Chapter 13: A Taste of Freedom
The "Sunset Palms Motel" was perfectly anonymous. It was far enough from downtown to be low-key, and expensive enough not to ask questions. The suite that fifteen-year-old Jonathan had paid for in cash for a week was a sea of beige and light brown.
It was clean, impersonal, and most of all, safe. The roar of traffic on the nearby highway was a dull whisper, a world apart from the bloody office of the "Purple Lotus."
Jonathan was not relaxed. He was in "tactical mode."
The first thing he did upon entering was a complete sweep of the room. He checked behind the cheap pictures depicting sunsets, unscrewed the air conditioning grille, and checked the phone for microphones. Only after confirming that the room was clean did he bar the door with the heavy desk chair. Orphanage habits, hard to kill.
Now, he was sitting on the bed farthest from the door, cross-legged. His backpack, fat from the Capo's money, was at his feet. On his knees was a white washcloth from the bathroom. With methodical, precise, hypnotic movements, he was wiping the dried blood from his rusty machete.
I was processing the night. Processing his first chosen death. For him, the mission was over. He had secured the capital. The next step was to plan his trip to Mexico.
In the other double bed, huddled together under a single sheet like a pair of frightened fawns, were the two girls he had released. They had stopped crying an hour ago, but the trauma still clung to them like a second skin. Their names, he had learned, were Anya and Lena. They watched him in silence, their eyes a confused mixture of absolute terror and almost religious adoration. He was the monster who had killed their captor without batting an eyelid, and he was also the savior who had brought them out of that hell.
Jonathan finished cleaning the sheet. The opaque metal regained its normal appearance. He sheathed the machete, a soft and definitive sound. He grabbed his backpack, opened it over the quilt, and pulled out several thick bundles of hundred-dollar bills. He threw them on their bed. The money bounced off the sheet.
"There," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Enough for new clothes and a bus ticket. Go. Disappear."
Lena sobbed, hiding her face in the pillow.
Anya, the bolder of the two, the one who had received the blow in the face, shook her head. Tears welled up again, but this time they weren't of sadness, they were of pure panic. "No... we can't."
Jonathan frowned. 'The order is simple. Why don't you follow it?'
"He... he 'bought' our families from us," Anya whispered. "He brought us from Eastern Europe. We have nowhere to go. We don't have passports. No... we don't know how to do anything else."
They were completely conditioned by their captivity. In their minds, the brutal logic of their world was simple: this boy had killed his owner. He had not released them. He had claimed them.
Slowly, as if making a final decision, Anya got out of bed. The white sheet slipped off her shoulders, revealing the torn lingerie and dark bruises that marked her skin. He dropped the sheet on the floor. Naked and trembling, she walked on the cheap carpet and, with a tremor that shook her whole body, knelt in front of Jonathan.
"Please... Don't kick us out," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "We can be useful. Really. Can... we can please you."
Seeing Anya's movement, Lena quickly slid off the other bed and knelt beside her, bowing her head.
"We thank you, sir," Lena muttered to the ground. "Please. Leave... show you."
Jonathan froze.
His mind, the calculating machine that could predict bullet patterns and find flaws in steel, stopped. It went out.
She was a virgin.
He had spent his entire life in a sterile cage, surrounded by violent men, learning only about pain, control, and the anatomy of death.
His only knowledge of sex came from the still images of a book he had seen in Russia.
His murderous instincts were completely silent; there was no threat to calculate.
I didn't have any protocol for this. There was no "Flipped Training" for gratitude, no "sewing" for intimacy.
Two naked women were kneeling at his feet, offering him the only coin they possessed, and the fifteen-year-old murderous genius was completely, terrifyingly lost.
…..
Jonathan remained frozen, his mind—a machine designed for tactical violence—completely stagnant. The two women kneeling in front of him were a variable for which he had absolutely no training.
Anya, the most daring, seeing her stillness not as confusion but as the expectant calm of a new master, took the initiative. If he wasn't going to give an order, she would follow his conditioning.
Slowly, she leaned forward and kissed him.
It was a sensory shock. His brain, desperate for a frame of reference, tried to analyze the intrusion in the only way he knew how: clinically.
