would help him in return. That was our bargain. Always has been, always will.

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