Page 104 of Reckless: Corruption

The first strike comes without warning—something flexible but solid connecting with my upper back with precision that speaks of practice and intimate knowledge of anatomy. Not a whip or a cane, but something in between—the custom flogger he had made specifically for these sessions, designed to leave marks that satisfy my need for visible evidence without causing damage that would compromise field readiness.

I exhale with a hiss as the initial sting blooms into something warmer, more diffuse. Fucking perfect. Exactly what I need to quiet the restless energy that’s been building all day.

“Count,” he instructs, voice steady despite the heat scent now filling the room like someone lit an incense factory on fire. “And thank me for each one.”

The second strike lands precisely parallel to the first. “Two. Thank you, Sir.”

By the tenth strike, my back is a goddamn masterpiece of carefully placed marks, each one positioned with the same artistic precision Theo brings to his tattooing. The pain has transformed, as it always does under his skilled administration—no longer sharp or biting but warm and encompassing, sending me deeper into that space where thought quiets and instinct takes over.

“Good,” he murmurs, hand now tracing the marks he’s created with proprietary satisfaction. His fingertips dance over the heated skin, mapping his work with artist’s appreciation. “Now turn around.”

I comply, finding him stripped to his pants, skin flushed with heat but eyes still sharp with absolute focus. The duality of it—biological imperative warring with iron will—creates a tension between us that’s practically electric.

“On your knees again,” he directs, and my body responds before my brain catches up, dropping to position with practiced ease. “Hands behind your back.”

Something cool and smooth wraps around my wrists—silk rope, I realize, as he binds them with expert efficiency. Not tight enough to restrict blood flow, but secure enough to reinforce the power dynamic between us. The physical restraint grounds me further, narrowing my focus to just this moment, just his next command.

He steps back, admiring his handiwork with critical assessment. “Better,” he decides. “Now you look properly contained.”

Despite the submission, pride flares in my chest at having pleased him—at being exactly what he needs during this volatile time. The contradiction of our relationship has always fascinated me—how his artistic soul contains such darkness, how my chaos craves his control. We’re like two puzzle pieces that shouldn’t fit but somehow click together perfectly.

“Open,” he commands, thumb tracing my lower lip with deceptive gentleness.

I comply immediately, maintaining eye contact as he slips two fingers into my mouth. Not crude or invasive, but testing—establishing his dominance while gauging my submission. I accept them without resistance, tongue working automatically to welcome the intrusion.

“Good boy,” he praises, the words sending heat flooding through me despite their simplicity. “So eager to please when properly managed.”

The praise hits deeper than the flogging did, touching something primal and needy beneath my chaotic exterior. This is what Theo understands that no one else quite grasps—that my wildness isn’t rebellion but expression, that my chaos needs direction rather than suppression.

My cock throbs painfully, so hard it’s almost pressed flat against my stomach, leaking steadily onto my skin like I’m sixteen and seeing porn for the first time. I haven’t been touched there yet, and somehow that makes it worse—the need building with each moment of denial until it’s almost a living thing clawing at my insides.

He withdraws his fingers, using the moisture to trace my jawline in a gesture that’s equal parts possessive and tender. “Tell me what you need.”

The question catches me off guard. In this dynamic, he rarely asks—simply knows, or decides regardless of my preferences. The fact that he’s asking now, despite the heat clearly raging through his system, speaks volumes about his dedication to mutual satisfaction even in the midst of biological imperative.

“To serve you,” I answer truthfully, no room for my usual flippancy in this space between us. “To be whatever you need during your heat.”

“And if what I need is to hurt you?” he challenges, testing boundaries even as he establishes them. “To mark you? To use you for my satisfaction without regard for yours?”

“Then I’m yours to hurt,” I respond without hesitation. “Yours to mark. Yours to use.”

Something shifts in his expression—heat hunger momentarily overtaken by something deeper, more profound. Without warning, he drops to his knees before me, bringing us eye to eye in a position that should undermine his dominance but somehow only reinforces it.

“Mine,” he agrees, the single syllable carrying weight beyond its simplicity. His hand finds my throat, grip firm but careful as he applies pressure to the sides rather than the front—restricting blood flow slightly without impacting breathing. The control in that gesture, the precise knowledge of anatomy and physiology, reinforces exactly why I trust him even in our darkest play.

The world narrows to just this—his hand on my throat, his scent surrounding me, his eyes holding mine with unrelenting focus. As oxygen restriction sends little sparks of pleasure-pain through my system, my usual frantic energy finally, blessedly quiets.

“There you are,” he murmurs, satisfaction evident as he watches the change come over me. “Finally still. Finally focused.” His free hand finds my cock, wrapping around it with perfect pressure that makes me gasp against the grip on my throat. “This is what you’ve needed all day, isn’t it? Structure. Containment. Purpose.”

“Yes, Sir,” I manage despite the restricted blood flow, the admission carrying none of my usual resistance.

He releases my throat, allowing blood to rush back with a surge of sensation that makes me gasp. Without the binding around my wrists, I might have fallen forward; with it, I remain upright, swaying slightly as my vision clears.

“On the bed,” he orders, rising with fluid grace that shows even through the heat-fever. “On your back.”

I comply somewhat awkwardly with my hands still bound, positioning myself as directed. Theo watches with evident satisfaction, heat visibly building in his system even as he maintains rigid control over its expression. When he joins me on the bed, it’s with deliberate movements—calculated, measured, every action choreographed despite the biological chaos I know must be raging beneath his composed exterior.

“You remember the rules?” he asks, straddling my thighs with precise positioning.

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