Page 54 of A Mistake of Worth
“I what?” Michael asked innocently, standing up from the couch. “Thought you handled that very professionally.”
“I hate you,” Henri groaned, dropping his head back against the chair. The inflation of the toy increased, pressing against his prostate in a way that made him see stars.
“No, you don’t,” Michael said, moving to stand behind him. “And look—your email just chimed. Shouldn’t you check that?”
“You can’t be serious.” Henri gasped out, his whole body trembling, head fuzzy, hips rutting against air.
“Very serious.”
“Please, Michael. Let me cum.” Henri tilted his head back, exposing his throat. He gasped when Michael bit the place where his neck met his shoulder, sucking a bruise into his skin.
“No.” The vibration suddenly cut off, and the inflation returned to its original size.
Henri whined in frustration. He was so close.
“You’re mine today, Henri,” Michael whispered. “Mine to do with as I please. And it pleases me to have you wait. Answer your emails.”
Henri lost track of time as Michael alternated between tormenting him and forcing him to focus on work. The morning passed in a haze of arousal and spreadsheets, occasional whimpers escaping when Michael would increase the toy’s intensity.
By the time his stomach growled, reminding him they’d worked through their usual lunch hour, Henri’s thighs were trembling and his mind felt deliciously fuzzy. He’d managed to be surprisingly productive, even if every number he typed felt like it took herculean effort to focus on.
The doorbell chimed, and Henri stood automatically, his body moving on muscle memory. Michael was beside him in an instant, strong hands gripping his shoulders.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Michael’s voice was gentle but firm. “You’re naked, sweetheart.”
Henri froze. The floor tilts. Sound narrows to a thin high note.
He is on the leather couch.
Now. Then. Both.
Curled. Drifting. Boxes still open from the move back to Porte du Cœur. Marc had fucked him hard that morning and left him there, skin raw, muscles empty. He’d slept. Stupid. He’d slept.
He never heard the doorbell.
The package is still in the hall when Marc returns.
He was yanked off the couch by his hair. Thrown over the armrest, frame cutting into his ribs.
“You sleep when I say. You work when I say. And you answer the fucking door.”
Marc left him there, bent and exposed, while he fetched the cane and the whip.
The cane is first. Quick. Exact. Heat laid in bars across the backs of his thighs. He counts without meaning to. Loses count between screams. Starts again.
Leather doesn’t absorb tears. It just sits there, making your whole face wet…
Cold.
The first delivery comes while Marc is inside him.
Marc pulls out, shoves him toward the door. No robe. No time. The hallway light is too bright. The bag smells like cilantro and grease. The delivery guy quirks an eyebrow. “Rich people,” he mutters. “Kinky shit.” The paper handles cut into Henri’s fingers. He shuts the door. The bags hit the floor. Marc pushes him back over the armrest and finishes in him, breath even, like this is an errand.
The second delivery comes fast.
Whip stripes coil fire over his back. Then the whip handle is inside him, and that is how he goes to the door. The delivery woman’s scream snaps in the air. She throws the designer bags and runs. The handle shifts when he bends, and he bites his tongue. Metal. Blood.
The third stands there and smiles. Looks him up and down like a menu. “Call me if you want a third,” he says, handing over the discreet sex-shop box from the Fourth Cat. Winks. Blows a kiss. Henri shuts the door with shaking hands.
