Chapter Eight Briar
Ipull away from his mouth, savoring the taste of fear and confusion.
He stands there, stock-still, the screen of the laptop burning blue behind him, his jaw clenched.
His chest rises and falls too fast, a wild animal in a cage, but he doesn’t run.
I like that. I cup his jaw and run my thumb over his lower lip, wiping away the wetness where I bit him, and for a second I let myself imagine gentler things.
That’s over fucking quick.
He needs to understand what this is.
I straighten, glance at the hidden panel in the wall, and snap my fingers. “Out,” I say, and Landon moves before he even knows he’s moving, pushing past me into the hall.
I don’t let him look at the bodies in the living room as I guide him down the hallway, one hand firm at his nape, forcing his head forward.
The corpses are still in a heap in the corner, blood leaking out in two directions across the white marble and into the grout lines.
One of them knocked over a vase on his way down.
Flowers and blood mix on the floor, a handful of petals sticking to the bone-shard edge of a shattered jaw.
Landon makes a sound in the back of his throat, but he swallows it fast. I don’t give him time to process. I don’t give him time for anything.
We walk past the open-concept kitchen, the glass-front cabinets, the evidence of breakfast still hot on the plates.
The smell of bacon is gone, replaced by the stench of death.
In the hall, I turn him left, where there’s a stretch of blank wall with a single painting—blue, splatter, mid-century, worth more than a house.
I press on the lower edge and the panel clicks, hinges inward.
Behind it, a narrow stair leads down, painted matte black, the steps so smooth they could be obsidian.
He hesitates, and I growl. “Move.”
He moves. Bare feet on cold stairs, the descent measured by the way the heat fades from the air with each step. The soundproofing is perfect. At the bottom, another door. I palm the print-lock, wait for the green flash, and push it open.
The room inside is small, maybe ten by twelve, but every inch is occupied by tools.
The walls are concrete, finished in a rough, unfinished style.
There’s a bench in the middle, lacquered wood and black leather, bolted to the ground with four-inch screws.
A pair of handcuffs dangle from the ceiling, thick black bands with leather cuffs.
There’s a rack on the far wall, lined with impact toys: floggers, crops, a single cane. Below that, a shelf with dildos arranged by size and material, plugs in neat rows, lube bottles lined up like soldiers at inspection.
I watch Landon scan the room, and I see the exact moment when the purpose hits. His face goes white, not with horror but with the chill of recognition. I push him to the center, make him stand with his back to the bench.
“Clothes off,” I say. My voice is flat. He starts with the shirt, fumbles, hands shaking. I wait. The act of undressing is always better when they do it themselves.
The shirt falls to the floor, then the pants. He stands in my underwear, a pair of thin cotton boxer briefs, colorless and worn. I hook a finger in the waistband and pull them down, slow, so the elastic snaps around his ankles. He shivers. I step back, hands on hips, and admire the view.
He’s lean but not soft; there’s muscle under the skin, the kind that comes from being perpetually tense, never fully at ease.
The bruises from last night are already showing on his hips and ass, purple and red like he’s been marked for slaughter.
There’s a ghost of a bite on his shoulder, a line of fingernail scratches down his thigh.
His cock hangs between his legs, not fully hard, not fully soft.
He’s trying to keep it from rising, but his body betrays him.
I walk a slow circle around him, hands behind my back.
“Do you know what happens to people who cross me?” I say.
He doesn’t answer, but his jaw tics.
I pause behind him, close enough that my breath moves the hair on his neck. “I usually kill them. Anyone can pull a trigger, Landon. That’s easy. What’s harder is teaching someone the exact cost of curiosity. The exact price of trust. You need to learn that lesson.”
I reach out, hook my finger under his chin, tilt his head back until he’s forced to look up at the exposed piping on the ceiling. The chain for the cuffs hangs right in front of him.
“You want to see inside me?” I murmur, letting the words crawl into his ear. “This is where it happens. This is where I fix the things that need fixing. Like you”
He’s breathing shallow now. I let go, move to the rack, and run my hand over the toys. I pick up a short leather crop, flick it once in the air, listening to the snap.
“You ever been whipped?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, so I turn and slap his ass with the crop, not hard, but enough that the noise echoes in the concrete. He gasps, flinches, but doesn’t try to run. Good.
“Answer me.”
“No,” he rasps.
