Page 95 of The Art of Obsession
Her slippers are the next to go, leaving her toes barely brushing the cold floor as I raise her arms above her head. She’s trembling, her breaths shallow, and when I step back, her eyes are wide with fear and defiance.
“You wanted freedom,” I say, my voice low but firm. “You risked everything for a few breaths of air. Tell me, Everleigh—was it worth it?”
She doesn’t answer, her jaw clenched tight, her gaze burning.
A series of instruments hang on the nearby wall. The place of my deepest darkness holds my reclaiming of that deepest darkness. But I have never disciplined or punished another being. I have never brought anyone here.
I take the crop from the wall, its weight familiar in my hand, but I don’t move toward her yet. Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, heavy and oppressive.
I recognize the signs she shows, the rabid breaths, the writhing, the tears, the broken whimpers. I can practically hear her pounding heart. She’s having a panic attack. Emotions beyond the mere control and dominance I have dealt to her. Some deep-seated inner trauma. How I desire that trauma, need it. I will have it.
“You trusted me once,” I say, stepping closer. “You trusted me with Cherry. With your pain, your trauma from your menstrual cycle. And now, you’ll trust me with this. Because you have no choice.”
I rip the dress from her body, exposing her nakedness, apart from the lace panties, which I soon dispose of. I smirk at the wetness glistening on her thighs. So fucking perfect, my Little Quill.
Everleigh’s breath hitches, her resolve wavering, but she doesn’t speak. She twists in her chains. I raise the crop, letting it brush against her skin. She flinches, but her eyes never leave mine.
“You will tell me,” I say, my voice soft but unyielding. “You will tell me why you risked my punishment, why you couldn’t bear to return underground. And when you do, you’ll see how I am the only one who can save you. The only one who can give you what you need.”
The first strike lands, a sharp crack upon her breast that echoes in the crypt, and her gasp is a knife to my chest.
Next, I bring the crop down on her nipple, savoring the sound of her cry. But she’s clenching her teeth, grinding them. I know I’m a bastard for doing this when I’ve only just pierced them. But I do it with my careful expertise, ensuring I won’t bleed her skin.
So, I remove my belt, fold it in half, and shove it in her mouth. “Bite down, Everleigh. You’ll need it.”
She spits first but then bites down. She still gives me hell, but she knows what’s coming. I keep my movements measured, controlled, even as my emotions threaten to overwhelm me. This isn’t about punishment. It’s about breaking through the walls she’s built around herself, about forcing her to confront the darkness she’s been running from.
I bring the crop down again, slapping her breasts and nipples until they are erect and aroused, the same color as the red diamonds edging them. Next, I work at her stomach, then her thighs, then her pussy. She keens high, her cries echoing through the small crypt as I strike her folds and clit with the crop, punishing her—discipline she needs. Her labia soon turns red and puffy.
Despite her cries, Everleigh’s will is strong. So, after I bring the crop down on her bottom for the fifth time, I heave a sigh. “Last chance to tell me, Little Quill.”
“I hatechew.” Her words are muffled from the belt but discernible.
Returning the crop to its place, I select the leather paddle instead. I swing the weapon upon her backside, my chest tightening at the shrill scream between her teeth clenching the gag. It must feel like a fiery explosion erupting upon her flesh.
I show her no mercy, striking again and again, blazing her ass until her whole body is shaking. Her breath struggles, wheezes from each impact. I work at her bottom, her thighs, pausing now and then to give her the opportunity to confess.
When I circle her and lightly slap the paddle against her breasts, she screeches. Every cry, every wail is a fragile melody, reminding me of weeping paint.
With each strike, her defiance crumbles slowly, piece by piece, until her tears mix with her cries of pain. I’m so fuckinghard, I want to lower the chains, force her to her knees, and fuck her mouth with my cock.
Instead, I step closer, finally dropping the paddle, and take her face in my hands. Her skin is damp from her tears and sweat, her lips trembling, and when I press my forehead to hers, my voice is barely above a whisper.
“Trust me, Everleigh,” I say. “I will take you to hell and back if that’s what it takes to free you from this darkness. But you have to let me in. You have to let me be your salvation.”
I have burrowed beneath her skin. I am in her blood as she is in mine.
She shakes her head, her tears falling freely now, but I don’t let her pull away. Her eyes are searching mine. I almost have her.
“You’ve trusted me before,” I remind her. “Trust me now, Everleigh. Trust that I will not let you fall.”
Her silence stretches, but I see the cracks in her armor, her eyes growing weary, on the cusp of surrender. Her willfulness and fear give way to something else. Hope. Trust. It’s fragile, but it’s there, and I will nurture it, no matter how long it takes.
Because she is mine, and I will not let her drown in the darkness—not when I can be her light.
When she shows signs of surrender, her head tipping forward, I remove the belt from her mouth and press my lips to hers, a kiss that is both a demand and a promise.
She meets my eyes, the war storm fading to a soft silver, her muscles going limp. Everleigh parts her lips. “I was trapped in a crypt before…”
