by Logan Fox
Were there fewer candles lit today? Why did the walls look so dark and craggy? Why was it so cold and stuffy down here? The stink of rusting metal and dampness filled the air. It was only when Jarred took hold of Pearl’s hand, urging her forward, that she caught a tiny whiff of the man’s linen-fresh smell; a tiny, insignificant comfort.
He drew her to the cross facing her — it stood at a right-angle to the dark glass of the observation room, probably to ensure today’s watchers could see both sides of the cross with equal clarity.
Jarred’s fingers were warm and dry around her wrist, holding her gently but implacably.
“This is a saltire,” Jarred said as he touched her shoulder to bring her to a halt. It was obvious he was speaking to the dragon — or did she call it a goat, since that was so obviously what the man had been going for — but he angled his voice so it reached her, too.
Pearl stared up at the cross. Made from immaculately crafted wood, the saltire was darkly varnished with four rings fixed at either point. It had two small platforms for her feet. Attached to the rings were manacles which, although dull steel, had a thin padding of maroon leather inside.
Probably to prevent her skin chafing off when she struggled.
“Also known as a St. Andrew’s Cross,” Jarred was saying behind her. “How pious they were back then.” The last was little more than a murmur, a hint of laughter touching Jarred’s voice. “For whipping, place the bottom — or sub — with her back facing you.”
Jarred’s fingertips brushed the small of Pearl’s back. She glanced at him over her shoulder, ducked her head, and stepped onto the two platforms on either end of the X.
Her tendons stretched taut as her legs spread. Pearl shifted, trying to get more than just the ball of her foot on the platform, but the device was in no way or form designed for comfort. Jarred took hold of her zipper, but before he could tug it down, the dragon-goat spoke.
“May I?”
Pearl spun to face the man, her lips parting as she took an unexpectedly deep and fast breath. Jarred swept a hand out to Pearl, and stepped aside for the dragon. She tottered, grabbing onto the wood just above the crux of the saltire to keep herself from pitching backward.
She’d recognized that voice, muffled and echoey as it was coming from that creepy-ass mask.
The dragon stepped closer; now even his strides were familiar. Pearl threw Jarred a wide-eyed stare, but the man simply gave her a small, encouraging smile before taking a step to the side.
Warm fingertips touched against Pearl’s spine. The dragon drew down her dress’s zipper with aching slowness, his fingernails scraping over her skin. Chiffon dropped down her body, heaping at either ankle.
The dragon’s robe brushed the back of Pearl’s knees as the man caught hold of her wrists and yanked her hands up to the manacles. Pearl closed her eyes, giving her lips a quick swipe with her tongue and trying to swallow down a sudden wave of nervousness.
“Still pliable and obedient I hope, sweetheart,” Owen whispered into her ear as he closed the first manacle over her left-hand wrist.
Pearl gave him a small nod. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” His voice dipped low as he secured the second manacle over her wrist. It locked with a loud clack.
“Yes, Sir.” Pearl let her head hang down, opening her eyes to stare down at the bench between the two slightly-slanted crosses. For a third person? Another fox, perhaps?
“Good to know.” Owen ducked down. He lifted her feet one at a time, freeing her yellow dress before tightening the manacles around her ankles. He gave her golden anklet a tug. “Do you like your new owner?”
Pearl didn’t answer. Did it matter if Owen knew that two men had already claimed her in one way or another?
Movement caught her eye: Jarred, leading Opal to the cross opposite Pearl. She watched as the brown-eyed girl stepped onto the platform, her mouth twisted in a sour grimace. Jarred had already taken off her dress, but Opal seemed less concerned with her nakedness than she did with the fact that Jarred was securing her to the cross.
Pearl tried to make eye contact, but Opal’s furious glare was focused somewhere just above Pearl’s navel.
“Give it a good tug for me, little blackbird,” Jarred said into Opal’s ear.
