“It’s just a warm-up, in case you’re wondering,” she said as if reading his thoughts. “First a paddle, and then we’ll see how it goes.”
The next swing came a bit harder, across his right buttock, and she kept going steadily, alternating sides, until it became not a warm-up at all. Dragomir counted in his mind at first, for no reason, but the tenth stroke landed forceful enough to rock him forward and draw an unwanted stifled grunt out of him … and then concentrating on numbers became rather difficult.
He’d been through worse. Hell, tonight’s punch to the liver had been more painful, definitely. But it wasn’t only the pain itself. He didn’t know how long it would last. He couldn’t understand why this was happening, if not just for Ida’s sadistic entertainment, and if so, why would she stop until he was bruised raw, just a sack of beaten up meat? Why would she stop after that? Jumbled thoughts were racing through his head, each smack making them more and more panicked.
Eighteen? Or was it twenty already? One more burning-hot imprint on his flesh… And one more…
When she finally stopped, he was biting into his bicep to stop himself from making undignified sounds. Should he beg her to stop? Was it what she wanted, to humiliate him? Vaguely, he considered the idea.
“A breather,” she said. “I have to let my arm rest. But don’t worry, we’ll continue soon. I want to check if I can make you cry out loud. Don’t be shy, be vocal all you want. You have a perfect voice for groaning and cursing.”
No, he thought. Begging wouldn’t work. Why would she release him at all and risk a violent outburst? Cold crept down his spine, a contrast to the shameful burning in his ass.
“While we both take a break, you have a short time to decide: what makes you most angry now? This very moment? Do it fast because when I resume, coherent thinking might become a problem, believe me.”
And yes, there was nothing left for him but to think, as he was powerless now to do anything else. He’d been a fool hoping anybody would want to help him. Everyone had their own reasons to mess with him the way they wanted, and he always caught up too damn late.
“So what is it? What do you hate?” Ida inquired. Was she done resting?
“You,” he snarled. “Any doubts about it?”
“Actually, yes. I suspect you haven’t tried hard enough to find an answer. Next time do better.”
Next time?
“Meanwhile, I think we should pay attention to your back and legs, not just your ass, however pleasing it might be to see it practically glowing. It’s scarlet now, a very becoming color.” Ida gave him a light slap with her bare hand, and he almost yelped. “I guess I’ll have to change the implement.” Her voice migrated farther away. “I need something more flexible. Hmm. Maybe this.” A sound like she was testing something against her hand, an unpleasantly loud crack. “Oh yes, it will do just fine.”
It was something like a leather strap, more flexible indeed, and thinner than the paddle. When it landed across his shoulders, he thought it wasn’t too bad. He could tough through this without making any sounds at all, but like the first time, it turned out to be just a warm-up. By the fifth blow he bit through his lip. Fuck. Fuck. Damn her, he wasn’t going to show how wrecked he already was, no matter what she wanted from him.
With the taste of blood in his mouth and rage boiling through him, he managed to stay quiet for a while as measured, precise snaps rained down his body. Cutting bites instead of dull thuds. Ida avoided his lower back—maybe saving the pleasure of hitting his kidneys for later?—but before a funny thought of being grateful for small mercies formed in his mind, a searing stripe crossed the punished flesh of his buttocks, and he choked on a full-voice howl. Nope, no mercies for him.
Ida blistered his thighs, just as meticulously, and the back of his calves, and when he decided the ordeal was finally over, at least for a short while, the strap went up again. Oh God. He found himself whimpering through gritted teeth, fingers clenched convulsively around the chains that held him. He always shattered sooner or later, didn’t he, like when they methodically dissected him in Scholomance.
Maybe it would be better if he were what others thought of him. A message. A tracking device. A punching machine. Not a human being. But he was hurt flesh and raw nerves, and it made him so appallingly weak. So disgusting.
So very much not in control, as the damn witch said.
“Now one more break,” Ida announced, a little breathy herself, after having delivered the final wallop to the tender crease where the backside met his thighs. “Once again, think carefully, what makes you angry?”
