by Watson, Rhea
Instruments of pain.
All my toys.
Head cocked, I carefully sifted through the relics of an age gone by until I found the one I needed for tonight.
Rattan cane. Light wood with a glistening finish and a mahogany handle. Springy, lightweight, flexible under the right hand, it was a cane that left marks—not bruises. There were far heavier, angrier instruments inside the trunk for that.
Not wanting to keep her waiting, I locked up my old friends again, then returned to the formal sitting room.
And there she was, loitering in the bedroom doorway, slightly disheveled without her gown and glittering snowflake headband. Alecto stood before me pared down, hair loose and starting to frizz, drowning in my T-shirt.
Desire throbbed low and rough in my gut at the thought—my shirt hanging over her figure, consuming her, claiming her. That gown must have come with a built-in bra; two pebbled nipples poked through the cotton, determined to make themselves known. I bit down sharply on the inside of my cheek as a reminder not to stare. As the brandisher of pain and control, I set the tone.
Ogling her like this was just poor form.
At the slight arch of my eyebrow, Alecto hastily sank into another sloppy kneel, knees not touching, shoulders slightly rounded. I resisted the urge to march over there and forcefully correct her, maneuver her luscious body to fit my standards.
Instead, I grinned.
She was a fast learner.
“I’m going to cane you, Alecto,” I told her, holding up the instrument in question, allowing her wide eyes to wander back and forth warily. “It’s for sharp, sudden pain. Submissives I’ve worked with in the past tell me they enjoy that it’s twofold—the initial sting, then the burn after.” Given I had no intention of warming her up, this would be a short session, whether she liked it or not. “You can stop after the first blow—or any thereafter. I leave that to you.”
But I would stop every three strikes, just to check on her. After all, I knew nothing about her tolerances, preferences, or limits. It might be overkill to be so cautious, but I’d never played with such a baby submissive before. Alecto deserved my caution.
“I will not strike as hard as I would on more experienced submissives,” I added, the statement meant to both reassure and inflict a little fear. Let her know I was being careful—and that I could go much, much harder. “Do you understand?”
After a tense beat, Alecto nodded slowly, still eyeing the cane.
“I will only cane your thighs tonight.” I much preferred leaving red, raw marks along a bratty sub’s backside, but the area was intimate, something carefully negotiated between partners. To push her with zero experience and limited knowledge would be beyond taking advantage. I allowed her a moment to consider everything, and when she finally lifted her gaze up to my face, I arched an eyebrow. “I need to hear your consent, Alecto. You can of course rescind it now, or at any time—”
“Okay,” she croaked, nodding again and fidgeting with the hem of my shirt, which stretched all the way down to her knees. “I consent—caning on the thighs. Heard. Withdraw at any time. Rot. Understood.”
Fuck me. This was it. The point of no return. I could stop it right here and retain what little professional boundaries we had left—
“Please face the wall.” Well. Point of no return—crossed. I pointed the thin cane precisely where I wanted her. “There.” Next to a massive landscape painting of the raging Atlantic, dark silhouettes of sirens cut into the layers of blue ink that made up the waves. “And brace with your hands.”
Alecto did as she was told, once again without question. She tiptoed over to the exact spot, then slowly offered her back to me. Planted her hands flat to the wall, then leaned over.
“Bend a little more,” I instructed, battling for the first time in decades as a Dom to keep my voice even, “to expose your thighs.”
She readjusted her stance, inching her feet out on either side, adding a slight arch to her back—ass out. Oh, if only, little one. If only. Taking a steadying breath, I crossed over to her and placed a firm hand on her lower back, then hiked up the white tee just enough to bare her strong, full thighs to me. Carefully, almost clinically, I tucked the cotton into her panties, of which I barely noted, the pair nude and practical. Not that I had any intention of prying beyond that. Just need to… keep the shirt in place.
“Are you ready?” I whispered. Her stance here was far better than her attempts at a submissive kneel, posing her now like the perfect offering—the best way to wrap up such a bloody awful Yule.
