Page 81 of The Cartographer

“You tell me again, this time with your eyes up here. Do you have any metal in your body?”

“No, sir,” he grinds out, his dark eyes boring into mine.Oh, Allie, Allie, Allie, you’re a pleasure.

“Good. Then hold out your arm.”

There’s a single beat before he raises his hand until it’s parallel with his shoulder. He’s steady, so steady, not shaking with nerves. The rush of knowing it’s because he trusts me makes me float off the ground. I might have a beast inside of me, but I’ve tamed it sufficiently that Hart doesn’t fear me. No one should be afraid of me except the people who deserve to be, and no one who’s under my care deserves to be.

I take the wand, checking the dial one last time to make sure it’s set to a reasonable level, and then I touch it to his forearm. With the contact, he flinches and a surprised noise emits from his mouth. “Ah!”

Ah, indeed. Taking the wand off his arm, I smile at him. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Let’s do it again.”

With the warning, there’s no noise forced from him and a slightly smaller start than last time. He’s getting used to it. I apply the wand longer this time, enjoying the dance of the current in the globe, the violet strands so pretty. They zone in on Hart the same way I do, and I hear his breathing. Deep and even like he’s been taught, trying to control his reaction.

While I’d like to knock him off-balance, force him into pants and gasps, it’s not time for that yet. Comfort and acceptance is what I’m going for.

“Ready for more?”

“Yes, sir.”

I turn the dial slightly, increasing the intensity of it, and I get that divine tremor from him again. Running the globe along his arm, I watch his muscles ripple in response. Some people don’t care for the wand—find it unnerving—but Hart seems to enjoy it, want more, so I’ll give it to him. I trail the globe along the crest from one set of biceps to the other, letting him feel the tingle like a yoke across his shoulders.

Once he becomes used to the elevated current, I switch to the metallic strands. I show them to him, and the corner of his mouth curves up because it does look silly. What a Powerpuff Girl might use if she were into kink. Sparkly and girlish.

When I drift the strands over his shoulder and down to his hips, he shudders and yelps. I can’t help my chuckle. “Packs more of a punch than you thought it would, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” He twists away a bit then, so I sink my fingers into the meat of his flank and hold him still so he’ll stop shying away. He takes it as I drift the strands across the rise of his ass, deliberately dragging them more slowly over his cleft. He’s expending a not-insignificant amount of energy trying to do as I’ve bid and let me handle him as I will, though he appears more inclined to break out into giggles. I love it when I can drive him to snickering and cackles, but obedience is the order of the day. Down the outside of his obscenely well-built thigh, all the way down to circle his heel and then back up the inside of his ankle, swirling the metallic strands about his calf and then edging up the sensitive inside of his thigh, producing an incredible gasp and making him go rigid.

Oh yes, my Hart likes this slow brand of torture. I mirror the action on the other side, and as I do, his head drops back while the rest of him tenses. After I’ve brushed the tinsely threads over every inch of him that’s safe, I turn it up to repeat, and when I’m through with the next tour, I switch to a peculiar-looking flexible tube. My particular favorite.

I hold it out for him to see and enjoy the studious look he gives it. No longer taking for granted it’s going to feel anything like it looks, after giving it a once, twice, three times over, he lifts his gaze to mine in question.

“Curious?” I gather the tubing, tucking the whole thing into my grip, then hold up my empty hand and wiggle my fingers. If he found my touch electrifying before—and I’d like to think he did—he’s not going to know what hit him. He tracks my empty hand with his eyes, and when I touch him, his mouth drops open.

“Holy…”

“Yes, I like this one too.” I trace a route in the dips and rises of his body. “It makes me the conduit, which means I can’t feel the electricity, but you can. Electricity is marvelous that way. Fabulous way to hurt someone without hurting or exerting oneself. It’s passing right through me, but you can feel it, can’t you, Hart?”

“Yes, sir.” The strain in his voice is so goddamn sexy, and I can’t wait to turn up the three to an eleven. Make him shout and convulse with my barest touch. If I have all the time in the world, I can render someone into a puddle with only my voice and my hands, but this is more…expedient and I don’t have long to enjoy Hart before his family obligations call. Besides, this is an excellent distraction from what nearly befell us not so long ago.

A momentary freakout hits me, because we were so close, he was so close. He was in danger and because of me… But I’ve got to shut it down, send it away. It’s fine now, we’re fine, and the only things that are going to befall him are the things I’m going to inflict.

As I explore him with my hand, I turn the dial degree by degree until every time my finger alights on his burnished brown skin he makes a sound. This glottal “teh” that, oh my, makes me hard.

It’s starting to be a struggle for him, the sensation walking the tightrope between pleasure and pain, and I want to whittle down these vague feelings until it’s a distilled sensation ofoh my god, yesandoh my god, noall at once. I want him begging for more of everything I can give him. Until those feelings of agony and ecstasy are so closely intertwined he’ll always crave one with the other.

I’ve turned it up, up, up, until each touch is rendering a choked gasp. Lifting my fingertips away to have the pleasure of setting them back down and making him surrender more of his reactions to me. There it is—the sweat rising on his skin, his shoulders heaving with effort and his muscles bunched with strain. So enchanting, my Hart.

It’s times like now I’m struck by a deep seam of wanting. It doesn’t happen often, but when I’ve manipulated someone into a state of fervor, I want to know. I want to plead with them to explain it to me: how does this feel? What does it do to the chemicals and the electrical pathways in your brain? Suddenly, I’m furious and I want to demand it from him, insist I be allowed to have this experience for myself.

I have to tamp the beast down because this is one he can’t satisfy. The one he can, though… I turn the dial still further, and finally it’s the most thrilling sound in the world. Possibly the strongest man I know yelping in pain and subjecting himself to my every whim. I’m a lucky bastard, and I should be thankful for it. Take advantage of it. Express my gratitude for him.

If only I could wrap my hand around his throat and let him feel the literal power pulsing through me reach its dominating tendrils into his body. But it’s not safe, so I won’t. Don’t think the temptation isn’t calling to me from the depths, though. I squash it with control and touch him where it’s safe. Make him feel me and the strength of my power—not just over him, but myself as well.

One last twist of the dial, and I clamp my hand over his biceps. God forgive me for the heady rush I get as he’s driven to his knees, cursing and shouting as he doubles over and puts his hands, curled into fists, on the ground, knuckles grinding into the wood of the floor.

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