1. Henri #2
Because by then, Henri had learned. This was what he was for. What he’d always been for.
The memory faded, leaving Henri kneeling in Marc’s penthouse, the present crashing back with cruel clarity.
“Alonso will be in town next month,” Marc was saying, his tone conversational, as if discussing dinner plans. “I believe you remember him? He’s been asking after you. Quite insistent, actually.”
Henri’s breath stilled. His hand moved unconsciously to his thigh, where the faintest white lines were still visible if you knew where to look.
Marc noticed the gesture and smiled. “Loves knives, that one. Never left permanent scars, of course. I made sure of that.”
He hadn’t. Henri kept his hand still, forced himself not to trace the thin white lines that proved otherwise. Marc’s memory had a way of editing itself to cast him in the most flattering light.
Henri remembered the blades well enough. The gleam of satisfaction in Alonso’s eyes when Henri had flinched and whimpered exactly the way he liked. Alonso had been less careful that night, too excited by Henri’s tears to maintain his usual precision.
Marc had been furious about the scars. Not because Henri had been hurt, but because permanent marks were sloppy, unprofessional.
“Perhaps you were right about Jean.” Marc stepped away from his desk, pulling Henri to his feet in one fluid motion. His eyes roamed Henri’s body with familiar appreciation. “The situation has become... complicated.”
Henri stayed perfectly still as Marc’s hands traced his shoulders, his chest, his hips, cupping his soft cock and balls. Possessive. Claiming.
“You helped me see reason,” Marc continued, his voice carrying that gentle tone that always preceded his most demanding moments. “But you know what this means?”
“Yes,” Henri whispered, skin prickling under Marc’s touch. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Good boy.” Marc’s smile was almost kind. “Go prepare yourself for me. I’ll be up once I finish here.”
Henri gathered his clothes, careful not to disturb their neat folds. The glass staircase felt cold under his bare feet as he climbed to the second floor. He pressed his palm to the master suite’s entry panel, the soft chime granting him access.
The room spread out before him, dominated by a massive four-poster bed in dark mahogany.
Everything here was designed to complement Marc, from the varied shades of blue, each chosen to echo his eyes, to the deep wood tones that matched his chestnut hair.
Plush carpeting in midnight blue and cream formed intricate Persian patterns beneath the bed.
Twin walk-in closets flanked the far wall.
One housed only suits and formal wear, each piece perfectly tailored and arranged by color.
The other held more casual clothing, including a small dresser where Marc kept the items he preferred Henri to wear.
Henri couldn’t remember the last time he’d selected his own clothing without Marc’s approval.
He placed his suit in the hamper before noticing the bedroom door had closed. The security panel’s LED cast a faint blue glow in the dimness. Henri approached it, already knowing what would happen but needing to check anyway.
The scanner rejected his palm with a sharp double-beep, the light flashing red.
Locked in. Of course.
Resigned, Henri turned toward the bathroom.
Everything in Marc’s world existed in sleek modernity.
No tub. Marc considered them inefficient.
Instead, a massive shower dominated the space, enclosed in floor-to-ceiling glass.
The control panel beside the door offered various settings including opacity, but Henri never touched those options. Marc liked to watch.
Inside, rough-hewn granite stretched across the floor, its surface providing perfect traction when wet. Multiple shower heads dotted the ceiling and walls. Rainfall, waterfall, and targeted jets that could soak you from every conceivable angle, including a detachable one for more intimate cleaning.
Henri adjusted the water temperature with practiced ease. He stepped fully under the water, letting it soak his hair, run down his shoulders, mask the trembling in his hands.
His movements were methodical as he worked the soap into a lather. Experience had taught him to be thorough, meticulous. Marc would check. Marc always checked.
When finished, he reached for his towel from the heated rack. The warmth against his skin was a brief comfort he allowed himself to savor, knowing it wouldn’t last.
Henri returned to the bedroom, retrieving the tube of lubricant from the nightstand drawer. He prepared himself exactly as Marc preferred. Enough to prevent real damage, but not enough to dull the edge of pain. Even this small act of self-care wasn’t truly his to control.
