Page 35 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

Emile took out the matching clamps, and Baz squirmed slightly when Emile brushed his hand over his cock and cupped Baz’s balls. He braced himself for the pain, but couldn’t help it—when Emile fixed the clamps to his balls, Baz leaned forward, hands fisting, heat coiling tight in his belly.

“If you can’t hold position like a proper submissive,” Emile murmured, like he didn’t know the pain was exquisite, and got up to take the posture collar off the bed. Baz struggled not to move, breathing hard, and didn’t bother looking down as Emile locked on the posture collar. It forced him to straighten his back, slightly bowed from the pain, and raise his chin, unable to look away even as his cock swelled and his face flushed hot. Emile nudged his legs apart slightly with his boot, and Baz tried to focus on his breathing as he attached cuffs to his ankles, connecting them to a spreader bar. That enough would have had Bazyli begging, but he couldn’t do more than make weak, suppressed sounds with his tongue weighed down by the clamp.

He wondered how long Emile would have him kneel like this, but Emile was not done. He went to the bedside table, and Baz heard the sound of a match striking. Emile returned with a tea candle in his hands.

“Palms up,” he said. Baz took a shaky breath and obeyed. Emile placed the candle in his hands, and Baz could barely tilt his chin enough to look down at it. It was already warm on his palms, the small flame flickering. “Hold your position.”

Emile turned away and walked to the end of the room, leaving Bazyli kneeling there with pain coursing through his body in delicious currents while the flame cast light over his hands He leaned against the wall, his face in shadow, as Baz started to feel his limbs tremble slightly. It was becoming increasingly harder to focus, and Baz could feel himself slipping, the haze of subspace starting to creep over his senses.

Then Emile spoke again, and Baz was thrown into alertness, his gaze snapping to Emile’s face.

“Come to me, if you’re truly penitent,” Emile said, his expression unreadable. Baz took a breath, unsure, and Emile’s voice went so low he could barely hear it, but so heavy with dominance that it seemed to leave the air charged and hot. “Crawl.”

* * *

Emile saw it the second Bazyli realized why this was going to be difficult.

Crawling meant not only would the clamps pull at tender skin, but the wax from the candle would spill on Bazyli’s hands, and likely elsewhere. It was a dare, in a way—if you’re really sorry, suffer for me and then maybe I’ll forgive you. It satisfied Emile’s desire to watch Bazyli struggle, to have to work for what Emile wanted to give him. It satisfied Bazyli’s desire to have all control taken away, to submit utterly in a way he never would for anyone else.

It was why Ambrosia couldn’t be here—she would see this as torture, an impossible task that required pain to complete. Bazyli’s eyes were already going soft and hazy, and Emile could see his cock rising as he struggled to find a way to do as bidden. It was not the graceful, lovely crawling that he could do when he was of a mind to show off. This was desperate, determined, and the flash of pain that went across his angular features every time the clamps pulled or the wax spilled made Emile’s mouth go dry.

Emile could see the dark red staining Bazyli’s pale skin. The wax was made for this sort of play, and they’d used it before—the contrast was lovely, and Emile liked to let it cool so he could carefully scrape it off with a knife. It was the sort of thing that took patience, focus and control, and that helped soothe some of the rising tide of volatile emotions he couldn’t quite seem to quell.

“That’s what I want from you,” Emile said, his voice very quiet, gaze moving over Bazyli’s lovely, suffering form. “It would please me if you cried.”

Bazyli couldn’t speak with the clamp on his tongue, but the look in his dark blue eyes was still challenging, make me, and I will. He shuffled a bit more, slow and careful, and the wax dripped down, splashing red over his thigh. He inhaled, pain blossoming over his features, and Emile smiled.

“Do you want to know what I would have done to them, those cretins who tried to take you away? Hanging at dawn would be too good for them. Drawn-and-quartered, perhaps.”

Baz rolled his eyes, which Emile could see since Baz’s eyes weren’t blackened. “Oh, does that disgust you? As I said, my hawk, I still have my thorns. If anyone is foolish enough to try and hurt you, they deserve what they get.”

The kidnappers wanted money, not Bazyli, but as Emile watched Bazyli crawl toward him, he doubted any amount of gold or riches would compare. It made his dark mood threaten again, the thought, you have something so perfect, of course it cannot last.

Bazyli made his careful way across the hard floor on his knees, wax dripping on his hands and stomach, his thighs, on the hard rise of his cock. He was covered in sweat, and his chin was wet with spit from the clamp, his breathing audible in the room. By the time he came to a stop in front of Emile, he was close to tears, eyes bright with them, making small, pained sounds that were as beautiful to Emile’s ears as any note Baz pulled from his lyre.

He went down his haunches so they were level, then reached out, transfixed at the exquisite suffering on Baz’s face, and cruelly pinched the upper part of Bazyli’s left arm. Baz made a sound, and the candle wavered dangerously, wax spilling as he tried to stay still. It would leave a bruise, and Emile was so pleased at the thought, he did it again. He kept an eye on the candle as he tormented Baz–no sense burning the palace down, not now, when Baz was safe and on his knees in their bedroom, as he should be.

“No one hurts you but me,” Emile said. “Isn’t that right.”

It wasn’t a question, but Baz nodded anyway.

“Good.” Emile took the candle from him. “Go to the bed. I don’t care that you can’t stand. Figure it out.”

The tea candle was hot his palm, but Emile was too focused on Baz to care. Baz moved toward the bed, still crawling slowly, and Emile watched as he wriggled there, trying to shift his weight to get his feet under him. Baz was a limber man and Emile had seen him get to his feet with his ankles cuffed more than once, but with the clamps aching on his tongue, nipples and his balls, it would require a bit more effort. The struggling was attractive, and Emile was aware his breathing was evening out, his ire slowly fading as Bazyli finally managed to get into a position to stand. When he did, the clamps moved with him, and his sound of pain was so loud, it shivered over Emile like a physical caress.

“You don’t know how beautiful you are when you suffer for me,” Emile said.

Baz didn’t answer, and only remained upright for a second before losing his balance and falling forward. He landed on the bed, and made another, louder sound of pain into the bedding.

Emile took his time walking over, the candle burned down to nothing but hot wax and a flicker of a flame. He unceremoniously flicked Baz’s braid to one side, baring his back, lightly touching the faded scars from the Archmage’s whip. “Cry for me or you’ll be sorry.” He tipped the candle, slowly, using the wax to form the letter E on Baz’s skin.

Baz did cry, then, sobbing into the bedding, feet kicking. He turned his face to the side so Emile could see the tears, mouth still open with the clamp on his tongue.

“That’s it,” Emile murmured, sliding two fingers into Baz’s mouth. He knew he needed to take the clamps off, but not quite yet. He fucked Baz’s mouth with his fingers, deep, sliding them in so that Baz gagged. “What would you do, Bazyli, if I said I was going to leave you in those clamps and fuck your throat?”

Baz moaned around his fingers, and Emile pulled them free, dragging them across Baz’s cheek. “That’s what I thought.” He took the clamp delicately between his fingers and swiftly removed it, kissing Baz. He sucked on Baz’s sore tongue, tasting the exquisite sound he made, finally feeling settled enough to get the knife. As much as he liked seeing that E on his back, he wanted to fuck Baz and play with his sore nipples as he did.

“I should think you will remember this lesson in the future,” Emile said, as he carefully scraped the wax with the blade. At one point, he had to give Baz’s ass a smack. “Stop trying to fuck the bed, you insatiable creature. No pleasure for you until you’ve taken all the pain I care to give you.”

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