“Yes,” Alecto murmured back, all throaty and hoarse. The slight tremble in her thighs gave her away—fear and excitement.
An exquisite elixir.
Nodding, I stepped back into my usual stance behind a bent-over submissive, close enough for them to feel my presence but far enough that they were alone in their painful little bubble. Worried I might be rusty, I played with the cane’s grip, then allowed myself a few practice swings. All in the wrist, sadism play. Precision assured no lasting damage. The correct tempo and pressure promised a satisfying session.
When I couldn’t procrastinate a second longer, no matter how I enjoyed just looking at her like this, willing and ready, I swung. Reared back and struck the middle of her thighs—lightly, practically gifting her with an angel’s kiss.
Still she yelped.
Alecto jumped and broke her position, hands falling to the pink line that matched the color in her cheeks.
“Are you all right?” I moved in fast, out of practice enough for insecurity to creep in.
But then she giggled, eyes alight and lips spread wide.
“Yeah, fine,” she insisted brightly. “Just surprised me. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” I told her as she resumed her post. “You just tell me when to stop… No need for martyrs—yet.”
I struck just as she started to nod again, catching her a few inches above the last mark. After the next blow, I pounced, stalking forward and examining her skin. Hot and burning, no doubt, the pain already blooming deliciously.
Alecto flinched when I smoothed a hand over all the marks—just a light caress to ease the scorch for this little pain novice.
I then returned to my spot and struck thrice more, delighting in her whimpers, her gasps, her jumps.
“Shall I continue?” I asked after the sixth line seared across her flesh. Nothing too deep. No blood drawn this evening. Nothing worse than a fussy sunburn for my girl tonight.
Alecto’s head bobbed frantically, her fingers curling over the wall. “Yes… sir.”
Teeth gritted, cock aching, I gave her a much harder strike for that one—because she must have known what that word did to me.
Cane in hand, the rest of the world faded away until it was just her and me in the darkness, a landscape of peaceful black. The high council, Iris Prewett, Samhain, a failed Yule, Fiona Simpson, Bjorn, the awful new security team we had hired on short notice—gone. Expectations, the family legacy, my father’s hard voice—quashed. I could be me, just for a little while, even if I still wasn’t confident in who me was supposed to be with all the rest gone.
At the very least, I could breathe.
After the twelfth strike, this one falling onto a red line I’d been shaping into something lovely, I heard it.
“Rot.”
And then it was over. Tossing the cane on a nearby armchair, I swooped in, concern bubbling in my chest rather than disappointment, and steadied Alecto with one hand on her hip and the other bracing her outstretched—trembling—arm.
“Was that too much?” My voice kept its gravely Dominant edge even as I transitioned into aftercare mode: pain off, cuddles on, slow her nervous system down. Alecto sucked in a wavering breath, then peeked up at me through watery lashes, her face rosy and her grin cheekier than I’d expected.
“Just enough,” she whispered conspiratorially, “for now.”
“Understood.” From a simple five-minute session, I had a feel for her li
kes and her limits. Next time, I would know more—feel more confident in my handling of her. “Stand up and lean on me.”
She eased off the wall, letting me clutch her forearm and steady her by her lower back. Briefly, I gave her space to breathe, to come down from the physical high of pain and pleasure.
Because where there was one, there was always the other for creatures such as we.
“How do you feel?”
“Better,” she admitted, sweeping her hair over her shoulders, lost in the painting of the furious Atlantic to her right. “Distracted… Which I guess is the point.”
“Sometimes,” I mused as I removed my hand from her back, leaving its heat behind, her body’s response to pain and adrenaline beautiful. “Not always.” Ideally, pain was for fun, not necessarily a desperate escape. When she glanced back at me, I steered her toward the half-closed bedroom door. “Now, go change into your dress.”
