by Frost, E J
I remember the lines of blood welling across her back, dark against her welted skin.
Rubbing my own backside in fear, I climb off my bed and clean up my room as fast as I can.
I’m just rearranging the top of the desk, disrupted by the blanket I hooked over it, when there’s another knock on the connecting door.
My heart pounds. I flinch and catch my hand on the sharp wooden edge of the desk.
“Ow, shit.” I grab my bleeding hand and stare at it, remembering again the lines of blood on the whipped sub’s skin.
I raise my hand to my mouth, intending to suck the scrape.
“Don’t you dare.”
Logan’s voice, harsher than a whip, stops me. I freeze and glance to where he’s standing in the doorway.
“Never suck an open wound. Go to the bathroom and wash that out with soap. Right now.”
Oh, God, I forgot. He told me his mother was a nurse. He must have very strong views on germs.
“Yes, Sir.” I scuttle past him into the bathroom and get busy with the hand wash.
Logan joins me after a minute, carrying an honest-to-goodness First Aid kit: a white plastic box with a red cross on the lid. He must have brought it with him, because I haven’t seen one in the rooms. He frowns at my hand as he turns off the water and pats it dry. It’s not a big cut, more a scrape than anything, with a furl of skin peeled back at one end that I’d pick off if he wasn’t glowering at me.
He takes a little brown bottle of iodine out of the kit and squirts it across the scrape. Ouch. Seriously? Who still uses iodine? He holds my hand between his, keeping my fingers splayed, until the liquid dries. Then he unwraps a rectangular bandage and spreads it carefully over the back of my hand.
“We’ll keep that clean and dry. It shouldn’t get infected.” He packs up the kit, then folds his arms over his chest and tips his chin at the closed toilet. “Sit down and tell me what’s going on with you.”
I sit and stare down at my hand, and because it’s itching, pick at one edge of the bandage with my thumbnail.
“Emily, what are you playing at?”
I wail wordlessly at him in frustration. I don’t know how everything went so wrong. I just know that every time things start going really well, something like this happens and it all goes to shit and it must be my fault somehow. I know I’m going to be punished for embarrassing him, even though I said I was sorry to Master Jason, and that’s making my muscles clench so tightly they’re shaking because Logan’s serious when we’re just playing and I’ve already been paddled today and my thighs are still sore from the caning yesterday and he said I could have a day off but I can tell that’s out the window and he’s going to do something really horrible to me—
“Emily, look at me and use your words. What is going on with you?”
My shoulders rise around my ears, and my hair falls into my face. I can’t look at him and I don’t have any words. I feel so small and stupid and useless.
Logan growls with annoyance or frustration or anger or maybe all three, and I shrink further into myself.
“Communicate with me, Emily. Help me understand what you’re thinking.”
I can’t! If I understood what I was thinking, I would tell him. It’s all a sick swirl inside me. My stomach is clenching and my head is clenching and my hands are clenching and now I’ve pulled the bandage half off because I’m twisting my hands together. Why can’t I do anything right?
Logan brushes my hand aside, pulls off the curled bandage, and smooths a fresh one over the scrape. “Put your hands on top of your head and stay right there, Emily. I mean it.”
I nod, staring at my knees, which are pressed tightly together but that’s not stopping them from shaking.
I expect Logan to return, but it’s Niall who pokes his head into the bathroom, takes in my position with a quick sweep of his eyes, frowns and withdraws. The bathroom door closes, and I can hear the two men talking, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.
Is Logan going to turn me over to Niall for punishment? I heard Niall talking about how he uses whips on his subs. I’ve been flogged, but never whipped. Those bloody lines keep flashing behind my eyes. The acidic stink of pee fills my nose and I lift myself, grabbing the back of the toilet and the edge of the sink, to check my panties. Please, please, please don’t have let me have wet myself.
The door opens and Logan starts to walk in, then stops, shaking his head. “You are tilting at windmills, little girl.”
I slap my hands back on top of my head so hard my ears ring.
“Come on.” He beckons and I rise off the toilet.