The sound of her heels against the wooden floor. She hadn’t gone far, but he had no idea where she was, what she was doing, what implement she might choose next. Fear and panic melted into his anger like wax, and died there in agony, and he felt nothing now but all-consuming hatred.
He’d always been such an idiot. Unable to defend himself when it mattered the most and losing himself in meaningless fights when it didn’t change anything. Not strong enough. Not smart enough.
Face pressed into his upturned arm, he breathed hard, enveloped in this hate. Not for Ida, not for Scholomance, not for the mage whose name he never knew.
“Done with your homework?” Ida’s voice nudged him. “So what would you write on that imaginary chalkboard? What are you angry at? Who are you angry at?”
Myself.
Maybe he said it out loud.
And it was more painful than a beating, this wave of self-loathing that rose like acid bile within him. He was disposable trash, always had been, and no one would miss him if he disappeared. And honestly, it was unsurprising. He couldn’t fathom why anybody should.
A hand suddenly came to rest on his nape, cool and delicate. “My, my. So I guessed right. I thought I’d have to push harder to dig it out, but it’s never far down from the surface, this feeling, is it?”
His breaths came out shaky like silent sobs, and he knew it degraded him most pathetically, but at some point, he must have stopped caring. What did it matter? Hot, angry tears were wetting his cheeks, escaping from the sides of the blindfold, and he couldn’t do anything about it. The pain radiated through him, and the gentle hand carding through his hair felt just as surreal as anything else.
For a few strange moments, Dragomir seemed to have forgotten it was the same hand that had hurt him. And would probably hurt him again, in even worse ways.
“Hush now.” Ida’s voice came like a peaceful tidal wave. “It’s almost over. I’m sorry I had to disorient you, but strong men like yourself don’t open up easily.”
A laugh came out like another muffled sob. Strong? Was she mocking him again?
“Seriously, you should have seen yourself muscling through pain,” she said almost fondly, not stopping to pet him. “It was a gorgeous sight, believe me. A captive warrior. A tortured rebel. Though our session had a practical purpose, it was most pleasing in itself, from an aesthetic point of view.”
She confessed she’d disoriented him. And yeah, he felt fuzzy and clueless, with only the flames of his anger holding him up, as if there were a furnace inside of him to feed a barely working—but still working—mechanism of his battered body with sizzling-hot steam.
“Everyone breaks eventually,” Ida told him in a patronizing tone, but not without puzzling kindness, or maybe even affection. “Everyone does, but you never stop fighting, even when you are broken. When you are bound and hurt. You’re so stubborn … fierce … unconquered… It’s fascinating. I think you deserve a reward for being so tough.”
Her hands slid down his tense arms, outlining the bulging muscles, and this time he didn’t even try to back off. He knew he couldn’t. Ida carded her fingers through his thick chest hair, down to the belly, and lower, to the tuft of his pubes. Ran a nail along the length of his cock, circled its tip.
“This kind of reward, as you might have guessed.”
The stirring of arousal could have been embarrassing, but Ida squeezed hi
s sore ass with both hands, kneaded it none too gently before palming his cock again—and aligned with pain, it became just another physical sensation. Something devoid of meaning. Dragomir felt his heart thump, his lungs work, his welts burn, and his cock respond to Ida’s touch, all at once. Inside of him, there was hate and rage and need, all mixed together, too. He couldn’t separate them. He didn’t know anymore if he should.
Ida’s skirt kept brushing against his thigh as she coaxed an erection out of him, smearing the first profuse drops of his pre-cum all over the straining shaft.
“Remember what you wrote on that imaginary chalkboard?” she asked in a hushed voice, her mouth so close to his collarbone he could feel her warm breath. “Look at it once again. Look closely. Do you see it? Now feel all the anger it stirs in you, all the hatred… Feel that sensation pulsing … enveloping your whole being… And wipe the word you’ve written. Let only the sensation remain. Let it spread through your body, the heat, the energy. It’s pure power. So raw. So primal. Strong.”