Pearl, less than two feet away from the girl, could hear his words as clearly as if he’d whispered them into her own ear. Opal didn’t reply, but her manacles jangled as she gave each wrist a simultaneous jerk. Jarred’s hand trailed down her arm, his fingertips not leaving her skin until they’d reached Opal’s ankle. He secured her ankles, tapped her calf, and squeezed her when she kicked out with her feet to test the manacle’s strength.
She was still watching Jarred bind Opal’s other ankle when the air behind her stirred. A strip of leather, something metallic and slick, and then rubber-like latex brushed over her face. Pearl shied away, but this just brought her flush against Owen’s mask. It smelled musky.
“You haven’t developed an allergy to latex since we last met, have you?” Owen murmured into her ear.
Pearl managed a quick shake of her head, eyes wide and panicked as Owen slid the bit into her mouth. The latex tasted foreign against her tongue, and the large metal ring on either side of her mouth felt hard and cold. Owen buckled the leather straps together at the back of her head, running a quick hand through her hair to straighten it before stepping back.
“Perfect,” Jarred said.
Pearl looked across at Opal. The girl wore the same gag, a line of saliva trickling down her chin. Her eyes finally lifted, but not to look at Pearl. Instead, she turned her head and stared at the dark glass, shooting a scathing glare into the observation room. At this angle, Pearl couldn’t make out any shapes behind the glass.
Perhaps, because Jarred was here, there was no need for anyone to watch. The thought birthed a worm of queasy fear deep in her belly; its crawling, twitching shape made her shiver.
There was a loud crack behind Pearl. She jerked, her manacles and the bell around her throat vying for attention in a cacophony of metallic jangles and tinkles. Her head shot around, eyes widening at the sight of the four-foot long whip dangling from Owen’s hand. He’d hitched up his sleeves, baring those tanned, muscled arms she remembered so well.
“Let’s start with a few backhand strokes to configure your distance from your sub,” Jarred said.
Pearl’s eyes flicked to the man opposite her. Opal’s eyes were on Owen somewhere behind Pearl. Then the girl’s eyes flared.
It was just enough warning.
Pearl squeezed her eyes shut. A tiny, almost insignificant bite to the curve of her ass came an instant later. She drew a small breath, exhaling. But before the last of her breath was out, Owen’s whip took another fiery nip at her ass.
Opal’s lips were tight around her bit, her eyes narrowing with each subsequent touch of Jarred’s whip. Owen seemed to be cracking his louder, taking longer between each sweeping movement. Jarred’s arm rose and fell in a smooth, practiced motion that looked as effortless as someone absently batting a fly.
“Good. Now some overhand strikes. Try to build a steady rhythm like we practiced.”
The next strike to Pearl’s ass tore into her like a strip of molten lava. She yelled, cringing away from the pain with a clank of her manacles.
Her head whipped around as she tried to convey with wide, startled eyes how much that had fucking hurt. But whether Owen was even looking at her from behind that mask was impossible to tell.
“Let’s pause for a moment.” Jarred’s voice was almost beside Pearl. “This little fox is a curious one. I’d rather she didn’t lose an eye.”
Lose an eye?
Pearl shrank away from Jarred’s hand, but he simply followed her, grabbing hold of the bit in her mouth as if she were a testy horse he was planning to break in regardless of her mood or hooves.
He jerked her head straight, grabbed a leather strip from where it dangled on the bench below, and slid it between the left-
hand ring beside Pearl’s mouth.
As cool air touched her chin, she realized she’d begun to drool over the bit’s rubber mouthpiece. She forced her eyes away from Jarred, finding Opal. The girl watched her with dead, emotionless eyes, lips no longer straining around the bit. Instead, she seemed almost bored, her hips snug against the crux of her saltire as she waited for Jarred to return.
Where exactly did Jarred plan to tie—
The thought evaporated as Jarred tugged Pearl’s head forward and slid the other end of the thin leather strap into Opal’s bit.
Now their heads were only a foot apart. Seconds later, a second strip of leather attached both sides of their bits together. They couldn’t move. Couldn’t turn their heads. Couldn’t look over their shoulders.
As if she knew what was coming, Opal closed her eyes and let out a soft, resigned breath through her nose.
