Chapter Text
There can be only one permanent revolution — a moral one; the regeneration of the inner man.
And yet in our world, everybody thinks of changing humanity, and nobody thinks of changing himself.
J.H
January 24th, 1987.
To change is to accept defeat—an admittance that perhaps there was something that necessitated such a thing. It is a show of weakness that very few men of prominence would indulge in. They are no less capable of change than a common man or woman; they are simply unwilling to do so, and live a life of luxury where this is rarely challenged.
By the standards of the world, men born with great wealth and even better looks have little reason to change. Why would they? They are one of the chosen few who have ‘good fortune’ in more ways than one. Society caters to them, and their coin means no whim goes unfilled.
Rupert Campbell-Black was, by all accounts, one such man.
But is he any longer?
.
Rupert Campbell-Black has been captured on film in the midst of his lowest lows and highest highs. Even at his worst, when his temper flared or his talents failed him, few would argue against the fact that there was something about him that demanded respect.
Because Rupert Campbell-Black is confident to an unapologetic degree—to the point where he famously shrugged off photos of cocaine fueled tantrums in his youth with a bashful grin.
Even in adulthood, a smile was all it took to convince reporters that he was free of any wrongdoing when it came to scandals such as (alleged) simultaneous affairs with a political rival and her school-age daughter.
(When reflecting on this tryst several months later, he told a reporter, ‘I appreciate women of all ages, in both pencil skirts and pleated plaid. To find fault with that fact is an insult to both sexes.’)
It is a testament to his charm, which remains stronger than any armor, and has thus far left him very near untouchable by both the press and his peers. It has granted him a powerful position, and it is one he has consistently taken advantage of—though what exactly that consists of may surprise some readers in both its depth and depravity.
Will it be enough to dent his reputation? To finally create a chink in his metaphorical armor (if it does, let's hope it avoids his codpiece!)?
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His reputation may remain something legendary in the eyes of the public, but some critics are harsher than others. One such critic is Helen Gordon [Rupert Campbell-Black’s ex-wife], who described him as such:
"‘He is a man who answers to himself and his needs, no one else. Never anyone else. He is the sort of man who is incapable of being led or influenced. He may be unrestrained in his behavior, but he keeps those close to him on a tight leash."
Literally and figuratively, she thought, tapping her pen against the notepad.
The comparison was so good, it was a damn pity she couldn’t capture a photo.
Because the subject in question—the one and only Rupert Campbell-Black—was holding a leash at that very moment. Narrow leather loosely wrapped around his wrist, at risk of slipping free if his pet lunged or tried to run away, but she was far too well-behaved for that to be a concern. The lazy grip was a testament to that fact, and to his trust in her.
That was a change, too.
Rupert had never been particularly trusting of women in the past—a fact that should have been exacerbated by the incident a few years prior, which involved his previous wife very publicly running off and into the arms of his rival.
It would give most men a complex of sorts.
But Rupert Campbell-Black was not ‘most men’.
It made her wonder if he had let Helen run away. If her leash was no longer worth the effort of holding, and he was too disinterested to care about her behavior. From what she had seen, Rupert hadn't cared enough about Helen to leash her at all. Not literally, (it would be an insult to the flavor to describe that woman as vanilla. She was more like a block of ice) and perhaps not figuratively, either.
Or perhaps the incident prompted him to ingrain better habits into his future partner.
After all, it was only after they divorced that he began to dabble in the profession of training.
For years, it had been more hobby than profession, but his new little wife had changed that. He’d given up his title of Minister to please the new Mrs., and moved back to the Cotswolds. With his connections and charm, it hadn’t taken long to cultivate an impressive client list. Still, he had retained that list thanks to the results he achieved.
Of course, he was as adept at this venture as he had been in everything else he attempted.
And though he most notably applied his training talents to polo teams, jockeys, and racehorses, it was obvious that such inclinations bled into his private life, too—in a way that extended beyond merely his own pups and ponies.
Though examples of neither were with him tonight, such inclinations were very much on display, since the most precious of his pets sat calmly by his feet, the leather lead clipped to a collar around her delicate neck.
The pet in question was not canine or equine—it was a person.
Or more specifically, it was his new wife.
Rupert Campbell-Black
February 3rd 1986.
He liked the club—it was only natural that he would. He had the sort of lineage and looks that had patronized gentlemen's clubs for centuries.
Though this one was a club of a slightly different sort.
People didn’t come here to gamble (at least not with money, their marriages, however…) or talk business (if they brought colleagues, they were there to do more than simply talking).
Some people smoked and drank (indulging in one vice while witnessing another), while others played a bigger role than ‘spectator.’
That role looked a bit different for each individual, depending on their chosen indulgence—though all required one degree of nudity or another.