He leads me back into his room. Niall is sitting on one of the couches, holding a foamy beer between his knees. It’s still freezing in Logan’s room, and I shiver. My nose starts to run, and I wish I could wipe it, but the last thing I want to do is take my hands off my head again.
Sniffling, I go to the corner where Logan directs me. When he twirls his finger in the air, I turn to face the corner, and having had corner time before, lean forward so my nose touches the paint. Logan comes up behind me; I feel his warmth at my back as he takes my hands off my head and secures them behind me with something soft. At least it’s not handcuffs. But I still can’t wipe my nose. I sniffle again.
“Fifteen minutes in the corner, Emily.” He runs his hand up and down my back. “Use the time wisely.”
Wisely? To do what? Contemplate all the ways I’ve screwed up what started as a wonderful day?
You screwed up more than that, stupid girl. What Dom wants a sub so badly behaved that other Doms criticize her? Logan will drop you after this. There won’t be any more masala chai. No days at his house. No nights at his club. Just your empty house and hollow hook-ups with Doms who want pictures of you peeing.
My nose runs from more than the cold. I can’t wipe it, or mop what’s dripping off my chin.
“Emily.” Logan’s warm hand lands on my shoulder. “Blow your nose, baby.” He holds a handful of tissue to my face, and I gratefully, and wholly ungracefully, snort into it. He pinches the end of my nose with the tissue, folds it and holds it for a second blow, then wipes my nose before kissing the back of my head.
His warmth moves away and the tears, and my nose, flow faster. Most Doms wouldn’t approach me during corner time, even if I was drowning in snot, but Logan takes care of me. Always. Even when I don’t deserve it. Because he’s a wonderful Dom.
A wonderful Dom who can have any sub he wants. He doesn’t need to waste his time on a stupid little girl who plays stupid little games and embarrasses him in front of other Doms.
“Emily.” His hand settles on my shoulder again. Is corner-time over? I’ve always hated corner-time, or time-outs, or whatever my Doms wanted to call isolation punishment. It’s just a chance for my own mind to turn on me. “Sweetheart, calm down. Blow your nose.”
He offers more tissue and I clear my fucking sinuses again. “S-s-sorry, Sir.”
“Shh. Quiet, Emmy. Eight more minutes.”
I nod mutely and bite the insides my cheeks, hoping the pain will distract me enough to stop the tears.
It doesn’t.
It can’t be just eight minutes before Logan releases my hands and turns me around to face him. It’s eight hours. Eight days, months, years of the hateful internal monologue berating me for my own stupidity, regurgitating every social misstep and gaffe I’ve made since meeting Logan, reminding me I’ve never managed to “keep a man,” as Maman would have said.
Did say, more than once, when my marriage imploded.
I’m hiccupping on tears when Logan releases my wrists and turns me around to face him and Niall. They both look appropriately horrified, and when I look down at myself, I see why. In the wide, damp patch across my chest, snot glistens. Shiny on the white cotton of Logan’s shirt.
I put my hands over my face and run into my own room where I strip off his shirt and shove it under the tap, scrubbing madly. I’m too blinded by tears to actually see
if I’m getting anything off or just splashing water everywhere.
“Emily, here, stop, little girl.” Logan reaches around me and takes the sodden shirt. He wrings it out and tosses it over the handrail in the bathtub. Returning to me, he runs his hand up and down my back, his palm dry and warm over my clammy skin. “I don’t care about a shirt. What is going on with you?”
I look up at him through my tears, my mouth working, but nothing’s coming out.
He blows out a breath. “That’s the way it’s going to be, huh? You’re not going to talk to me? Have it your way. Since we’re in here already, let’s get it over with.”
I bite my trembling lips, trying to think of words to explain, but nothing comes. There’s nothing I can say to explain how horrible I’m feeling inside. How embarrassed I am. How much I hate myself in this moment.
“Brace yourself against the sink. Head up. Mouth open. Tongue out.”
What?
“I—I don’t—”
Logan crosses his arms over his chest. “Was I unclear?”
Fuck, now I’ve made him angry. Angrier. Fuck-fuck-fuck, why can’t I do anything right?