A strip of satin whispered over Pearl’s forehead. Owen bound it tight over the back of her head, gave her another stroke, and stepped back.
“Perfect. I think a few more minutes of overhand? It’s—” a whip crack tore apart Jarred’s calm voice “—one of the trickier moves to get right. But practice—” crack “—makes perfect, of course.”
There was a crack behind Pearl, inches behind her ear. She jerked, inhaling sharply in fright. With nothing to see but utter darkness, every sound was amplified.
Owen— and Jarred’s whips; a whisper-crack of anticipation.
Opal’s short, harsh breaths. Her own too fast, too hot, as it tore past the bit in her mouth.
Her teeth clamped down for all she was worth. It helped, somewhat. But only somewhat. Because the pain was intense. Unwavering. Chaotic and brutal.
That strip of braided leather tasted her flesh again and again, its acidic tongue scouring over her skin. It would lick her, kiss her, bite her, claw at her. It was Satan himself, a fiery serpent freshly risen from the molten pits of hell, his forked tongue flicking fire over her skin. Unlike Jarred’s spanking, that serpent roamed her entire body. It nipped at her shoulders, her back, her thighs.
She flinched and bucked and moaned through the bit as a wave of heat pulsed through her. Opal had begun to breathe heavily, letting out a low keen through the bit in her mouth.
More than anything, Pearl just wanted to open her eyes. At least then, she could have some warning — Opal’s eyes widening as Owen flicked back his hand to ready for another blow.
She heard Jarred talking. Words like ‘archer’ and ‘pace’ and ‘alternate’. But even his voice turned into a low buzz after a while, unable to compete with the dull roar in Pearl’s ears as blood gushed in toxic flurries through her veins.
Then the blows to her body became rhythmic. Maybe they had been, all along… maybe her body had been unable to focus on patterns when such an influx of pain had swamped her brain. But now it ebbed — that agony drawing back enough for her to feel the rhythm of that fiery leviathan’s tongue-flicks.
Her heart began pulsing with each blow. Every lub-dub synchronizing with a hiss-smack of the whip.
Pearl’s muffled yells fell into a low moan. Soon, the only sound she made was a murmured ‘uh’ whenever that demonic strip of leather touched her. Had she not been blindfolded, her eyes would still have closed of their own. Her head sank forward, touching against Opal’s forehead. The girl was already leaning forward, barely stirring when their flesh touched.
Opal had stopped making sounds. Her breath came at the same intervals as what Pearl could only assume Jarred’s whip strokes touched her. She no longer gave off bristling anger, frustration, or determination. Instead, Pearl felt only acceptance — maybe even surrender — from the girl.
Or did it come from her?
She hadn’t wanted this: the feel of a whip against her flesh. Another flash of heat coruscated over her skin, but a cool breeze dampened it seconds later. Pearl shuddered deeply, and her fingers went limp. She hung from her manacles like a slave three weeks in the stocks — muscles weak and trembling.
More voices, droning and undulating like a swarm of bees hunting for a new nest for their queen, washed over her. Illegible.
That tap-tap-tap against her stopped. Something trickled down her back — sweat or blood? — and found its way to her hip. She could feel every inch of its journey down to her ankle where it disappeared into the leather constricting her foot.
Something stroked her hair.
She shivered violently, expelling a blustering breath over her bit.
A crack roused her from whatever catatonic state she’d slipped into.
Pearl jerked her head away from Opal’s. She shivered again — that scathing fire had left frozen flesh behind — and tugged back on her restraints. Opal made an angry sound as the movement jarred her, shaking her head in retaliation and making their bits chime and jingle.
“—think that’s enough for—” billowed Jarred’s voice.
Owen’s whip lashed fire over Pearl’s shoulder. She let out a muffled yell, twisting her shoulder away from the pain.
And dear God, was there pain.
It flared into her like someone had poured the sun’s liquid surface in a line over her shoulder blade.
Another crack. A deep, cutting line of agony formed on her other shoulder.
Pearl began struggling in her bonds. No, fuck, not—
She screamed into the bit as Satan’s beastly henchman dragged a ragged claw inches deep through her flesh.