I held on for as long as I thought necessary, walking her to the doorway and allowing her to close it behind her—just for tonight. As soon as she disappeared, I saw to the cane, setting it on my office desk to disinfect later; even though I hadn’t drawn blood, good Doms cleaned their toys between sessions. Back in the sitting room, I fetched a dark silky blanket from the back of the charcoal-grey couch, then stood waiting.
Hard as a rock and ignoring my cock as best I could.
A task made infinitely more difficult when Alecto limped out, the cane’s bite probably starting to really sting now that she was moving around, tulle brushing the marks. My heart skipped a beat at the sight, just a little bit smitten with her—and not because she fit the submissive mold I’d searched for my whole adult life.
But because she looked alive, fresh-faced and young, shiny and new.
Reborn in my darkness.
Wordlessly, she turned in place and offered me her exposed back. Blanket hanging over one arm, I moved in to do up her zipper again.
“Headmaster?”
“Please,” I said with a soft chuckle, “Jack. Outside of a scene, and away from the others, just Jack.”
“Jack…” She rotated in place once I stepped back, looking very much like she was tasting my name on her tongue, adjusting to how it felt to say it. Little did she realize her newfound privilege: no other submissive had even been granted first-name status before. Just before I threw the silky blanket I never used around her shoulders, her eyebrows crinkled, and she looked up at me, confused. “Did you… enjoy yourself?”
“I did.” My grin had her flushing scarlet, and I resisted the urge to drink in her body unchecked like I owned it—because it felt like I owned it, from this night forward, but things still weren’t so cut-and-dry between us. “Your skin is lovely under the cane.”
She opened and closed her mouth a few times, fumbling over her words as she fussed with her hair. Magnifique. Tongue-tied subs were such a treat.
Given we had shifted into aftercare, I culled the suffering fast, throwing the blanket around her and using it to steer her into me. Alecto came with stiff steps, all rigid and startled by the turn of events, until I tucked her under my chin. Wrapped her in the blanket and my arms, pressing down from all sides. Human studies had shown pressure calmed a frantic nervous system, and I had found that translated well into aftercare; so long as the submissive accepted physical contact, they all got hugs.
I’d never… sniffed past submissives’ hair, mind you.
Never reveled in their scent.
In the way their bodies molded ever so perfectly to mine, small but strong.
Alecto stayed tense and silent for a little while, her arms folded between us, until eventually all the hardness gave way—and she just melted.
Well then. Bratty little pain sub liked cuddly aftercare.
Noted.
When I peeked down, I found her eyes closed, and something warm and fuzzy once again flared in my chest, all soft and cozy and not how I felt after scenes in the past.
Bloody hell.
Not good.
Not good.
Ruin the moment. Save yourself—
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
The little witch nodded, eyes still closed, and let out a long, luxurious sigh, her head turned to the side and cheek to my chest.
Right. So much for killing the intimacy.
I carried on holding her, deep pressure working its magic on her body, but made an effort to stand taller—stay above the cloud of vanilla that followed her around and not bury my nose in her hair. For now, I also let the catalyst of tonight go, just as I had the last time, but I couldn’t keep quiet on the issue much longer. Twice now she had come to me in tears, heartbroken and lost, and the thought of someone in this castle doing that to her threatened to tip me into a rage…
A rage from which there might be no return.
Which was also a problem.
Sniffing her hair? Problem.
Wanting to tear some faceless bastard limb from limb for upsetting her? Major problem.
“Thank you, Jack,” she said, her sleepy words cutting through the noise. Second by second, the chaos I lived with every day had trickled back in, thoughts racing, mind whirling, self-loathing and the cruel voices who always told me I wasn’t good enough all reared their ugly heads.
Then three little words silenced them.
“You’re welcome,” I rumbled back, stomping out the urge to stroke her hair, rub her back, nuzzle in deeper to keep my brain quiet for a few more blissful minutes.
“I really appreciate… you,” she added, then inhaled sharply. “Oh.” Her eyes snapped open, and she dug her folded arms into my chest to push back and look up at me. “I mean, no. A sadist doesn’t want to hear that. You really hurt me—”
“It’s what this sadist wants to hear,” I assured her with a tired grin, surrendering to the moment as I tucked her hair behind her ears, then brought her back to my chest with a hand on the back of her head.
