Chapter 19 #4
I nod. He’s right, and it echoes what Alrik said when he punished me. Knowing what must be done and who will feel betrayed so you can do what you feel is the right thing, isn’t easy. None the of people who would have forbid me leaving (had I told them) would have done so out of malice, but care.
“Yes, Master Strobavik. It did. It was not my wish to betray anyone.”
His facial features relax. “You may understand better when you have children to leave behind to grieve you. You think a little longer over such things.”
I’m not so sure I would have in this case, awful as that might sound. “Wait. Do you have children?”
“Tristan.”
Dammit. The appellation. “Master. Do you have children, Master Strobavik?”
He twists his lips. “Better.” But then he gives a proud smile. “I do. I have a son and a daughter so far.”
In all our time together, I never got to learn much about him beyond his role as dungeon Master.
Strobavik is older than Corrik by far and he would be married.
I like the thought of the terrifying man with tiny Elves in his arms even though I doubt they are tiny anymore.
I must know. “Are they both grown, Master Strobavik?”
“Erik has just entered his seventieth year.” That’s like a teenager in Markaytian years. “But my sweet D’ayawin is just four.”
He’s smitten. I have a thousand more questions.
“Enough chit-chat. It’s time for your spanking. I see what you’re doing.”
“I promise I’m not trying to distract you. Okay maybe a tiny bit but I’m mostly curious.”
“I know all about the curiosities of brats. Remove your robe, naughty kitten.”
I hold back my grumbles as I let it slip off me, unsheathing my naked body beneath.
I look good if I do say so myself. I’ve leaned out over the duration of the aforementioned journey and have acquired some lovely scarring.
Corrik wants to heal it all away, but he’s forced to save his energy to heal himself if he wants us to travel to the Lady of the Lake anytime soon.
I suppose he could send me to the Healing Centre, but he hasn’t.
With no further delay, Strobavik pulls me over his knees, my bare torso meets his thick, leather-clad thighs. I flush at being in such a position, even after all this time, shifting, attempting to find comfort. But there isn’t comfort to find.
“You disobeyed me, naughty kitten and naughty kittens get spanked,” he says sounding suspiciously like someone scolding a brat rather than someone practicing slave protocol.
The hotness runs through me at a reprimand like that and when his heavy hand meets my bare flesh, I cry out like a brat would. “Ow, ow! Master, that hurts!”
“It’s meant to. I don’t feel sorry for you. Running off. Nearly getting yourself killed. You’re still a human and what you did was reckless.”
The truth of that sears through to my heart. I didn’t mean to worry him, but I did.
There’s also that word. Reckless. Had I become Warlord, there would have been large risks involved in the job, but there’s a difference between calculated risks and sheer recklessness.
I understand why Strobavik’s cross with me.
I need this spanking as much as he needs to give it—not that I’ll admit it out loud. The risk was worth it to me, but I need to repent for hurting Strobavik or it will drive me crazy. He needs to honor his end of the bargain since he was one of the people responsible for me, or he’ll go crazy.
Strobavik is relentless with five smacks to one cheek before moving to the next cheek. Done this way, the burn and sting build to epic proportions and while one cheek does get a break while he works on the other, it’s a state of constant burn and sting because there is no real break.
At first, I attempt to exercise the lessons he taught me.
I bite my lip only letting go the tiniest of whines.
I tense my arse muscles, and cling to the ground with my finger pads to keep from squirming like I want to.
The sting gets too much though and I’m losing the struggle to remain silent.
If he were Corrik, I’d be kicking and flailing by now.
I should get a bloody reward for the effort this takes.
Finally, finally, I get a break. I collapse over his knee and breathe, letting the burn in my arse wash over me. Fuck I wish I could reach back to rub, just a tiny rub. Couldn’t I have just a tiny one?
Not likely.
“You were under my care,” he says. “I was responsible for you. I missed every cue. I couldn’t have been watching you closely enough.”
“You can hardly be blamed for my malfeasance, Master Strobavik.”
“I didn’t say that. It doesn’t change my role—at the time,” he adds too quickly. “This is what can be expected each and every time for disobedience, an extremely sore bottom.”
“And an extremely sore bottom it is. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m sworn off trouble for good! Please, Master Strobavik.”