One thing. Just let me do one thing right. I grab the edges of the sink, feeling the wet bandage stretch across the back of my hand. He told me to keep it dry. Another thing I can’t do right. A fresh tear streaks down my right cheek. I sniffle hard. Please, anything but more snot.
“Tongue out, Emily. Don’t make me wait.”
I shake my stringy hair back from my face and meet my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look awful, even by bad day standards. My hair has come loose from the ponytails; it straggles around my face. Some of it is wet and flattened to my head. Some of it is mussed and sticking up. My eyes are red, framed by bags so dark they look like bruises, an unlovely contrast with my white cheeks and pale lips, chapped from stretching around that stupid dildo. No wonder Logan and Niall looked horrified. I’m beyond a hot mess. I’m a nuclear melt-down. Freaking Chernobyl has nothing on me.
I blow out a ragged breath, trying to get control of myself. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
“I can’t tell if you’re not listening to me or if you’re really trying to test my limits, Emily. Tongue. Out.”
I stick it out. No snot, but there is whitish foam along the edges. Oh, that’s attractive.
“Because you’re so distracted, I’ll repeat it. If you need to safe word and can’t speak, slap whatever part of me you can reach three times. Same if you need to vomit. If you can’t reach me for any reason, lift your hand and hold up three fingers.”
If I need to vomit? Is that a possibility? A probability? What’s he going to do to me that’s so bad I’d need to vomit? Why didn’t I make vomiting a hard limit? I think again of that poor, whipped sub with pee running down her legs. Is Master Niall going to whip me so hard I vomit? Is that a thing? I’ve never seen it, but I haven’t watched all that many whippings.
Logan moves behind me. He rests one hand on my shoulder, the way he did when I was in the corner. There, it was a comfort. Now, it feels like he’s pinning me against the sink cabinet. I meet his eyes in the mirror. Mine are wide, white showing all around the iris. His are a Siberian lake in winter: black depths that suck down every emotion and freeze them so solid not even the Mexican sun can warm them.
He reaches around me to the hand-soap dispenser set into the sink backsplash and pumps a few drops onto his fingers.
He’s going to wash out my mouth with soap? I’ve never had my mouth washed out with soap. Not even when I was a kid. I thought it was one of those fictional Victorian child-tortures.
I suck my tongue back into my mouth. “Oh, no.”
“No?” He lifts an eyebrow. “I told you the penalty for swearing.”
There’s a moment where I nearly refuse. Where I almost push away from him and bolt. A sea sick moment of insane defiance. This is so unfair. I said one swear word. He swears all the time. This is a stupid rule, and a stupider punishment. Is it even safe? I don’t think it’s safe. Isn’t hand-soap poisonous?
“Last time, Emily. Tongue. Out.”
I shake. In the mirror, my reflection shimmies. Logan’s hand tightens on my shoulder. He steadies me, holds me still, while I grope for that dim hope I had earlier: if I can just do one thing right, I can turn this day around.
I squeeze my eyes closed, tears running cold down my cheeks, and stick out my tongue.
I wait, shaking.
Logan’s warm breath tickles my ear. “Open your eyes, Emily. Look at me when I discipline you.”
I force my eyes open.
Logan slides two fingers onto my tongue. The bitter taste makes my eyes water harder. I’ve accidentally gotten shampoo in my mouth before, it didn’t taste this bad. Damn antibacterial hand-wash.
Logan’s fingers rub across my tongue, spreading the nasty taste. Bubbles foam on my tongue. Saliva pools in my mouth. I don’t want to swallow. I don’t want soap in my stomach. Is this what he thinks will make me vomit? I really don’t want to vomit. I know I’m being punished, but he wouldn’t force me to vomit just to break me, would he?
Of course, he would, you stupid girl. He doesn’t care about you. He’s going to hurt you to salve his pride and be done with you. You might as well go home.
Logan’s fingers work further back. I gag, which only produces more saliva. It oozes out of the sides of my mouth and down my chin to drip into the sink. I hate this. I hate drooling. I work my cheeks and tongue, trying to stop the flow, but Logan’s fingers push my tongue flat.
Squeezing my eyes closed, hot tears running down to join the drip, drip, drip of saliva off my chin, I try to swallow. Logan’s fingers block the motion. I shudder against him. He slides his hand down my back and around my waist to hold me still.
