Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Hadrian
It’s working. It’s actually working. My poor Juliet squirms on the altar, and I can feel how desperate she is to escape. I don’t blame her. An hour in that position would be bad enough without the added pain from the plug.
Part of me wants to hurry this along and relieve her suffering as quickly as possible, but I press down the urge and take my time. I’m her master. I don’t work on her schedule.
Her beautiful hair is plastered to her face, and I stroke it back. She flinches at my touch, but I don’t let myself react. Of course she flinches. I’m not her husband; I'm the psychopath who locked her in a dungeon. If she knew it was me, would her reactions be different?
Maybe. Or maybe she’d be even more scared to see what I’ve become.
Juliet blinks rapidly, and I can’t tell if she’s holding back tears or still adjusting to the light.
I run a finger down her spine, tracing the pink and blue flowers tattooed down it.
A new addition, and it suits her. Juliet loves pretty, delicate ink.
Peacock feathers on her inner forearms. A flower on her foot that she got the day she turned eighteen.
I’m still unsure what to give her at initiation, but I’ll make sure it will compliment what she already has.
Her clammy skin worries me for a second before I remind myself not to be stupid. She’s not even close to the limit of her endurance yet. I’ve barely scratched the surface.
She wriggles, shifting her shoulders the little she can, and whispers, “Please.”
It’s plaintive, but there’s something strange and unfamiliar in her voice that tugs at me. It’s higher than her usual voice and soft. Meek. I’ve never heard that tone from her. Is this really what she wanted all along?
I had my hands tattooed in preparation for today.
I didn’t want to rely on gloves and deprive myself of Juliet’s soft skin.
They’re unfamiliar to me now, and I stare at them against her pale ass.
It’s a snapshot of a scene from some dark movie, and unreality makes the world tilt. I take a deep breath.
This is me. I’m really here. And what happens next is under my control.
Juliet whimpers again, and it snaps me from my reverie. She’s done as I asked. She deserves a little relief. Moving with the swift, decisive confidence Juliet’s master needs to, I twist the plug free. She yelps, and I make quick work of undoing her restraints.
I stand back and just watch as she moves slowly with a lot of muffled squeaks. Once she manages to sit up, I point to the vertical stream and the bucket of cold, soapy water and sponge I set next to it. “Wash yourself.”
Her head swivels between me and the bucket.
Her lean frame shivers, and she’s like a deer caught in a predator’s sights.
Me. She’s responding like that to me. It’s lightning to my cock, and as her lips part, I force myself to keep still.
I could wash her myself. Explore more of the body I’ve missed so, so much.
God, I didn’t expect to enjoy this as much as I am. I thought I might struggle to treat her the way she needs. But she responds to me so beautifully it’s hard to resist taking things further.
No. I have a plan. Stick to it.
“Problem?” My voice rasps through the changer. She jumps.
“No… I… No.”
“No what?”
She lets out a tiny sigh as she slides off the altar, pausing for a moment, hands flat to the stone, steadying herself. “No, Master.”
“Good.” I cross my arms in front of my chest and wait. Performing personal tasks with an audience is humiliating. This isn’t as bad as it could be, but her hesitation shows me she’s not keen on the idea. Or maybe she’s just struggling with obeying me at all.
Whatever her issue is, she overcomes it, stalking over to the bucket and giving herself a good scrub with the sponge, back to me.
I could make her turn to face me, but she’s doing as she’s told, so I let it slide.
If I wanted that, I should have insisted on it in the first place.
Changing the goal posts and making unreasonable demands isn’t going to work.
I’ll have to be careful how I word my instructions.
Juliet is the sort of person who showers twice a day, three times if she works out, so she must be glad to clean off the sticky sweat.
She shoots me a quick glance, then angles herself to wash off the last of the painful lube.
She’ll be sore for a while longer. I have some cream that will ease the sting, but she’s not getting it this time.
I want her to feel her punishment as she tries to sleep.
She uses the trickle of water to rinse off the suds as best she can, shivering as the icy water hits her skin.
I’m proud of that particular detail, and it wasn’t easy to achieve.
Above Juliet’s prison sits a vat of purest Nordic spring water, cooled to Arctic levels.
She always wanted to visit some of the icy, fjord-type countries. Now she can have the next best thing.
Task complete, she turns to face me. Again, I’m struck by how little she seems to care about her nudity.
Her hands hang down at her sides, as though she’s assessed the situation and decided she’s got bigger problems than showing her skin.
The bravery of it is almost daunting. I won’t break Juliet with silly tricks.
I scan her body and frown as I notice something that wasn’t there when we were married.
A cluster of circular scars on her inner thigh.
What the hell? I need to ask her about them, but it’s too soon for conversation.
Still, the shape and placement of them gives me an uneasy feeling.
I push it to the side for now, as Juliet speaks.
“So, what now—” She pauses just long enough to make it deliberate. “—Master?”
Sassy, but nothing I can punish her for. At least she’s playing this game by my rules, working out what she can get away with.
