Page 75 of The Cartographer

He doesn’t paleso much with his skin as he does his entire body. His eyes grow wide and wary, and his body goes rigid. “Are you serious?”

“As taxes.” Despite having to dissemble a bit on my filings to protect my clients’ privacy, I take my fiduciary responsibility to the republic very seriously.

I bend the cane into an arch between my hands and watch his gaze track the movement. It’s not terribly rigid, but then a rigid cane isn’t good for this. Too much damage done too easily. Something whippy is much better. Besides, it’s not as if it takes a lot to make an impact with this particular activity. I’ll be happy to explain to him why. First, I need to make sure he’s safe.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he continues to stare at the implement of torture in my hands. So innocent-looking and yet so effective.

“Arms over your head.”

He studies me, assessing. “You’re really going to do this?”

“Yes, I am. And you’re going to let me.”

He turns his head, mostly to give me a suspicious side-eye.Not so cocky, are you anymore, my lovely boy?“Why would I do that?”

“I can think of a dozen reasons, but here are a few: You trust me not to hurt you badly. You need a distraction, and I’m going to give you one. It gets you off to do as I say and to take any pain I dole out. Take your pick.”

“And you’re going to enjoy this?”

“Very much.”

It takes him a minute, but eventually he settles himself more fully into the pillows and then reaches his arms toward the headboard, not taking his eyes off me for a second.

“Good.” I watch the praise soak into him, how it gives him more confidence and how his circumspection is turning into anticipation.

I put the cane down on the side table where he can perfectly well see it and use the clips on the cuffs to attach him to the headboard. He pulls against them, and I love the flex of his muscles as he does. He’s testing, testing, and when nothing budges, not me nor his bonds, he gives up, gives in.

With him lying there, so pretty in my ropes and at my mercy, I can’t help but touch him. My fingers are drawn to him, and I skim the pads over his scalp, down his neck, and lay a palm flat to coast over his chest and stomach. I lay a teasing squeeze at his hip, purposefully not touching his thickening cock, and then glide down his deliciously hard thigh and calf, all the way to where my ropes bind his feet.

“You look quite marvelous. Did you know that?”

He squirms. Just a little, but I notice the tiny movement. The same way I notice everything. I pick up the cane and barely tap the bottom of one foot with it. “I’d like an answer, please.”

“No, sir,” he grits out.

“Would you like to see?”

“No, sir.”

Oh, he doesn’t. The suggestion might be a bit much. Maybe he can take it if it can just be true in his own mind. If there were evidence of it, maybe not.

“Good. That means I can start sooner.”

I take some time to pace at the foot of the bed, surveying him stretched out before me, his lovely bound form and god, those feet, waiting for me. Running a hand from one end of the cane to the other, I start to lecture. India calls me Professor Walter sometimes, and if she were in Hart’s place, she would now.

“Do you know why bastinado’s a favored form of torture?”

I punctuate my question with the first stripe of the cane against his soles, and he jumps. Luckily, his bonds are true and he doesn’t get far. Just squeezes his eyes shut, making the corners of his eyes crease.

“Because it hurts like fuck?”

His curse earns him another strike, and he hisses through his teeth. Meanwhile, I have to contain my own noise of pleasure. I can feel the blood heading south, because it may hurt like fuck, but it’s also hot as fuck.

“That’s certainly one reason.”

Thwack.

“Another is that the nerves in your feet are glorious things.”

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