Red.
The word bobbed up from an ocean of blood and agony, emerging like a newly birthed child — covered in afterbirth and still to draw its first breath from the world.
“It’s best to bring your sub out now,” came Jarred’s calm, measured voice. “This was her first—”
A brutal slash over Pearl’s left ass cheek eviscerated whatever Jarred had been saying.
Pearl screamed again.
Red.
With as much force as she could muster, she yelled, “’Ed!”
The word was distorted, pushed through the bit as it was.
“’Ed!”
She took a breath, relief washing through her in an icy deluge. Thank God for safe—
Fire erupted over her right ass cheek, inches above where the skin curved into her thigh. Pearl’s hip bucked forward, crashing into the saltire’s sticky wood. Another blow caught her an inch to the left of her spine, tearing into the soft flesh beneath her shoulder blade.
“’Ed! ’Ed!” The screams tore into her throat and made her lips vibrate around the bit in her mouth.
Opal let out a sharp, frightened breath.
“Enough!” Jarred’s bellow cut through the sound of Pearl’s clinking manacles, terrified screams, and gaily tinkling collar. “Did you not hear your sub use her safe word?”
The man’s voice quaked with anger. There was a scuffle behind Pearl, muted by the sound of her own pounding heart. Flickers of agony raced through her, vying with the glacial shivers chasing each other across her body.
“Out!” Another bellow; tight, livid. “If I ever see you in this dungeon again—” Jarred’s voice became thick “—I’ll take a whip to you myself.”
There was a light, amused laugh. “Relax. I’m done here.” There was a thud as something dropped to the floor.
The dungeon doors slammed open.
“What the hell—” came Ethan’s hoarse voice.
“I’m leaving.” Owen sounded amused. Another quiet laugh. “No need to escort me, I know the way.”
Someone loosened the blindfold on Pearl’s head. She narrowed her eyes against the sudden spill of light. Cool air licked at the tears dampening the skin beneath her eyes. She blinked hard, forcing another pair of tears out. Letting her head fall forward, Pearl tried to keep her feet still, tried to stop squirming against the trickles of pain leaking into her flesh from the five gouges cut into her skin.
“This should not have happened, my little blackbird,” came Jarred’s voice in her ear. A whisper, but harsh, a
s if he was struggling to keep calm.
Her bit came off next, Jarred delicately levering the rubber from her mouth. The indents her teeth had left in the latex slowly oozed out as he took the dripping bit away, his thumb wiping at the saliva on her lips.
Pearl turned her face away, swallowing and then gagging at the taste in her mouth. Her lips tingled fiercely, but it was a faint sensation compared with the aching welts Owen had left on her.
The manacles around her wrists came off next.
Footsteps, at least two people, hurrying toward her. Pearl flinched, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder. Her feet were still attached to the saltire, but she began tugging at them.
Her heart was knocking hard into her ribs.
Ethan and Caden, practically running. Both eyes — chromium and cerulean — wide. Both mouths set in a furious line. Caden went past her, releasing Opal from her saltire.
“Shh,” Jarred murmured, laying a hand on Pearl’s calf.
“Get me out,” Pearl said through gritted teeth. Tears blurred her vision, clearing when she squeezed them out with a hard blink. “Get me out!” This a hoarse yell.
The last manacle released her. Pearl’s foot slid from the platform, slipping on her own sweat. She crashed into the saltire, crying out as the impact jarred new lines of fire from her skin.
Something soft, warm, thick, enveloped her. But nothing could have been soft enough — even the air grated over her wounds like sandpaper.
Pearl cried out, her legs wobbling as she tried to step away from the saltire, tried to turn for the dungeon doors. Ethan blocked her, all wide eyes and pale face.
“Hey, calm—”
“Fuck you!” Pearl shoved her shoulder into the man, grabbing absently at the thick blanket around her shoulders.
“Where is he?” Who cracked, rough voice was that? Was it hers?
She managed two steps before her legs caved in, but then she was crawling, forcing back another volley of tears with a creaking jaw and furious, blustering breaths through her nose.
