Page 126 of Hard to Judge

A sniffle filters up from the floor. I force myself to ignore it and continue, binding his right wrist just the same as the left. His middle quivers under me.

“It won’t seem like it, but that was the hardest part. The crest of the mountain. From here, gravity takes control, and you realize you have none.” I press my lips to the back of his head and then stand.

“On your knees.” My order reverberates around the room, while I move to the tools I’ve laid out. I grab the first and turn to find Arlo scrambling up to his knees.

His impressive physique is stretched between the bonds.

“Look at you.” I circle him. “Every Dom’s wet dream. So strong. So beautifully submissive.”

He tracks me out of the corner of his eye. When I stand in front of him, his gaze lights on the flogger in my hand. His nostrils flare and the striations in his jaw constrict. Tears soak a line down his cheeks and drip onto his chest.

“I have been yours for what seems my whole damn life. From the moment you scuttled into the office of Willoughby Ridge, I was yours. Whatever you’ve needed me to be, I have been. Your protector. Your lover. Your friend.” I tug the sleeves of my sweater, snugging them to my forearms.

“Tonight you become mine.” My footsteps carry me so close, he strains his neck to look up at me. I drag the tip of the flogger over his chest and around his clavicle. “You have many scars. If anyone leaves a mark on your body, it should be me. After all, your body and your mind belong to me.”

I take one step back and point the flogger to the longest scar across his chest. “Look at this.”

His head falls, and his gaze meets the scar.

“Remember how you got it?”

His eyes widen for a beat, and then his gaze blanks, going to the nightmare place. His brow furrows as his mind meets the memory. His jaw clenches.

My forearm flexes. My wrist pivots. With precision and force, I shatter that vision with the present. Leather meets skin and the crack of contact permeates every part of his brain.

“Count,” I demand.

“One.” He gasps.

“One, Hota.” I press the end of the flogger over the freshly reddened skin, making him flinch. “Because now, this is mine.”

“One, Hota.” Arlo’s voice is as crisp as it’s ever been. His chest presses out, closer to my crop, recognizing my ownership.

“Good.” I nod. “Keep count. I want to know exactly how thoroughly I’ve claimed you when we’re done.”

His perfectly haunted face breaks into a grin. “Yes, Sir.”

I love his smile. It won’t last long.

There are so many fucking scars.

I point to the next, let him see it, let him begin to remember, and then claim it.

A grunt weaves its way through his teeth. “Two, Hota.”

His chest is a patchwork of trauma. His back is no better. We have to get through it all to get to the core of the matter.

“And this one.” Again I point, let him look, and then break the memory apart before it fully forms.

“Three, Hota.” He huffs.

And so it goes until I land a particularly brutal smack on a rippled mark across his belly.

“Motherfucker.” Arlo’s entire body cants to the side, trying to escape the pain. “Goddamn you.” He rails against the chains. The metal clings and clangs, creating a god-awful racket that punctuates his screams. He’s no longer looking at me but over his left shoulder. As though the specter of his uncle looms tall.

“Piece of shit. Fuck you to hell,” he bellows.

Only four more to go on his belly and I will move to his back. I’m losing him.

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