And he did feel it, burning brighter and brighter, but not consuming him now. It was his and not his, and every nerve was buzzing with it. Strong, she said. Had he the presence of mind, he would probably doubt it, like he usually did, like he had all the reasons to do. But he wasn’t very rational at the moment, so yes, he felt strong. A strange, heady feeling embraced him.
“Do you want the wrist cuffs off?” Ida asked suddenly, but didn’t stop, so he wasn’t able to process her question at first and she had to repeat it.
He nodded, too far gone for words. Of course he wanted them off. Surely he did?
And then Ida stopped. Even though he hadn’t begged her when she had been beating him, he was on the verge of begging her now. To go on, this time.
****
“I must tell you a secret first,” she whispered, so close but unreachable. “A very dangerous secret, so treat it carefully. You could snap your handcuffs open any time you tried. This?” She touched the leather collar, trailed a finger along its rim. “I lied. There’s no spell on it. It’s just leather.”
She paused, as if waiting for him to act on the information immediately.
And yes, he should have made an attempt to break free right away.
“Why?” he asked instead, his voice husky. “All this? Why?”
“When I said you weren’t in control, I lied, too. This collar doesn’t restrain you from using magic, so not using it—it was your choice, even if it was made because of my lie. Just one outburst of energy, and you’d be free—I’ve seen you in action, I know you could do it, and yet you didn’t. It’s…”
“Foolish?”
“Impressive, I’d say.” Her fingers encircled his erection again, as if she were talking about it. “You might not have control over the circumstances, but you have control over yourself. You didn’t try out your magic on a panicked impulse. You might be restrained, you might be beaten up, but you are strong enough to master your energy. Not everyone is capable of it, I assure you.”
Dragomir gasped when she slowly and firmly ran her palms up and down his shaft. Just once, damn it! He was achingly hard and leaking.
“You’re not … you’re not afraid I’ll break out now?”
“I’m quite capable of defending myself in case of emergency, so not really, no. And besides, are you absolutely certain you want to? Why hurry? I’m very, very pleased with the results of our experiment.” One more leisurely up and down caress, along the underside of his cock. “You did so well. And as I said, you deserve a reward. For being so resilient. For not breaking out. Do you want to still get it, or to free yourself?”
“The first option,” he croaked out, maddened by her lingering, not sure if he was angry anymore—or just heated with lust, fuming, burning. And oh God yes, she finally took mercy on him and resumed tugging and squeezing and pumping, rhythmically, expertly. It didn’t take long before he started thrusting into her fist with abandon, and the darkness of the blindfold made him forget to care whether it looked undignified or not.
When he cried out his release, there was no shame in it. In that instant he forgot who he was, where he’d come from. He was pure, pulsating energy. But at the same time, strangely, still himself, the way he truly was.
Still alive. No matter what.
He didn’t know how long he hung there afterwards, slumped against his wrist cuffs, his legs barely supporting him and his mind blank.
“Can you stand on your own?” He finally heard Ida’s voice. “I’m going to release you.”
He considered her question for a moment. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Maybe hold onto the chains anyway, just in case,” she told him. “You’re huge, so it would be hard to catch you. And it would be rather inconvenient if you fell.”
Judging by the sound, Ida must have moved something like a small stepstool for herself to climb onto it and unbuckle Dragomir’s cuffs. His legs felt wobbly and his hands slightly numb, but he did his best to stay upright and held onto the chains as she had told him to.
“Fine, you may let go now.”
He had to lean on her heavily as she led him somewhere, but surprisingly, she was strong enough to help him.
“Just a few steps,” she encouraged him. “That’s it.”
She eased him onto a bed, nudged him to lie down on his front, unbuckled his collar and finally took off the blindfold. The light of a bedside lamp was dim and soft, but Dragomir squinted anyway. Blinking, he propped up on his elbows to take a look around.