'Contact initiated,' he thought, his body remaining rigid as a board. 'Technique: inefficient. Incorrect head angle. Too much humidity. Her breathing is erratic, indicating anxiety.'.
Anya pulled away, confused by his lack of response. Its previous "owner" had been loud and violent. This boy was like kissing a marble statue. Lena, seeing Anya's hesitation, quickly joined in, thinking that maybe he required more encouragement.
Both girls gently pushed him by the shoulders, urging him to lie down on the bed. He obeyed, his analytical mind watching his movements, not participating. He was an observer in his own body.
The girls, operating under his horrific conditioning, began to move over him, their hands trembling as they tried to unbutton his pants, their lips kissing his chest and neck.
Jonathan lay there, his muscles tense. 'Illogical. What is the tactical objective of this interaction?'
Anya, sensing his coldness, decided to try the one method her former captor always demanded. She moved over him, astride his hips. He tried to guide his penis, still limp from confusion, toward her.
It was the wrong move.
Jonathan's fifteen-year-old instinct, forged in the Orphanage, reacted. Threat. Weight on the centerline. Compromised control.
His hands shot up. Not for petting. To control.
He grabbed Anya's hips, not with passion, but with the precise and brutal grip of a judo hold. His thumbs sank into his hip bones, looking for leverage. His movements were mechanical, rigid, designed to throw an opponent off balance, not to please a mistress.
"Agh!" Anya let out a gasp of pain and fear. His grip was not erotic; it was clinical and painful.
She sprang away from him, falling from the bed, and crawled toward the corner, pressing the sheet against her chest. Lena, who had been on the verge of joining, stepped back as if she had been beaten, snuggling up next to her friend.
The silence in the motel room was total, broken only by Anya's terrified sobs.
Both girls stared at him, their eyes wide with panic, convinced that they had failed some crucial test.
"Sir... did we do it wrong?" whispered Anya, her voice shaking uncontrollably. "Please don't hurt us. Can... we can be better. Please..."
Jonathan sat on the edge of the bed. The "Machete God," the innate genius of murder, the ghost that could infiltrate anywhere, looked at the two terrified girls. Then he looked at his own hands, the tools of his power.
He had neutralized elite guards. He had killed a crime boss. He had forced a combination lock feeling the vibrations.
But he was being completely defeated by a simple human interaction. His analytical genius had completely failed.
He wasn't just confused. He was frustrated.
…..
Jonathan sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the two women huddled in the corner. His frustration was palpable; a problem that he could not solve with logic or violence. They were a system I didn't understand.
Anya stared at him, her eyes wide with terror, bracing for the next blow. Lena was sobbing silently into her shoulder.
He closed his eyes. He forced himself to stop his conscious mind, the brain of an inexperienced fifteen-year-old who had failed miserably.
'Stop thinking,' he commanded his own mind. 'Analyze'.
He stopped trying to act and began to observe, the same way he did in the Orphanage. He let his innate instinct take over.
He opened his eyes. The room did not change, but his perception did.
He no longer saw "two scared girls." He saw systems. He saw the "seams," but this time, the data was different.
He approached Lena, who shrank. He didn't touch her. He simply reached out his hand. The fine hair on his forearm stood on end. His breathing quickened.
His brain processed the information. 'Stimulus: proximity. Reaction: fear, but also anticipation.'
He turned his attention back to Anya, who was still on the ground. His pulse was visible in his neck, pounding. 'Seam: Carotid artery. Lethal target.' But his instinct, now reoriented, added a new piece of information. 'Alternative objective: Pleasure point. Touching lightly will increase blood flow, induce a euphoric response.'.
It was a "click". The discovery of a lost continent.
It was the same system. The same weakness analysis. But I was using a different filter. I wasn't looking for the quickest route to death; I was looking for the quickest route to pleasure.
And in that instant, all of his "Reverse Training"—the years of superhuman muscle control, the ability to dislocate a shoulder without breaking it, the precision to stick a spoon into the cement—was made available to him for this new task.
The clumsiness disappeared. It was instantly erased.
The clumsy fifteen-year-old virgin vanished, replaced by something completely different. The calm of the "God of the Machete" took hold of him, but his intention was no longer murderous. He became a predator of pleasure.
