“It feels weird to me that you hang out with my brother all the time now,” she said all those years ago, back when Peter and I had just agreed to work on our first collaboration piece.

We had a simple plan involving pure-white canvas, new oil paints, and high-quality weed I’d gotten from a guy. We were going to get baked and make some art.

I’d been clear of all drugs at the time, but I was elated that my new friend was both a painter and a stoner—so I made an exception. I never kept any of that stuff in my house, though. I knew how tempting that would’ve been.

Peter wanted me to keep quiet about the weed. He didn’t want his little sister to find out about his drug use (which at times grazed dangerously closer to drug abuse) because he thought it’d make it more likely for her to follow in his footsteps. The only thing Peter wanted Sarah to emulate was his work with the animals.

I knew Sarah was the most important thing in Peter’s life, and he’d give up anything to provide a happy home for her for as long as she needed it. I thought it was admirable that he’d basically given up his entire adult life to raising his sister after their parents’ divorce and their dad’s untimely death.

“To be honest, it weirded me out, too, in the beginning,” I admitted. “Your brother seriously does great work, though, and I’m really looking forward to our collaboration.” I gave her a small smile. “But if you want us to stop hanging out, I get it.”

“Oh, no,” Sarah said, to my surprise. “Don’t let me stand in the way of your bromance. Peter’s horrible at making friends. I’m happy he’s happy.”

Her skin was so much like porcelain that the frown lines, appearing on her face, looked like they didn’t belong. She had this innocent aura, like she was this sweet, fragile little thing.

On our first encounter, when she’d shed her clothes in my tattoo parlor, along with her inhibitions, I’d been thrilled to find that she wasn’t a fragile little thing after all, that my initial impression of her had been wrong.

I’d also been annoyed that there was to be no repeat performance, but I’d completely agreed with her. I didn't need that kind of complication in my life.

Besides, Sarah was young, and it was time for her to spread her wings. She didn't need dead weight like me. I would've dragged her down with me, defiling her body and corrupting her soul.

Now, as I stare at Sarah's lovely form on the hotel bed, my mind floods with thoughts about our first time at my tattoo shop, about Peter, and about the way I’ve been watching her from a safe distance.

It's not too late.

I can still change my course of action.

I can tell Sarah nothing and let her go back home.

Better yet, I can fuck her before I send her home. She won't even know who I am. I can keep her blindfold on while I fuck her, keep speaking in low whispers so she doesn't recognize my voice, and keep acting like I’m PuppetMaster.

Hell, I am PuppetMaster. I created this online persona. It's not like I have to fake anything to be PuppetMaster.

In fact, it's a chance for me to let my inner demon out to play, and that's more real than any other side of me.

I have a feeling she’ll like it if I rough her up, bury myself balls-deep inside her, fuck her with complete abandon, and leave her tied up all night. In the morning, when she's greeted by the shocked stare of a hotel cleaner, she’ll get another rush. She'll probably pleasure herself to the memory for years after that.

I know exactly how she’ll feel, and I understand completely why she’s doing this. But that’s not a good thing. The only reason I get Sarah’s motives is because I suffer from the same addiction, too.

It’s just that I’ve been keeping my monster locked up in a cage. But now it’s grabbing the iron bars and rattling the cage with all its might. The sight of Sarah, all tied up and begging to be fucked, has woken the monster up from its deep slumber.

More than ever, I’m glad Peter was my friend. That’s the only thing holding me back right now.

My cock strains against denim. These jeans are getting fucking tight. At the very least, I’ll have to wait until my erection goes away before I talk to Sarah. No way she’s going to take me seriously with this giant boner in my pants.

There’s no way I’m going to go soft with this view in front of me, though.

Sarah’s lying on her side with her back to me, her beige coat crumpled and her hair messy from the blindfold around her head. Her arms bend awkwardly behind her, and her wrists are still tied up.

She’s been lying there for at least ten minutes while I make no sound. Some “submissive” girls would’ve squealed by now. They would’ve yelled out in frustration or maybe just asked some questions.

But not her. Not Sarah. When she says she wants to be an object to be used, she means it. If I made her lie on the bed in an uncomfortable position all night and never even touch her once, that’s what she’d do—no complaints.

Such a good girl.

I can clearly see the dip of her waist and the rise of her hips. The gentle slope of her legs. The definition in her toned calves. Her dainty little feet, which are encased in the kind of closed-toe heels that I specifically requested.

I’ve been sitting in the corner of the hotel room in my attempt to stay as far away from her as I can. This absurdity is what happens when a predator befriends its prey, when a monster takes a liking to its victim.

I know I can crush her, body and mind. From the way she’s been interacting with PuppetMaster, I can tell I’ve already got her under my spell. She does everything I ask of her.

I get up to my feet. The carpet should be thick enough to muffle my footsteps. I circle the bed to take a close look at Sarah from another angle.

Her back is arched and her chest is pushed out, rising up and down with her breathing. Several strands of her golden hair stick to her red lipstick—another thing I wanted her to put on.

What a waste of such a good girl.

She said she wanted PuppetMaster gone after this one night. But her compulsion to obey is strong. She’s so different from the way Sarah usually is, she may as well be someone else, someone named Doll.

Unlike Sarah, Doll doesn’t have opinions or specific desires. All Doll wants is to be played with, but she doesn’t get to decide how.

Guess what, Doll? I have some ideas on what to do with you.

I’ll bet if I reach out my hand and fist your hair, you’ll gasp and beg for more.

And if I unbutton your coat to expose your tight little body, you’ll cream your panties.

If Doll is not Sarah, then maybe . . . Maybe I can let my monster out to play for a little while? I’ll keep a tight leash on it, make sure it doesn’t hurt Sarah.

. . .

What the fuck am I thinking? I must be losing my mind.

That’s not the kind of thing I should even consider. I’m supposed to be doing a favor for Peter. It was his last wish.

Fuck this. I need to get out of here.

* * *

After a cold shower in the en-suite, my mind is much clearer. Without my dick screaming for attention, finally my big head can be the one in charge again.

I grab the back of a chair in the corner of the hotel room and drag it across the carpet until it’s about one foot away from the bed.

I can’t sit on the bed with Sarah. I won’t be able to hold myself back if she so much as wiggles in her restraints.

I stoop down to undo the binds around her wrists. I do it carefully so I don’t accidentally graze her temptingly soft skin, and I do it slowly so her blood flow gradually goes back to normal.

Still, she whimpers as her limbs shift positions, no doubt causing her tired muscles to ache. Her voice, so small and vulnerable, makes me want to push her down, climb on top, and . . .

Fuck. If my mind keeps coming up with filthy fantasies, I’m going to get hard again. And I’m not about to take another cold shower.

I’m going to hate myself for letting go of this opportunity to dominate the naturally submissive woman in front of me.

But I know I’ll hate myself more if I take advantage of her. I won’t be able to forgive myself.

With my heart pounding, I pull the blindfold off her head.

There’s no turning back now.

I quickly step away, as if she can burn me with the slightest touch. I pull the chair another foot away from the bed before I take my seat.

Sarah’s eyelids wrinkle and crease as the black blindfold comes off. Warm light from the bedside table falls right on her pretty face.

It takes her a while to squint her eyes open. But as soon as her vision finds me, she snaps awake. Sitting bolt upright, she perches on the edge of the bed.

“Luca?” she asks in confusion.

As if I can be anybody else. Even if I had an identical twin brother I’ve never met before, he wouldn’t have the exact same tattoos I do.

“Hi, Sarah.”