“We’re not nearly done.” There’s a sound to my left, and I’d know it anywhere. It’s the sound of wood scraping against wood as Strobavik picks up the dreaded implement. He circles the back of it on my tender cheeks; they waver with dreaded anticipation.
The paddle is the “special” one he had made for me.
The wood is a dark, Elven bonaii tree wood and let me tell you it’s sturdy.
The thing about anything wooden, yeah it leaves the best marks, yeah it makes a nice shade of red, but fuck it hurts more than other implements.
It’s about the size of his leviathan hand which begs the question, why bother with it?
He lays down two firm whacks that make accepting the punishment peacefully difficult.
Overtop of my already throbbing arse, the blaze across my backside is too much for me to keep still.
I shift my legs as marginally as I can, I release a hiss rather than a cry. “Please, Master Strobavik. I’m sorry.”
He keeps at my arse with his devilish paddle. I get no relief, only a scolding. “You, my naughty kitten, will learn to obey one way or the other. This time things turned out, but what if they hadn’t? It was foolish behavior. I expect more from you.”
The word “foolish” in Elvish is crisp, a much harder version than the Markaytian one you can receive in a gentler way.
It belays his hurt and his frustration. My throat thickens, tears cloud my vision and the knots in my stomach cinch.
There it is. You can’t make someone cry during a spanking unless the idea already lives there—you can only uncover it.
I tend to obsess. I’m guilty of forming plans, often conceived from an emotion, and racing off to give life to my obsession without considering some of the outlying collateral. “You run off without thinking. It will ruin us all, Tristan,” Father’s voice rings in my head.
That was my father’s one hesitation in making me junior Warlord but I learned to quell my impulses enough to satisfy him.
Warlords need some amount of emotion. It’s not something to vanquish which is why another Warlord tenant is to always hear the wise counsel around you—so that your passion won’t rule your ability to reason.
Strobavik whacks my arse alternating cheeks, this time with no break at all, and while I want to please him by maintaining silence and stillness, the combination of the ache and the knife-edged emotion choking through me bubbles over.
I kick and scrabble, working the combination through me like Chef Andros used to knead bread-dough.
The pain is unbearable, but he continues.
I feel all of it. We work through the emotions together.
He doesn’t scold me for my break in form, only holds me to him firmer and puts a strong Elven leg over both of mine like Corrik would. I’m at his mercy and I let go.
When he’s done, even he’s panting above me. My hair is sweat soaked, dripping into my brow and my arse throbs miserably. The urge to rub it rises again, but I know better. He does rub my back and I turn to oatmeal mush.
In a smooth move only an Elf could maneuver, he flips me so that I’m bridal style and carries me to the bed. I whine when he moves to leave me. “I’ll be back. Just retrieving your robe.”
Right. Our time together is officially over.
My emotions are too close to the surface—spanking does that to you—and I’m liable to sob over anything.
Fresh tears spout and trickle warmly down my cheeks.
When he returns, he’s got my robe but also his stupid, Tristan Paddle.
I sniffle. “Get that thing away from me, Strobavik. Do I get to throw it in the fire now that we’re through? ”
I earn his darkest look and suffer it as he covers me with my robe. I want to hide under the robe. “Did I not spank you hard enough? I admit I’m ill-practiced at giving a brat-spanking, but your arse is mighty red. In the least, I thought I did well enough to cool your flippant tongue.”
A brat-spanking? Is that what that was? But why would he…?
“I’m not letting that lapse in appellation go. Once we’re done with our chat, you can spend some time in the corner. Perhaps you can hold my beautiful paddle between your teeth—that’ll teach you to speak to me like that.”
I peer at him. “What chat? Are you going to lecture me some more?”
He sighs, frustrated. I drive him to the end of his wits with my nonsense. “No. That’s all done. I wanted to talk about us.”
“Us?” He nods. “Isn’t this over now? Corrik is back. You only train slaves.”
“Ahhh. That’s what the pouty behavior is all about.” I scowl at him. He ignores me running a hand through my sweaty hair and I can’t help relaxing into his gentle touches. “Do you remember I told you I engraved your name on this paddle?”
I twist my lips. “Yes.”
He shows me. It’s there in perfect Elvish, in pretty Elven script.
I’ve never seen Tristan written in Elvish before.
When my name is written formally, it’s usually as Kathir.
I touch it and trace it several times with my fingers pressing the pads into the sharp engraving. “Does this mean something, sir?”