But in the end, they were all there for the same reason. They were all seeking the same thing.
Satisfaction.
For a time, Rupert had found such a thing while wielding a whip, or flogger, or cane—he was not overly picky, for all were capable of dolling out pain. That didn’t bring him pleasure in the traditional sense; he was hardly a true sadist.
But it did satisfy him in a way that was far more necessary and precious than pleasure.
Feeling the worst parts of himself slip away with each flick of a switch…being able to focus a bit more with each wail of pain…all culminating in a moment of blissful relief when his anger faded and he could regain control of himself and his emotions.
He missed that.
Not the intensity of rage that required that sort of violence to be dispensed with. He wasn’t ashamed of that per se, but he wasn’t proud of it, either. It had been inconvenient to say the least, and he was grateful that time had done a great deal to tempre his…well, temper.
But he did miss having such a reliable outlet and coping mechanism for frustration.
It had been…fuck, several years since he lifted a whip with such nefarious intentions.
He wasn't sure why, but at some point, he grew bored with the ordeal. It had begun to feel like a performance or charade rather than a selfish need, and eventually, he had stopped bothering with it at all.
His cock never stayed cold or dry for long, but he sought out company in private and with far less fanfare—or aftercare—than he had once required to get his rocks off.
His sex life was still adventurous by anyone’s standards. Well. Adventurous to some, horrifying to others. The descriptor 'bloody nightmare' had been used on occasion, which was...not inaccurate, given the mess he was known to leave behind.
Though he supposed those times were behind him, too.
These days, he favored bruises over all else. They required less effort to leave behind, and no cleanup was necessary. Regardless of his personal preferences in that regard, his partners were numerous and of the caliber that any man—and many women—would envy.
But was it truly satisfying?
He didn’t like thinking about that.
It was hard not to, though, given his surroundings.
For fucks sake, he could reach out and touch the neon lights that, quite literally, spelled out Satisfiend.
He hadn’t named it. In fact, he had encouraged Bas to fucking change it when he bought the damn place from the previous owners, but he was a sentimental bastard who insisted that the character of the place—and the name—had to remain the same.
At least he had been convinced to re-carpet the lounges.
That was about as much sway as Rupert had over his friend, Basil Baddington, who was also the proprietor of Satisfiend.
Basil Baddington, who—famously flighty—had fucked off to Cuba despite his weekday night manager being on maternity leave.
He had pleaded that Rupert ‘take the reins’ while he was gone, promising to pay him back with the finest ponies he could find while he was away.
Rupert couldn’t say no to that. The days of making his mounts bleed may have been behind him, but he did enjoy having fresh blood in his stalls to liven up the stable.
Besides, it wasn’t that much of a chore to watch over the club.
He liked the atmosphere, the dark lighting, the rich smell of leather, the sounds of fucking and flogging. It was as soothing as it was sinful, and he’d enjoyed the seven nights he had spent watching over it.
It wasn’t as though he had to do much. There were monitors on the floor watching over scenes, trained to put a pause to anything that seemed off, or take further action if it was required.
They were the physical enforcer of the rules, but the games played within these walls went beyond physical. There was no sense of emotion or loyalty to be directed at the monitors.
It was the presence of a manager—a master—that made people want to stay in line, and they were better behaved when they knew they were being watched by someone they respected.
Someone who had the power to revoke their membership.
He had forgotten how fun it was, luxuriating in his god complex as he looked down on the crowd, all while sipping scotch from his dear friend's private collection.
Bas has told him to take what he wanted, after all.
He had almost certainly been referring to the club clientele, not the collection of rare bottles hiding in his desk, but he really should have been more specific. As it was, Rupert had helped himself to both.
So far, the booze had been more memorable than the blowjobs.
Numerous nameless women, some owned, some single—as marked by their wristbands—offered their mouths (among other things) to him on an hourly basis. He had taken one woman up on it each evening, but felt uninspired to do anything more than that, no matter how much else they offered (or how eagerly they offered it).
None of them sparked the greed in him, the need to consume, and he found that when his prick was soft, his interest in them waned.
He was halfheartedly searching for who he might use tonight when he saw her.
She was interesting.
And, she was familiar.
Familiar faces were more common than not at the club, but seeing hers here was…unexpected.
Was she even old enough to be here?
Probably. She had been…fifteen when they first met, or thereabouts, and that had been several years ago. Her family had rented one of his properties for the summer, the one closest to Penscombe—next door, even, though several acres separated them.
He hadn’t spent much time at Penscombe that year, and their interactions had been limited to two conversations and a handful of occasions where he saw her in passing, usually while she walked through the woods with her mongrel.
