Page 74 of The Cartographer

In the meantime, I’ve got a job to do.

I stop caning Hart and give him a minute to breathe. Which also means I break the flow and remind him exactly how much he’s hurting.

“You’re being a stubborn bastard tonight, you know that?”

“Yes, sir,” he grits through his teeth.

“Why is that?”

Of course my Allie doesn’t answer. Because stubborn ishismiddle name. I could talk to him, plead with him, tell him he can be strong everywhere else but here he’s allowed to fall apart because, no matter how heavy the weight, I can carry anything. I can bear whatever he throws at me. Not only can I, I want to.

Not unlike a certain other submissive I’m intimately familiar with, he’s not going to give in to my words. Allie’s not much on declarations and oaths. He’s a man of actions, and he expects other people to be as well. Don’t tell him you’ll be there; show up. Don’t claim to be able to hold him together; shatter him into a million pieces and then put him back together. Prove it.

So that’s what I’ll do.

I unclip his cuffs from the chains anchoring him to the cross, and I look him over. Not a stitch on him, he’s gorgeous in my restraints with my marks on him, and I take a few minutes to pinch and tweak them, enjoying every hitch of breath and every grimace I elicit. I grab the skin of his upper arms and twist, making all the muscles in his body bunch and flex.

Pinching is intimate—the feel of skin against skin, the way the pain transmits through his muscles, telling me the hurt is oh-so-good. Part of me’d like to go at him with my hands. Curl them into fists and beat on his back. His upper arms. Maybe force him to lie on the ground and literally walk all over him until he feels like he can’t breathe.

That’s not intense enough, though. Also, he’s been beaten with fists. Kicked with boots. Too often. I’m not sure he could read that as enjoyable anymore. Instead, I’ll drag out something new.

“Stay,” I tell him, loving the way his shoulders grow broader as he stands there, perhaps making himself look more menacing to the cross, the wall, as if they have anything to do with it. They’re just my instruments; they can’t have any impact by themselves.

I move a few things around, retrieve a couple of items from a trunk and the wall. I flick my gaze in his direction periodically, though he’s standing there as rigid as can be. He hasn’t turned around. What a lovely, obedient boy.

Everything arranged to my satisfaction, I call him over, and he turns, unsure of how to get here. “On your feet.” He should enjoy it while he can.

When he’s made his way over to the bed with slow, deliberate steps, and sees the usually spare surface heaped with plush pillows, he glares at me.

“What the fuck is this?”

“How about you let me worry about that? Also, watch your language. I don’t appreciate you talking to me that way.”

Pfft. If I minded people swearing at me, I wouldn’t be in my line of work. Neither would I be friends with India “Potty-Mouth” Burke. That woman has a vocabulary like a merchant marine who hasn’t seen polite company in a decade.

“This doesn’t look—”

“Get on the bed, Hart.” I don’t often break out my Domly-Dom voice, and even less often with him, but I use it now and to good effect. He blinks at me, but that’s the only sign of hesitation before he’s climbing onto the surface and lying back against the mound of pillows.

“Now what? Are you going to tickle me with a feather until I die?”

I let my eyes drift skyward and put a few fingers to my chin as if I’m actually considering it because it’s not a bad idea. Knowing how much Hart loathes being tickled, though—that would be over-the-line sadistic, even for me. So I shake my head. “Not today.”

I reach over to the small bedside table and take up a hank of bright yellow rope.

“I had no idea Big Bird was a sadist.”

“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to bind you and gag you and leave you down here alone until morning.” I’ve forced my tone dry, but in a way I hope conveys I’d actually do it. I never would, because not leaving someone who’s tied up alone is Bondage 101, but in a fairy world where accidents never happened, I totally would.

His brow creases as I move toward his feet, and rightfully so. Especially when I set about weaving the ropes through his toes, being careful not to touch him in a way that will make him squirm and giggle. Entertaining in its own right, but that’s not the mood I want to set. I work the rope, making carefully placed knots, evening out tension, and then I tie off so his foot is flexed at the end of the bed. The rope is a lovely color on his skin, bringing out the blue tones.

I move to the other foot and bind it the same way. While he looks curious, he doesn’t seem concerned. Perhaps he’s expecting me to bind him from head to toe, but that’s not on the agenda.

When his feet are held fast, my ropes keeping his soles utterly vulnerable, I smile at him and pick up my cane. “Ever heard of bastinado, Hart?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

‡

---