After setting the lube back in its spot on the nightstand, Henri positioned himself on the bed, muscle memory guiding him into the pose Marc preferred. On his knees, chest pressed to the duvet, ass up, arms beside his head. Waiting.
Time meant nothing in the pristine bedroom of Marc’s penthouse. Henri remained motionless despite his protesting muscles. The duvet beneath him offered no comfort. Minutes passed. Henri had learned long ago not to count them.
The soft whir of the security cameras served as a constant reminder that Marc was watching, evaluating his obedience. Henri fought the urge to shift his weight as his legs began to tremble from maintaining the position.
He let his mind drift, the way he’d learned to do as a child. His consciousness somewhere near the ceiling, watching a 26-year-old CFO position himself for what came next. The body on the bed wasn’t him. Couldn’t be him.
The door opened with a soft click that filled the silence. Marc’s measured footsteps crossed the room, each step deliberate, unhurried. The nightstand drawer opened with a whisper of wood against wood.
“I saw the paperwork today,” Marc said finally, his voice carrying that dangerous note of calm that Henri had learned to fear more than anger.
“The documentation from the Swedish boarding school. Three months of ‘intensive independent study abroad.’ Very prestigious. Then his triumphant return to Chaminade to graduate with full honors. Such a shame about his illness, unable to attend the ceremony, but these things happen.”
Henri kept his eyes forward, focused on the subtle geometric pattern of the wallpaper.
The story was perfect. Jean’s time spent as a prostitute at Heart Court transformed into an elite academic program, complete with glowing letters of recommendation from the Swedish faculty. His return to Chaminade and subsequent graduation provided the final polish to the fiction.
Marc’s voice dropped lower as something smooth and firm pressed against Henri’s hole.
“You crafted quite the story about Jean’s kidnapping. Sentinelle’s heroic rescue operation. Such good publicity. The board was practically forced to keep the subsidiary, despite their reservations. Making the public aware of all the good the company does... that was particularly clever.”
The silicone toy traced lazy circles against Henri’s entrance.
“And of course, it would look terribly suspicious if Jean wasn’t returned to Gabriel and Lucas after they’d so publicly declared him part of their household. You made sure Olivier understood that, didn’t you?”
Marc eased the large plug forward, stopping when the widest part strained against Henri’s rim. Henri’s fingers twisted into the sheets as Marc kept the toy motionless, the relentless pressure a small cruelty all its own.
“You went to my father,” Marc continued, his voice deadly.
“Convinced him Jean was more liability than asset before I could even make my case. By the time I arrived at the office, Olivier had already made his decision.” He twisted the toy slightly, drawing a sharp inhale from Henri.
“You made me look weak in front of my own father. Made me appear as though I couldn’t see the obvious risks to our family’s reputation. ”
Henri shook his head slightly. He hadn’t meant for it to be perceived that way. But he remained quiet. Words would only infuriate Marc further.
“Everything you have,” Marc punctuated each word with a measured thrust of the toy, “your position at La Sauvegarde, your apartment, your freedom to walk the streets, exists because I allow it.” He leaned close to Henri’s ear, his breath hot against Henri’s neck.
“And when you make decisions without my permission...”
The threat hung unfinished. Henri’s victory in freeing Jean had come at a price, and Marc would ensure he felt every moment of it.
“All these years,” Marc said, pulling the toy almost completely out before pushing it back in, “and still you need these little reminders of your place.” He traced his free hand down Henri’s spine, a mockery of tenderness.
“If I didn’t correct you, Henri, what kind of partner would I be?
” Marc’s voice was silk. “You want me to help you be better, don’t you?
You’ve always been so grateful for my guidance. ”
The toy stretched him, lodged deep as Marc’s footsteps moved toward the side closet. Henri heard the familiar creak of hinges, the soft sounds of items being moved. When Marc returned, he set two implements on the bed where Henri could see them: a wooden paddle and a thin rattan cane.
“Choose,” Marc said simply.
Henri’s breath caught. The paddle would bruise deep, ache for days, make sitting agony.
But the cane would cut, leave welts that would burn with every movement, every touch of fabric.
He stared at both, knowing Marc was savoring this moment.
Forcing Henri to participate in his own punishment, to take ownership of the pain.
“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 as bending 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 under the 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.