Once, she had invited him to dinner and left him biscuits—though he politely refused the former. She had looked rather crestfallen when he declined, but he was glad he had, given the advance her mother made the following day, inviting him over for more than just dinner.
He was less polite when refusing her.
She wasn’t just forward with him; she was desperate for him. Desperation was only attractive to him in specific circumstances, and the form of a drunk housewife in her forties was not one of them.
But her daughter had been sweet. He thought she had a bit of a crush—most women did, when it came to him—but she didn’t try to flirt. She was too shy for that. For whatever reason, he remembered finding her response quite endearing. It had seemed so genuine in a way that was uncommon in the world, especially in his interactions with women.
And if she was responsive to the mere sight of him, he couldn’t help but wonder how she would respond to his touch.
How far would that blush go?
He couldn’t deny that he liked the girl.
But he was in politics now, and had a custody agreement to consider. Both of these interests conflicted with fucking his underage neighbor, and that squashed the minimal temptation.
But if her behavior had been the same, and she had been a bit older, he wasn’t sure he would have attempted anything. Her sort—the innocent type—were often more fun to fantasize about than anything else. She’d likely be stiff beneath him, too shy to moan freely, too dry to get his cock into.
Yes, virgins were so often better in his imagination than reality.
For a second, he wondered if he had underestimated her. Maybe she wasn’t so innocent—she was here, after all.
But when he got a better look, he could see the lost expression on her pretty face. Eyes wide and arms wrapped around herself. She looked bloody terrified—and not in the way that made his cock twitch.
Not anymore, at least.
And especially not on her.
.
She jerked in surprise when he touched her arm, trying to shrug off his hand before she recognized who it was attached to.
When she did, her lips parted in surprise, indignance fading as she stuttered out a quiet, “Mr..Mr. Campbell-Black…sir…”
That was so cute.
She was like a baby deer, her words as wobbly as those glorious legs.
“I’m glad you remembered me, angel. We should catch up, don’t you think?” He asked, though it was hardly a question; he was already guiding her towards the stairs that would take them to the main office, his palm flat against her lower back.
She stumbled slightly, once again proving her resemblance to a newborn doe, but she didn’t protest.
By the time he had the door shut—and locked—behind them, he was pretty sure she was in a state of shock that didn’t allow her to protest.
It was the opposite of subspace, really, a sort of delirium and disconnect from the situation but brought on by stress rather than any sort of pleasure.
He pressed her into the softest chair the room had to offer and draped his jacket over her shoulders. Her gaze was directed at her feet, and several pages of paper were crumpled between her hands.
He didn’t think a soap-esque slap to the face would be appreciated much, so he lifted his glass of scotch to her lips instead. She had to choose between drinking (as was polite) or refusing to (and appearing rude). With her disposition, he could predict what her choice would be before she had even made it.
.
She coughed at the burn that followed, and he pressed his lips together, not sure whether to laugh or apologize. It was a cruel trick, but it had done the trick and broken the silence.
She looked up at him, eyes a bit teary from her fit, her lips set in a firm line that left him stifling a laugh. She looked so…petulant in an unexpected way, but it wasn’t very convincing. She was incapable of being a brat, though perhaps she didn’t realize that yet. Even the most timid of dogs could overestimate the amount of fear their bark could insight.
After all, when you were used to being quiet, a whisper could sound like a shout to your own ears.
It was far less intimidating to his ears, but she didn't need to know that.
.
“Th—that wasn’t very nice,” she said, and then he did laugh, because he was rather infamously not very nice.
“No, it wasn’t. I should have offered you your own glass, I am a horribly presumptuous man—and self-aware enough to offer no apology for it,” he teased, and her lips twitched slightly.
Much better.
He knew telling a girl to smile was a cardinal sin, but he was tempted—and very familiar with sin, after all.
“What brings you here, angel?” He asked.
“I—I was invited,” she said softly, and then, more firmly, “Why did you bring me up here, s-sir?”
He wondered if she knew or if she was just that polite.
“You looked…overwhelmed and a bit lost, and I was overcome by the desire to offer you guidance,” among other things.
She blinked, her expression softening in surprise.
“I was,” she admitted, “Thank you. Tha—t—it was very kind of you. I s-should probably just go home, save you further trouble,” she said with a sigh.
Yes, she should, and he should let her.
It would be so easy to walk her out, call a car, and tell her never to come back.
But if he did that, he was certain that he would never see her again.
Because this girl seemed like the sort who would follow orders to the very letter.
It was that very reason that made him ask her to stay.
He wanted to see her follow his orders.
Which meant he would see her follow his orders, because Rupert Campbell-Black was not in the habit of denying himself what he wanted.
And women never denied him.
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