Where it stayed, cradling her to me, until her third yawn forced me to do the right thing.
“Right, off to bed with you,” I ordered as I pulled back and found her looking as exhausted on the outside as I suddenly felt on the inside. Another sleepy, sweet nod from Alecto was all I needed to walk her to my door, savoring her slight limp, her barely there wince whenever her dress brushed the backs of her thighs. A part of me didn’t want to let her go. No, it yearned to peel her dress away, put her back in my T-shirt, then tuck her into my bed in my room.
“Good night, Headmaster.”
I cut her loose instead. I had to. There was no room in my life for anything beyond a carefully constructed scene—a play session negotiated between two consenting adults, with a start, middle, and very clear end. When that time came, we had to go our separate ways; there was no other choice.
I was her headmaster. She was my professor. My job hung by a thread. Her career had only just started.
I couldn’t… ruin her.
Couldn’t entangle her in anything deeper than this.
She smiled at me from the grey-stone landing outside my flat, a little rumpled but otherwise unassuming. No one would look at her and think someone had just caned her thighs red.
Lingering in the doorway, I leaned a shoulder against the frame and folded my arms. “Good night, Miss Clarke. Sleep well.”
“You too,” Alecto murmured, and for once the sentiment sounded genuine. All my staff thanked me, wished me well, told me good morning and good night—but they said it because they had to. Because I was their boss.
Not her. Not now. We spoke as equals.
Until it all came crashing down.
As soon as Alecto turned toward the stairwell, there was Iris emerging like a bony phoenix from the ashes, dripping with silver feathers, her face painted white like some Elizabethan queen. My heart stopped, then plunged into my gut. Alecto paled. Iris slowed at the top of the steps, eyeing us slowly, thoroughly. For me, she offered a smirk, thin lips twisted knowingly, while Alect
o was given a scathing once-over and a dismissive sniff.
Without a word, my perfect submissive ducked her head and practically sprinted for the stairs, vanishing down them in a flurry of tulle and frantic click-click-clicks of her heels.
Greying blonde hair swept in an impressively tall beehive, Iris strode onto the landing like the royalty she so obviously coveted in that gown: regal bodice, a dramatic silhouette exaggerated at the hips, a shimmering icy tail stretching behind. Silvery blue like Alecto, but my girl had made it work. Somehow, she had made the frosts warm. Iris was an ice queen through and through, complete with what appeared to be an authentic silver tiara coiled around that upstart hairdo.
I’d seen many like her in my time, strutting into my social circle in outfits that reeked of new money, all flash and no substance.
“Careful, Headmaster,” she crooned as she floated to her door.
“Of what?” I growled, mindful of my tone, my posture, my expression—everything—as she plucked her wand from her towering, overly teased hair and tapped it on her door. “A late-night talk with an upset professor? Hardly something to be careful of—and I resent the implication.”
As her flat door popped open, my assistant headmistress fluttered her fake lashes at me innocently, the ends of those long black wisps tipped with faux sapphires. Then, halfway in, her schoolgirl façade fell away, shifting from innocent to viper in a heartbeat.
“Of course.” She pressed her wand hand to her chest, to the rigid corset that flattened every curve, her frail figure laced in tight and straight. “My mistake, naturally. Apologies, Jack.”
Still smirking, she made her eyelashes dance again, then slipped inside, the subsequent slam of her door nowhere near loud enough to muffle her cackles.
Shit.
Shaking my head, I did the same, locking the door and heading straight to bed. If Alecto and I were to continue this, we couldn’t do it here. Too risky. Too many eyes in this castle, including the portraits of my judgmental predecessors. I mean, seven hells, she had left her snowflake headband on my nightstand; we had to be more careful than that.
After admiring its sparkly details, I tucked the band in the little table’s drawer almost reverently, handling it like a precious artifact, and made a mental note to return it later.
