Page 119 of A Mistake of Worth
The next hit landed lower. Henri’s knuckles went white where they gripped the brocade.
“Two.”
Michael’s stomach twisted. His throat felt raw, though he hadn’t spoken. The new welts rose red against the old bruises, the skin breaking in places where there was no strength left to take more. Henri’s breath came shallow, uneven, the numbers forced out between clenched teeth.
By five, his shoulders trembled with the effort to stay upright. By ten, sweat and blood slicked his back. By fifteen, his voice had gone hoarse, the count catching on every exhale.
Michael half rose before he realized it, his chair scraping faintly across the floor. He froze, unable to make himself sit or stand, watching helplessly as the rhythm continued. His heart pounded so violently that it drowned out everything else.
Marc still hadn’t looked at him. His voice came calm and cold. “Sit. Down.”
Michael gripped the chair arms until his fingers ached. He forced himself still.
The next strike fell across Henri’s shoulders. The sound tore through the silence.
“Sixteen,” Henri gasped. The number came broken, each syllable a battle to form.
Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.
By twenty, Henri’s arms could no longer hold him. His knees hit the cushion, and his body sagged forward. He caught himself with shaking hands, breath coming in harsh sobs that he was still trying to control.
“Twenty,” he whispered, voice raw and nearly gone. “Thank you.”
Marc’s hand closed in his hair and dragged him upright. Henri cried out, the sound small and helpless, his torn back pressing against the embroidered fabric as he was forced onto the chaise. His body trembled from pain and exhaustion. The marks that covered him deepened under the golden light, and Michael could not look away.
The slap came hard and fast across his face. Henri’s head snapped to the side, the blindfold holding firm.
Marc’s grip shifted, forcing Henri to spread his legs wide, arranging him for display once again. Cock exposed, thighs open, every line of his body offered to Michael’s gaze.
“Who do you belong to?” Marc asked again, voice almost fond.
Henri’s response came hollow, distant: “You. Always you.”
Marc’s hand dropped to Henri’s cock, rough and claiming. He squeezed and stroked until it leaked across his palm. “Look at him,” he said to Michael. “Laid out, hard as steel after twenty lashes. He lives for it. I can always send him under.”
Michael’s chest heaved, stomach twisting. Henri’s cock was weeping, his breath shallow and mechanical. To Marc it might look like euphoria, but Michael knew better. He’d seen subspace, gentle and blissful, built on trust. This wasn’t that. This was absence.
Henri was leaving.
Marc pulled the plug free and drove two fingers into Henri’s hole, rough and claiming. His other hand wrapped around Henri’s throat, not choking but holding, controlling. He worked his fingers deeper, harder, Henri’s hips jerking involuntarily with each thrust.
“See how open he is?” Marc taunted. “Such a slut. A whore for me.” He thrust his fingers brutally deeper. “Who owns this body?”
Henri gasped, the answer torn from his throat: “You own me.”
Marc glanced at Michael, smug. “He flies for me. Every time.”
Michael wanted to shout the truth:No, he doesn’t. He leaves you. He leaves his body because it’s the only way to survive you.
But he stayed silent, the deal tightening around his throat.
Marc pulled his fingers free and slapped Henri across the face, harder this time. Henri barely stirred, his expression slack.
“Now,” Marc said, smooth as poison as he stepped away, “fuck him.”
Michael didn’t move, hands locked on the chair arms. Horror crashed through him in waves. Henri was gone. Completely dissociated. His eyes might be covered but Michael could see it in every line of his body, the way he’d gone limp and empty.
Michael couldn’t do this. Wouldn’t. Not while Henri was absent, not while he’d retreated so far inside himself that he wasn’t even present in his own body.
