Page 83 of Tristan
Only half of his words shock me—the half that says Andothair is not a dominant—though I should have figured on it after what Bayaden told me about Corrik and Andothair last night. If Corrik and Andothair were together, Andothair would have to be submissive—Corrik doesn’t have a submissive bone in his body.
Bayaden—I realized he was a dominant the first time I laid eyes on him, even with only little knowledge on how it all works. His very essence oozes a presence, dark and authoritative, his nature calls to mine whether I want it to or not, and it hits me like a sledgehammer. It was hard to breathe around him those first weeks until I got to know him, and I still use sarcastic, brat-like humor to ease my unease at being near him.
Nothing eases me now and being near him is like standing next to a thunderstorm.
“I guess you wouldn’t know. How could you? You are a human and can’t have the slightest clue as to what Elves feel.”
No. I don’t know, but I’ve learned from both Corrik and Bayaden, mating with an Elf seems to make that Elf insanely territorial—especially the dominant sorts.
“Do you mean to punish me?” I can barely say it—part of me wants him to with only a small bit of apprehension left.
“Oh, I mean to all right. You will obey me from now on, Tristan Kanes.”
“But. No. I told you no yesterday when you asked.”
“Does it look like I’m asking now?”
“You can’t.”
“You keep forgetting: you belong to me. Not to my brother and certainly not to Corrik Cyredanthem. It is my right, a right you gave to me when you became mine. You do remember giving yourself to me, yes?”
I give a jerky nod because I do—he’s right. I made a pledge on a bitter evening in exchange for a life. My resistance is moot. I’ll never see Corrik again and even if I could, I couldn’t face him.
“How do you want me?” Silent tears slide down my cheeks.
A hand runs gentle through my short locks. “Everything off, stand over there,” he says softly, pointing to the middle of the room.
I put the blanket down and remove my sad, thin pants, but I take up the blanket again and shroud my naked body in it as I make my way to the center of the room. The tiled floor changes pattern to form a circle here and I stand in the middle.
“Put your arms above your head,” he instructs in a serious tone. I can’t help but compare him to Corrik. Corrik is hard when he gives out discipline, but somewhat light-hearted. Bayaden is treating this like it’s a grave matter—I fail to see it as such.
The pale blue blanket falls. Pale blue like the blanket Corrik and I had our first “date” on. The blanket falling is like shedding—shedding what’s left of the time I spent with Corrik as I walk into this new life with Bayaden.
I shiver as I look above to see the chains with cuffs at the end. The cuffs are soft suede, and he buckles them tightly around my wrists. I can just touch the floor with my toes; the weight of my body is heavy in my shoulders, and I don’t like it. I’m already uncomfortable and he hasn’t touched me yet. My tears fall faster.
“Don’t cry, Tristan. It will be over soon,” he says and kisses my lips tenderly. He’s quite taciturn and speaks with actions instead of words. His kiss says it all, he cares a great deal for me. This knowledge creates confusion, but one thing I’m not confused about is that I will be all right.
I’ve come to trust Bayaden, much as I hate to admit that.
“This is what I’ve chosen. I believe in teaching lessons well or not at all.” He holds a thick, leather strap in front of my face and I take a sharp inhale. Father has used something like it on me in the past—it felt not very nice. I don’t look forward to this, yet I crave the resolution it will bring.
It seems like a formal moment. Should I say something? For the life of me my lips won’t move, and I can only follow that sharp looking strap with my eyes until he moves around me so I can’t see him or the strap anymore. My breathing is shallow and rigid. I bite my lip in anticipation.
I jump when his hand glides down my back and stops in the middle of my smooth skin. He whispers something in Elvish that I don’t understand. I’ve gotten quite good at Elvish in the months since I’ve been here, I’m still no expert, but I get by. But he says it too low for me to hear the enunciation. Elvish is like that, a change in inflection and the same word means something entirely different.
After the completion of his strange little ritual, I feel the first taste of his whip on my back. One. “Ahh!” It hisses into my skin and my skin heats up. I tug at the cuffs, lifting myself from the floor in a chin-up motion. It hurts.
Two. “Ahhhmmphh.” I attempt to cut off my cries.
“Let go Tristan. This is punishment for your disobedience. I’mdisappointed, but I’ll not forbid you the release of your emotions. We will reach a point where it will be impossible for you not to cry out.”
That does not sound promising.
Three, four,twenty. His whip is slow, methodic, and consistently timed. The pain is all I am, and I lose count of how many times his strap has licked my back. My shoulders burn from holding my weight and now the twisting and the writhing as I try to get away, but there’s nowhere I can escape to. I can only face this. I’m panting and breathing hard, it’s intense; my skin feels alive with sensation. He kisses me again slow, soft then more of his strap and more pain.
My face is wet from the sweat and tears that pour in streams. My sinuses clot with liquid as I continue to cry and scream through the pain that will never stop. Lash after lash, down my back, my arse, and thighs—oh Gods the thighs—that’s the worst of it. Sensitive, unforgiving—I jump as I feel the air move when he lifts his arm and the skin on my arse quivers before the strap ever touches it because it knows how much it’s going to hurt.
My body is so wrought with pain, I can’t feel when he stops and I hang limp, sobbing. “It’s over, Tristan—let that be an end to it.”