“You’re about to be.” I drop the crop back on the hook, walk behind him, and fasten the cuffs to his wrists. I raise his arms just enough to make him stretch, his toes barely grazing the floor. His shoulders flex, back arching, and I love the way his ribs move under the skin.
I slide my hands down his sides, check his pulse at the hipbone. Racing, but not panicked. I wrap a palm around his cock, stroke it once, lazy. He makes a noise, tries to pull away. The cuffs rattle.
Stepping in front of him, I look him in the eyes.
“Curiosity is a virtue in my line of work. But there’s a point where it becomes a liability. When that happens, I teach you restraint.”
I say the word slow, letting it draw out.
“Have you… done this before?” His cheeks flush.
It’s cute. His push and pull. He wants to be my first. My only. But he also wants to return to his lame ass former life.
“No.”
He tries to hide the smile from spreading over his rosy cheeks.
“Do you understand what is going to happen here?”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yes.”
I squish his cheeks together and he stares at me, more pissed than scared. I can see the fight in him. Good.
“Say it. Louder.”
He grits his teeth. “Yes. I understand, Sir.”
Such a good boy. But even good boys need to be taught lessons. “You’re a quick study.”
I move to the wall, select another flogger, soft suede. I drag it across his chest, the ends trailing down his stomach. Then I step back and lay in, three quick strikes to his ass. He hisses, but keeps his body still.
“Count,” I say.
He’s silent.
I strike again, harder. “One,” he gasps.
Again. “Two.”
I keep going, slow, deliberate. At ten, his ass is streaked with pink, and his eyes are wet but not crying. I toss the flogger aside.
“Do you know what I like about you?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
I grip his jaw, force him to look at me. “You don’t break. You bend, but you don’t break. Most people would be giving up by now, begging. Not you.”
He holds my gaze. “Maybe you’re not hitting hard enough,” he spits, and the second he says it, he regrets it.
I slap him on the cheek, harder this time, then kiss the mark on his cheek. His cock twitches and he groans. Little masochist. “Careful what you wish for.”
I want to ruin him. I want to see what happens when he’s stripped of every defense, every clever line, every hope.
But not yet.
I stand and murmur, “You’re going to learn, Landon. You’re going to learn everything I want you to know.”
Reaching up, I release the cuffs, catch him as he sags, then push him down onto the breeding bench. His wrists snap into the restraints on either side, and I cuff his ankles to the bolts at the base. He’s on his knees, chest pressed to the leather, ass in the air.
I run a hand down his spine, slow. He shivers, tries to hide it. I squeeze his ass, then let my palm linger there, measuring the weight of him.
“You are going to see just how much pleasure I can bring you when you obey… or how much pain you’ll experience if you don’t.”
I grab a bottle of lube from the shelf, coat my fingers, and press one inside. He gasps, clamps down, but I push through. I want him to feel every inch.
I add another finger, scissoring him open. He bites down on the bench, but doesn’t make a sound. His cock hangs between his legs, hard again, leaking onto the leather.
Slowly, I stretch him, then pull out and pick a plug from the shelf—nothing massive, just enough to hurt. I lube it and press it to his hole, working it in inch by inch. He groans, body tensing, but he doesn’t beg for mercy. Not even close.
When it’s fully seated, I pat his cheek. “You’re doing so well.”
He doesn’t respond, just breathes, shallow and fast.
I circle to the front of the bench, kneel so my face is level with his. “Look at me.”
He does.
“This is just the beginning. Every time you disobey me, every time you poke where you shouldn’t, I’m going to remind you who owns you. Understand?”
He nods, eyes wide, pupils blown.
I smile, soft this time. “Good.”
I stand, leaving him bent and bound on the bench, plug buried in his ass. I take a moment to compose myself, to smooth my hair, to check that everything is in its place.
Then I lean in, voice right in his ear.
“If you want to get out of this room, you’re going to have to earn it.”
I want him nervous. Not afraid, just… aware.
He still isn’t quite understanding, so I select a different flogger, thick-cut buffalo leather, not the soft suede from before. The weight of it is perfect, balanced, easy to control. I run the tails over my hand, then over his back. He shudders, more anticipation than fear.
I start slow. Three lashes, building from shoulder blades to lower back, the noise sharp and echoing. He bites his lip, breath hissing out between clenched teeth. I pause, let the sensation sink in.
“Do you know what I love about this?” I ask.
He shakes his head, hair falling in his eyes.