Chapter 1

My name is Ajun, a renowned Special Agent in the city’s law enforcement, often revered as Mr. Perfect among the ranks of my fellow officers. This title is a testament to my unblemished service record, which gleams like the handcuffs I wield with precision. Standing at a modest yet commanding height of 5ft 6”, I am a vision of authority and power that many find irresistible. Yet beneath the gleaming badge and the stern exterior, I harbour dark, twisted desires and prejudices that would make even the most jaded of my colleagues shiver with disgust.

I reside in a secluded part of town, where the shadows embrace my property like a lover eager for a forbidden tryst. Here, in this isolated bastion, I am surrounded by a veritable arsenal of protection, ready to unleash a torrent of lead should anyone dare to disturb my twisted world.

In the dank, secret recesses of my mind, I am a racist master, craving to see black bodies tremble before me. Their skin, a canvas upon which I wish to paint a portrait of fear and submission. The very thought of their dark flesh, bound and at my mercy, brings a sadistic smile to my lips.

I despise homosexuals, viewing them as aberrations to be corrected with cruel, unyielding lessons in obedience and the natural order of things. The mere mention of such perversions sends a shiver down my spine, igniting a fiery rage that yearns to be satiated by their painful groans and pleas for mercy.

In this progressive society that recognizes the fluidity of gender, I am a stubborn bastion of binary thinking. Men are to be men, and women are to be women. The concept of transgender individuals is as alien to me as the dark side of the moon. But within the walls of my fortress, I revel in the power dynamics of BDSM, where the lines of gender and consent blur into a delicious tapestry of pain and humiliation.

I am a man who believes in the purity of power and the sweetness of submission. The sound of a whip cracking through the air, the sight of a body writhing in pain, and the smell of fear mingled with arousal are the aphrodisiacs that fuel my depraved fantasies. I crave the moment when the strong are made weak and the proud are brought low, their spirits broken and their bodies used for my perverse amusement.

In the twisted maze of my desires, I am a puppet master, orchestrating scenes of erotic torment and humiliation. My playthings, regardless of their race or orientation, are but pawns in my grand scheme of domination. They serve to satisfy my cravings, their suffering a sweet symphony to my sadistic ears.

In the throes of passion, my heart races not for love but for the thrill of control. The screams that echo through my chambers are not of ecstasy but of agony, as I bend and break the wills of those who dare to oppose me. For in this world of darkness, where the light of acceptance is but a distant memory, I am the law, the judge, and the executioner of all that is impure and unworthy.

Welcome to the world of Mr. Perfect, where the only justice is the one I mete out with a flick of my wrist, a bite of my whip, and the unyielding force of my contempt. Here, in this den of iniquity, the only law is the law of my own twisted desires, and the only truth is the power of my dominance over the weak and the lost.

Friday night had rolled around, and as usual, I was dressed in my police uniform, ready to tackle the grimy underbelly of the city. I had been working hard and was eagerly awaiting my next promotion. As I cruised through the streets, I noticed a shady area where drug transactions and other unsavoury activities often took place, including hookers plying their trade. Although I didn’t have a vendetta against the sex workers, I had zero tolerance for drugs.

As I approached, my eyes fell upon a disturbing scene. A group of trans women were surrounding a white hooker, clearly taking advantage of her vulnerable state. My heart pounded with anger as I watched them manhandle her. One of the ebony transwomen was particularly aggressive, and her actions were more than enough to set me off. I slammed on the brakes of my patrol car and stormed over to the group, my eyes ablaze with fury.

Without hesitation, I slapped the transwoman who had been tormenting the hooker. The sound echoed through the quiet night, and the beautiful, terrified hooker looked up at me with pleading eyes. I pulled her away from their grasp, my muscles flexing as I held onto her protectively.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I growled; my voice laced with disgust.

The transwoman I had slapped smirked at me, her dark eyes gleaming with malice. “We’re just having some fun with our little slave, here,” she said, pointing a long, red-nailed finger at the cowering woman.

My blood boiled at the thought of anyone treating a woman like that, especially a white one. These scumbags didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as she did. I turned to the hooker, her face stained with tears and bruises.

“Are they telling the truth?” I demanded, my voice low and menacing.

The hooker nodded, barely able to speak through her sobs. My anger grew as I realized the extent of their depravity. They had turned this poor girl into their plaything, using her body for their sick games.

The transwomen laughed at my outrage, but I wasn’t going to let them get away with this. I grabbed the ringleader, the one I had slapped, and slammed her against the nearest wall. My hand wrapped around her throat, cutting off her air supply as I stared into her eyes.

My anger seethed as I glared down at the trans woman. “You don’t play with a white woman,” I growled, emphasizing each word with a bite. I shoved her away from me, and she stumbled, the fear clears in her eyes. I drew my pistol, the cold steel a comfort in my hand as I pointed it directly at her trembling body.

“If you do not obey me, you will regret it,” I warned, my voice low and menacing. They all stared at me, a mix of terror and confusion etched on their faces. I knew they were contemplating their options, but the barrel of the gun was a stark reminder of the power I held.

“On your knees,” I barked, and they all complied, the sound of their knees hitting the ground echoing through the alley. I stepped closer to the one I had slapped earlier, savouring the look of panic that swept over her features. “Strip,” I demanded, my voice a harsh whisper. They were slow to react, so I walked over and kicked her in the stomach with all my might. She crumpled forward, gasping for air.