Page 64 of The Cartographer

“Yes, sir.”

He kneels in the middle of the room, and I pull on the end of the belt, letting him feel it. I don’t miss the strain of his tendons against the leather.

“Do you like being collared, Hart? Having leather tight around your throat?”

He swallows again and my chest constricts. “Yes, sir.”

“Did you like being led through the house on a leash like my pet?”

His jaw tightens, and I’d like to run a hand over his head, feel the slight bristle on his scalp. So hard for him to say, yes, he enjoyed it. Despite the tension in his muscles and his reluctance, I know he did on some level. The way his erection is standing at attention gives him away. But what he says matters far more than the information his body gives to me, so I’ll listen to his words.

“Yes, sir.” The low rumble of his voice is such a goddamn turn-on I’d be a liar if I said I weren’t getting hard too.

I do pet his head then, as much because I want to as because it’ll humiliate him a little.

“Are you up for some pain, Hart?”

“Yes, sir.” As always. “I won’t be watching the kids for a few days.”

Good information to have, though I also know that means he’ll be sleeping in his truck some. My fingers curl into a fist because he’s such a stubborn fuck he hasn’t used the key I gave him yet. Ah. Leverage.

“If you’d like me to be hard on you, then I’d like your word you’ll sleep here when you’re not at Kendra’s house for the next three days.”

There’s a harsh breath of air through his nose, and he opens his mouth to protest.

“Entirely up to you, of course, but I’m not marking you if you’re going to be sleeping crunched up in the cab of your truck. Promise me. Here or your sister’s, I don’t care—” Newsflash, I totally do, but let me have this little lie. “—but you’ll be sleeping in a bed one way or another if you want me to work you over. Are we understood?”

His “yes, sir” is gritted through his teeth, but I don’t call him on his attitude. I’m too thankful he’ll be sleeping in a bed for the next several days instead of out on the street where god knows what could happen to him.

“Excellent.”

I pull the belt tight before releasing it and using it to gesture toward the foot of the bed. He gives me a bit of a dirty look as he crawls over, but he can send all the eye-daggers he likes. I’m a happy man, as I usually am when I get my way.

There are restraints tucked under the bed, because of course there are, but I’ll maybe keep those for a surprise some other time. It wouldn’t be a bad thing for him to exercise some control.

“Kneel up, stomach against the bed, palms face down on the covers.”

He does as he’s told, though he’s a tad lazy about it so I grab his wrists and stretch them to where I’d like, a point that will provide a bit of strain. He’s stunning, the muscles of his back and torso shown off to their best advantage in this position. And his ass. Can’t possibly forget his ass. What a beautiful canvas to paint my masterpiece on.

Turning his head to the side, his breath deepens, and I can see him preparing, readying his mind for what’s about to befall his body, this thing he’s asked for and perhaps now regretting. He can stop it anytime he likes, and has.

I prepare myself, taking the buckle of his belt in my hand and wrapping the leather around to give a good grip. I could double it over, but I want the distance the length will afford.

While he’s stretched out and waiting, I pace behind him, making him wait because it makes him crazy. His fingers curl listlessly against the duvet, and I tsk at him. “Ah. Fingers spread and flat, Hart. You’re supposed to make this look easy.”

He stills and slowly extends his hands to their full breadth, taking a deep breath as he does. I’m such a fucking liar. I want to watch him suffer because he does it so prettily, but I like too the effort he exerts to make it look easy, to take the torture I visit upon his body. I like knowing exactly how strong he is and how much it takes to break him, because break him I will, and it’s no fun if all it takes is a few whacks of a cane or licks of a belt. The criers and the wailers are all well and good and I know some Dominants delight in the sounds, but not me. I’d much rather have silence until my victim can’t help themselves anymore. It feels more real to me, more authentic, not so much like the performance art some people seem to prefer.

That’s when I hit him for the first time, drawing my arm back and letting the belt slice through the air toward his ass. He hisses, and his fingers clench as the leather makes contact because I haven’t started out easily. I’m not warming him up because this is supposed to hurt.

I tut at him again, and without having to be told, he lays his hands back out and as soon as he does, I hit him again. His fingers twitch this time against the soft cotton, and he clenches his jaw. Classic and lovely. So I lay more stripes across his flesh, watching for every indication of pain and suffering, licking up each like a parched man finding dew drops on leaves. Every iota of his distress is delicious and sweet.

There’s a certain ignominy in his situation, being thrashed with his own possession, and I want to remind him of it. “Are you enjoying this? Being striped with your own belt?”

I hit him again, and he sucks air through his teeth because that must’ve hurt. I meant it to.

“It’s not mine anymore, sir. It’s yours. I’m yours.”

My arm freezes in its backswing but only for a fraction of a second. I find the ground under my feet and bring the belt down again and again, welt after livid welt rising up on his skin. His words, they…well, they enrage me, and my useless wrath gets channeled through my arm, extends into the leather. I want to flay him alive for provoking me like that.

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