He moved. He knelt in front of Anya. She braced herself for a coup.
Instead, his fingers, the same hands that had broken a guard's neck, brushed his cheek with the lightness of a feather. They traced the line of his jaw. She trembled, but this time, it wasn't just from fear. His eyes blurred.
His fingers slid down, finding the "seam" on his neck. He did not press; he simply applied gentle heat. Anya let out a trembling sigh, a sound halfway between a sob and a moan.
Lena watched, her breath held. Jonathan turned to her. He did not move into his body; He reached out and gently grabbed his wrist. She tensed. He didn't force it. He simply placed his thumb on the pulse point of his inner wrist and rubbed it in slow circles.
Lena gasped. An unexpected heat ran through his arm.
Jonathan had cracked the code. His movements were no longer clinical or painful. They were precise, deliberate, and devastatingly effective.
He returned to Anya. His hands, now moving with terrifying confidence, slid down his shoulders, down his sides, and landed on his inner thighs. His thumbs pressed a nerve there.
Anya's frightened cry turned into a high-pitched, genuine groan. The sound surprised her as much as it surprised him.
The air in the motel room changed. The tension of fear was broken, replaced by heavy, charged electricity.
Jonathan, the prodigy, had just learned a whole new skill set. And he discovered, to his delight, that he was an innate genius in this too.
…..
The scene in the motel room was transformed. The tension of fear (Phase 1) and the clumsiness of inexperience (Phase 2) evaporated, replaced by something raw and voracious. Jonathan's analytical genius had cracked the pleasure code, and now, for the first time, he was enjoying its potential.
The marathon has begun.
His body, forged in the brutality of the Orphanage, knew no fatigue. It was a machine of perfect resistance. What had been an awkward encounter turned into an of discovery.
He turned his attention to Anya, knelt her on the edge of the bed, and took her from behind. His movements, which were once clumsy and mechanical, were now deep, rhythmic, and brutally efficient. He was applying the same ruthless logic he used for combat: finding the "seam" and hitting it repeatedly until the system collapsed. Anya's screams were no longer scary; They were high-pitched cries of sensory overload.
Then he turned to Lena. He turned her on her back, her movements a terrifying mix of the precision of a Master and the raw lust of a teenager discovering fire. He analyzed his breathing, the arch of his back, and adjusted his angle, maximizing sensation for both of them.
The sun went down. The only light in the room came from the motel's neon sign, which bathed their sweaty bodies in a sickly pink glow.
He did not stop.
He took both women into the shower, fucking them against the cold-tiled wall, steam filling the small room. He carried them back to bed, now a mess of twisted sheets. He put them side by side, alternating between them, learning, adapting, mastering.
By midnight, the girls could no longer think. They were trapped in a cycle of pleasure so overwhelming that it bordered on pain. They were mere instruments for experimentation.
And Jonathan, for the first time in his life, felt fully alive. His innate "lustful" nature was roaring.
The first gray ray of Miami's dawn filtered through the edge of the curtains.
The motel room was vandalized. The sheets were on the floor, soaked. The smell of sex and sweat was thick in the air.
In bed, Anya and Lena were passed out, not asleep. They were completely exhausted, huddled together in a pile of trembling limbs, sore but satiated.
Jonathan was standing by the window, naked. He watched the bright orange sun rise over the ocean.
He wasn't tired. His body was buzzing. He was elated. He felt the same adrenaline rush he felt when cleaning the Orphanage, but this time, it had not cost lives. It was an affirmation of his.
He looked at the mess around him. The money scattered. The broken women. The dawn.
And he realized the truth.
The Orphanage had taught him that control was survival. Silence, stillness, repression... that was the way to win.
They were wrong.
This. This excess. This total loss of control in a sea of sensory pleasure. This unbridled indulgence.
This was freedom.
His innate "lustful" nature, suppressed for so long, had finally awakened. The cold whisper of the killer in his mind, which had been silent since the massacre, was replaced by a new, warm and ravenous roar.
His brain, designed to look for the "most efficient solution," had just identified a new drug, one stronger than anything else he'd ever known.
Jonathan, the "God of the Machete", the genius of murder, had just discovered his one true addiction.
Sex.
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Mike.
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