Page 7 of A Mistake of Worth
“The paddle,” Henri whispered.
“Good choice.” Marc’s voice carried approval, as if Henri had solved a particularly challenging equation. He set the cane aside and lifted the paddle, testing its weight. “This will remind you properly.”
The first strike shocked a gasp from Henri. His fingers twisted into the sheets, knuckles white with tension. The second strike forced a shudder through his frame. By the third, Henri pressed his forehead into the mattress, willing himself to stay silent, to endure.
He didn’t beg. Didn’t plead. That would imply he hadn’t agreed to this. And he had. He always had. Because it was him or someone else. Because pain was easier than watching someone else bleed.
The fourth and fifth blows fell in quick succession. Henri’s shoulders trembled with the effort of remaining still. His chest heaved with carefully controlled breaths.
Six. Seven. Eight. Each impact sent fresh waves of fire across his skin, but Henri didn’t move. Couldn’t move. This was his penance, his punishment for daring to act independently.
The ninth strike drew the first tear. By the twelfth, they raced freely down his cheeks, soaking the sheets below. The blows continued to fall across his buttocks, down his thighs. Each strike precise, methodical.
By fifteen, Henri knew moving would be agony tomorrow. Seventeen. Eighteen. The final two strikes landed with brutal force, one on each thigh. Henri’s body shook, but he maintained his position, jaw clenched, tears falling silently onto the sheets.
“You take it so well,” Marc said, almost tender. “No one else does. That’s why you’re mine, Henri.”
Henri barely registered the toy being removed, replaced by Marc’s thick cock. This wasn’t about pleasure. Hadn’t been about pleasure for years. Not since they were teenagers, when Marc had kissed him that first and only time. Now it was about ownership, about punishment, about Marc taking what belonged to him.
His mind slipped away, detaching from the body on the bed. Not here. Not present. Just somewhere distant and empty, a place he’d carved out for survival. He didn’t retreat there often anymore. Only when Marc demanded penance.
Marc finished inside him with a muted grunt. As he always did. After pulling out, Marc climbed from the bed, discarding his clothes on the way to the bathroom. Henri remained still, listening to the water flow, feeling the evidence of his punishment on his skin, inside him.
Eventually, he forced himself to move, every muscle protesting as he shifted from the position he’d held for so long. His ass throbbed with each heartbeat, the paddle’s damage spreading fire across his skin with every small movement. He gathered Marc’s discarded clothes from the floor, biting back sounds asbending sent fresh waves of agony through his backside. His hands shook not just from exhaustion but from the effort of staying upright.
Henri dropped the clothes into the laundry hamper, gripping the edge to steady himself. Each step to the bathroom sent pain through his body, the welts pulling and burning. He retrieved the jar of Smooth from the cabinet, wincing as even the simple act of reaching made his damaged skin stretch.
The expensive cream would heal the deeper bruising in a few days, leaving only the surface soreness that Marc preferred to linger. Henri applied it carefully to the worst of the marks, hissing through his teeth when his fingers found the raised ridges where the paddle had landed hardest. He knew which ones to treat and which to leave visible. Marc’s work mapped across his body, claiming him.
Henri made his way back to the bed, every step sending fresh jolts of pain through his abused flesh. He pulled back the covers and eased himself onto his stomach, unable to bear any pressure on his backside. The sheets felt cool against his fevered skin, but he could still feel the evidence of Marc’s use. The sticky remnants of lube and cum that he hadn’t been permitted to clean away.
When Marc returned from the shower, towel loose around his hips, he pulled down the sheet covering Henri. His fingers traced the welts with interest, pressing just hard enough to send lightning through Henri’s nerve endings.
“Good,” Marc said, satisfaction clear in his voice. “You look properly chastised.”
Henri’s voice came out hoarse. “Thank you for the lesson.”
Marc’s hand cracked across his ass without warning, a casual slap that made Henri gasp into the pillow, fresh tears springing to his eyes. Marc stepped into clean boxers, then slipped underthe covers on his side of the bed. Always nearest the door, always controlling the exit.
Within minutes, Marc’s breathing had evened into sleep.
Henri stared into the darkness, pain humming through every nerve, the burn in his backside a constant reminder of his transgression. But beneath the ache, a small truth burned steady: Jean was free.
It was worth it.
Chapter two
Henri
Henrishiftedcarefullyinhis ergonomic chair, every micro-movement sending fresh lines of fire across his back and thighs. The cane had been precise the night before. Twenty-five strikes that had left raised welts from his shoulders to the backs of his knees. Unlike the broad, deep ache of Marc’s paddle, these were sharp, surgical lines of pain that caught him with every breath, every shift of fabric against his skin.
It had been nine days since he’d freed Jean. Nine days of Marc’s creative punishments, each night a new lesson in obedience. The paddle. The flogger. Marc’s belt. And last night, finally, the cane.
Henri adjusted his posture, one controlled breath at a time. The cut of his tailored suit hid the damage, but the fine fabric scraped against the raised ridges. Beneath the fresh welts from the cane, deeper bruises lingered from earlier nights, layers of pain that shifted and overlapped with each movement.
Each welt was a reminder of his transgression. Going behind Marc’s back to free Jean, manipulating Olivier, making Marc appear weak. The cane had mapped out his punishment in thin, burning lines that would take weeks to fade completely.
And then, the smallest comfort: his fingers brushed the skin just beneath his collar.