Not a dungeon. Just a bedroom, if one didn’t pay attention to the shackles hanging from the center of the ceiling. Dark, waxed parquet floor and moss green walls. A wooden wardrobe with brass handles and panels of stamped leather. Curtains with the same runic pattern. A simple and elegant table with a looking glass in a gilded frame, a matching chair with a footstool. And the tall double bed Dragomir was lying on. No pictures, no rugs, or other adornments. Everything seemed to be very functional, albeit vintage-looking. Minimalist, but with a personal touch, unlike the immaculate living-room where they had discussed their further … collaboration.
Dragomir took all this in blearily. All he wanted to do was to sink back to the pillows, close his eyes and fall asleep, not thinking of what had happened. He was never good at thinking. But he probably should?
Ida brought a mug of water and held it to his lips. He drank in messy gulps. He hadn’t realized he was so thirsty. His numbed hands started tingling as the blood rushed back, and he wasn’t sure the mug wouldn’t have slipped out of his grasp if Ida hadn’t helped him. Was it humiliating? He couldn’t tell anymore.
Then Ida disappeared from his sight again, and he tried to sit up, strangely anxious to see where she had gone, but his whole body declared it was a very, very bad idea.
“Stay down, don’t fidget,” Ida ordered somewhere behind his back. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”
Dragomir listened to her rummaging through the drawers of the wardrobe and wondered if she was looking for something she might hurt him with. Again. But he wasn’t concerned enough to get up and check it out. He was free now. He could relax. There was no need to worry about anything… Most likely.
The mattress shifted slightly as Ida climbed onto the bed beside him. The first touch along his shoulder was pleasantly cool and slippery. Some kind of cream?
“That’s for your welts.”
Okay then. He didn’t mind. He still felt the burning in his back and legs, but not as fierce as it had been, more like an itch, and the ointment seemed to make it better, take the stinging away. If he didn’t move, it was almost like an aftermath of an intense massage.
“Did you like it?” Ida asked as her cream-slicked hands traveled down to his buttocks. “Nope, wrong question,” she corrected herself before he could answer. “You don’t seem to be a masochist, you don’t enjoy pain. But what we did—do you feel better after that?”
“Yes,” he said without thinking, surprising himself, but not
Ida.
“Good,” she approved curtly, as if she had expected nothing else.
“What about you?” Dragomir asked drowsily. “I mean I came, but you didn’t.”
A warm laugh. More feather-like, soothing strokes along his thighs. “Oh, you’re such a gentleman, it’s adorable. After taking a beating from me you’re still concerned about such a thing. But why do you think I haven’t? Just watching you was enough to make a girl very excited.”
Was it?
“Don’t worry, tonight is all about you,” Ida assured him. “But you will be allowed to please me later. Now, just lie still. Let me take care of you.”
His welts were gently throbbing, and he unwound into her touches, let her do what she thought necessary. It could have been arousing, had he not been so spent and worn out. But she didn’t seem to want anything from him, to expect or demand anything from him, so just lying there and doing nothing was fine. He took the last vestiges of pain and the comforting caresses with equal acceptance, as if floating on the verge of unconsciousness, empty-minded and careless.
“That’s what I meant about giving up control once in a while,” Ida murmured and leaned in to plant a chaste kiss on his shoulder blade. “Not on an impulse, but willingly. You don’t need to claim it back through violence. You know you already have it. But control might be a huge burden, especially if you’ve been grasping at it too tightly for a long time. You need to let go of it, like now.”
He had no intention to dispute with her, not at the moment. Surely, there must have been arguments against the dubious things she said, but her voice was lulling him to sleep, and he gave in.
****
When Dragomir woke up, it was morning. Probably late morning, judging by the light seeping in between the drawn curtains. He’d slept without dreams. Not like the dead, no. Dead surely didn’t feel so refreshed and so … alive, despite a considerable number of aches here and there. Or maybe this feeling came thanks to these aches, actually, like they were a reminder he still had a body. Living was messy after all.
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