I gag again, harder, making a wet noise that echoes in the tiled room. I want to beg Logan to stop. I don’t deserve this. I know I’m a bad sub. I embarrassed him and broke his “no swearing” rule but he should just reject me instead of torturing me like this before he kicks me to the curb. I try to swallow again, but nothing goes down. The back of my throat is full of mucus and fingers and tongue. I try to spit it all out. Nothing works. My eyes stretch wide as I try to take a breath. I can’t see anything over the hair hanging in my face. I can’t see Logan. All I can feel is his marauding fingers, working further and further back in my mouth, even though I’m retching now, my whole body shaking. His arm around me has become an iron bar holding me over the sink. I buck against his hold. My lungs are screaming and I still can’t take a breath over everything in my throat and the memories pour back: being held down, pinned by six hands while the water churned around my head and up my nose and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe.
Logan pulls his fingers out and slides his hand from my waist back to my shoulder. “Emily, spit.”
I shake my head frantically. I can’t spit. I can’t swallow. Can’t breathe.
“Emily, is your throat obstructed? Hold up three fingers if yes.”
I don’t know if my throat’s obstructed. All I know is that I can’t breathe and I can’t see anything through the tears in my eyes and the hair in my face.
Logan releases me suddenly. I stagger back from the sink and collide with his unyielding chest. He takes the back of my neck with one hand and sits me down hard on the floor. I can’t even choke out a yowl of pain through the tightness of my throat. I grab my throat, trying to force air in some direction.
Warm fabric brushes my arm and leg as Logan slides down next to me. He takes my hands away from my throat, puts his hand under my chin, and forces my head up. “Look at me.”
I try, blinking hard, but I can’t see anything through tears and hair. I can’t breathe. I can still feel his fingers down my throat. I can still taste the soap. I can still feel the swirling water. The hands. Their voices drown out Logan’s in my ears. Brace-face. Teacher’s pet. Ugly Emily. I throw my head back, trying desperately to suck in air but nothin
g comes. There’s no air. I can’t breathe.
“Emily, I’m going to put my fingers in your mouth and clear your airway. Don’t bite down.”
His fingers push into my mouth again. I choke and thrash in his hold, but he clamps the back of my neck to keep me still. His fingers hit my tonsils. I gag again and air rushes down my throat in a wrenching burst. I suck in a breath, another and another, until my body stops telling me that I’m suffocating and the swirling water recedes.
Logan pulls me forward until my forehead is on his shoulder. His warm hands move up and down my back. “Breathe. In. Hold, one, two. Out. Remember what I taught you the first time you wore the butt plug. Breathe, Emmy.”
I can’t. I just need air. I pull it in in great heaves, blowing it out, not caring that I spatter his chest with spit, only to gasp in another desperate breath.
“Baby doll, slow your breathing. In. Hold, one, two. Out. You’re okay. There’s nothing wrong with you. You just need to calm down.”
I don’t believe him. I need air. More air.
“Emily.” His voice drops, the tone of command. “Listen to me. Breathe in. Hold. One. Two. Out.”
I clutch at him, trying to listen, trying to force my body to obey, but when I draw in a breath and try to hold it in my chest, my body revolts. My lungs scream and I thrash in his hold until I can gasp in another breath. Another. I need more air.
Logan rubs his hands up and down my back again. “You’re going to pass out. It’s okay. I’m right here.”
I shake my head. How is it okay? I don’t want to pass out any more than I want to spew yellow chunks. I just need more air. “Please.” The word leaks out in a hiss on a desperate exhale.
He hooks his hand behind my neck and holds me tight. “It’s going to be okay, baby. I’m here. I’ll be here when you wake up. You’re going to be fine.”
I don’t feel fine. I feel very far from fine. There’s a terrible rasping noise in my ears, which I know is my own breathing, even though it sounds like nothing that could come out of my chest. The room’s spinning in wide, loopy, white-tile circles. I claw at him, desperate for this to stop but not knowing how to stop it. He catches my hand in his and brings it down to press over his heart.
