Page 8 of Wounded Wing

As my eyes adjust, I can easily make out that the walls are filled to the brim with an assortment of BDSM tools. A large, silver kennel sits in a corner furthest from me next to a plastic lined sterile table. Frowning, I continue my perusal as the heavy pounding noise begins to clear, morphing into a familiar song by Au/Ra.

How fucking fitting.

Swallowing the bile in my throat, it clicks that I’m strung from a support beam as my toes are barely touching the ground. Black, silky ropes are wrapped tightly around my wrists, morphing into an intricate knot securing my forearms together.

As another song plays through the speakers, the sound of a door opening sends an icy chill down my spine. The stench of expensive cigars and spiced liquor assault my weakened stomach, causing a disgusting amount of saliva to pool under my tongue.

“It’s time I make good on my promises. Do you know where you are,cher?” Atticus sneers.

Closing my eyes as nausea threatens to take over, I breathe slowly in effort to control my panic. Licking my dry lips, I slowly open my eyes to stare my demon down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I’m terrified.

“Yes,” I snap, letting my fear manifest into anger.

Trailing his hand tentatively over my exposed neck, as if he doesn’t want to break me, he releases an exasperated sigh. “I don’t understand why you push me like this, Mae.”

Spinning on his heel, he slowly walks towards the wall lined with impact tools. Minutes tick by as he studies every available option, easily ignoring my rapidly growing frustration. Sweat coats my skin causing a slight friction between me and the ropes.

“Maybe I enjoy the results of pushing you, husband,” I spit out. My voice carries a heat I refuse to acknowledge.

I’m one sick bitch, aren’t I?

“That was before you decided to sharemypussy with someone. You wastedmycum on another man’s name. Now I’ll be taking his payment from you since he’s dead,” he chides, picking one of his favorite toys from the wall.

My muscles coil as I brace myself for immediate impact. His soul piercing gaze leers over his handiwork, inspecting the knots andbindings. Nodding his head sharply, I gather he’s satisfied with his findings since he does nothing to adjust me.

Quiet whistling brushes past my ears, ending with a loud crack against my flesh. A searing pain licks the back of my thighs within seconds. Tears well against my waterline as I bite down on my tongue, refusing to voice my discomfort on a single lash.

“You will give me payment, Mae. Over a decade together, I willknowwhen you truly break,” he breathes.

He stands eerily still holding the single tail whip. He appears every bit like the fallen angel I’ve claimed him to be. His sleeves are rolled perfectly over his forearms, the contrast of color between his pale skin and the dark clothing has my vision swirling. Atticus Lennon will always be mesmerizing in the worst ways possible.

Raising his dominant arm, the whip whistles continuously. Each ends in a deafening crack more brutal than the last, breaking the skin on contact. Adrenaline mixes with my pain, ripping an embarrassing cry from my throat. My body burns uncomfortably as I shake against the bindings holding me captive.

Pausing before the next swing, his hand slips between my bound thighs. “Wet, as usual. It’s fascinating to see how conditioned you are for me,” he murmurs breathily.

Shame trickles through me, knowing that what my body is experiencing isn’t considered normal. I never questioned it, seeing as I’ve always had a high tolerance with Atticus. He introduced me to his lifestyle, teaching me everything that I know. I didn’t realize until it was too late that he was training me to be his submissive in every aspect of life.

He reaches for the anchor that holds my arms above my head. He swiftly releases the knot, leaving me no choice but to fall on my knees as my legs give out. As I move to bow my head in submission, his icy fingers tangle in my hair, yanking my head back up sharply.

Parting my mouth in surprise, he pulls a suspiciously familiar scrap of dark lace from his pocket as he shoves it in my mouth. The moment the fabric touches my tongue, I taste my own musky arousal.

“What happens next,mon papillon, will never leave this room. Not a single soul will confess what happens between us here. Nod yes if you understand,” he demands.

Nodding slowly, my hair tugs against his grip, ensuring several strands of hair are ripped from my scalp in the process. White dots spark behind my eyes as an echoing crack fills the room. My head bounces against the floor, disorienting my senses. A pulling sensation from the rope binding my wrists rouses me, my mind still too sluggish to keep track of what’s happening.

“That’s for your stunt at the club,“ his chest heaves, like his rage is trying to claw its way out from his body. Faster than I can blink, he yanks the rope forward, forcing my nose to connect with his swinging knee. I scream behind the makeshift gag, the crunch of my cartilage snapping rings in my ears while my nose pours rivulets of blood to the floor. I choke back a gag, praying that whatever contents threaten to evacuate my stomach stay where they are. He continues to rail his knee into my face, grunting himself from the pure exhaustion of his punishment.

“At-cs, o-op!” I beg, hoping he understands what I’m saying.

“Good girl,mon cher. You’re so close to breaking for me,” he growls.

Lifting my head, I watch his pupils dilate, He fixates on the blood that continues to trail down my lips. Tears stream involuntarily from my eyes as my heart stutters in my chest.

“Bow at my feet, Mae,” he demands.

Falling forward, my forehead reaches his shoes as he demanded, self-preservation sending me into auto-pilot. My lungs refuse to draw in a breath, afraid of the consequences that would undoubtedly happen if I inhaled the grotesque amount of blood stemming from my nostrils.

Humming his approval, he steps away slowly, returning towards the wall of erotic torture devices.

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