I don’t hesitate for a second. “Thirty with the strap. Bend over the altar.”
She flinches but doesn’t look surprised.
Maybe it’s even a relief after what I just did to her.
Given her tastes, this is familiar territory.
The sort of punishment, she might even enjoy.
I struggled with the possibility of that during the planning stages.
If she enjoys pain, how can I give it to her as a punishment?
But it’s important I fulfil the role of Master to the fullest.
And a master needs a heavy right hand.
I’ve practiced this, but I’ve never done it to a real human.
Juliet swallows, her lips part, and she draws in a breath before walking jerkily to the altar.
To anyone watching, she would be the terrified victim and I the looming monster.
But my hands shake as she bends and flattens her body on the stone.
I might be more nervous than she is. At least she’s done this before.
Fuck.
At that thought, my hands stop shaking. Other men have left their marks on her body. Now it’s my turn, and I’ll make sure she knows the difference between playtime and true ownership.
I use my thumbprint to open the cabinet.
She’ll be looking, of course, so I grab the strap and close it again fast enough that she’ll only have caught a glimpse of the contents.
I don’t want to give too much away. By the time I turn around, she has her gaze averted, staring at the far wall. It doesn’t fool me.
A memory rears up, slamming into me before I can guard against it.
Her twenty-fifth birthday. I told her, in the sternest tone I could manage back then, not to look in the closet, as her party theme was a surprise.
I knew she wouldn’t listen, waited, and caught her red handed in the act of snooping. We laughed about it, and I kissed her.
Maybe I should have spanked her for it instead. I won’t make the mistake of showing mercy again.
The strap sits heavy in my hand as I line myself up with Juliet. “Count the strokes. If you miss one, it’s two extra.”
“Yes, Master.”
She gets the words out quickly this time, voice breathy. Nerves, or excitement? It could be both. I draw in a breath and bring back my arm.
Time stops as the strap falls. There’s the impact, a loud crack, a moment of silence. Then, Juliet jerks, and her hands fly back to cover her ass. “Ow! Ow, that’s…”
She twists to face me, and there it is. Real fear. A bright red stripe marks where the strap fell, and deep satisfaction fills me. She might have done this before, but not like this. There are no safe words here. No not so hard, please, sir. I’m going to give her what other men never could.
“You missed the count. That’s thirty-two.”
“What? No. I—”
I bring the strap down again, and she howls. “Ow. One! One.”
Again.
Again.
If I concentrate, I can space the stripes evenly.
Juliet is the artist of the two of us, but I’ve always had an eye for symmetry.
There’s something beautiful about painting on her skin, and it draws me in, banishing the last of my uncertainty.
I’m really doing this. And by the desperate way she’s stammering out the count, it’s working.
“Please. Stop a second, I need—”
Again.
When we reach twenty, I pause. Her ass and thighs are a bright red canvas, and she’s quivering, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.
I run my finger along one especially livid mark, and Juliet hisses.
Her skin is hot to the touch. It’s fascinating, and I wish I could tear off the mask.
I want to press my face against her heated skin and feel it against my cheek.
And, Christ, I want to fuck her. Somewhere in the last few minutes, my cock turned into an aching iron bar, desperate to be free of its prison. Her pussy is right there; I only need to push her legs apart. I press a finger to her entrance experimentally, and her body stiffens as I push inside.
Soaking wet, and I’ve done nothing but hurt her. But there’s still twelve more to go.
I raise the strap again. This time, I aim for skin that’s already nice and red. The leather hits, and her strangled yell is fuel for the twisted fire burning in my veins. Eleven more. Make them count.
By the time we reach thirty-two, she’s whimpering, and tears streak her face. Her pussy, though? It’s even wetter than it was before. Her body gives away her deep-seated need for discipline. She’s panting, skin clammy all over again, but I can hardly focus above the roaring in my head.
What am I going to do next?
Sweat coats my skin under the costume, and I’m desperate to rip the mask off. If it felt like a safe place to hide before; now, it’s a barrier. It's preventing me from giving my full attention to the woman who probably thinks she’s miserable right now but clearly isn’t.
Why didn’t I know she was like this before?
I’m supposed to leave her alone for the night, but why, exactly, should I? Don’t I own her? Isn’t that the whole point of this?
All at once, my carefully structured plan feels cowardly. Too slow, too cautious. Exactly the sort of thing the old Hadrian would do, not the man I need to become to keep Juliet happy. The real Juliet, not the one I thought I knew.
What would one of her dark heroes do next? The answer is so obvious I almost laugh.
I press three fingers roughly into her soaked pussy. “I’m going to fuck you now, but not here. You haven’t earned this yet. It’s a reward for slaves who know how to behave.”
Her only answer is a muffled sob, though she presses herself into me at the same time. Christ. Does she know she’s doing it?
I pull back, then force two slick fingers into her ass. It’s a tight fit, and she whines. We tried anal a few times while we were married, at her suggestion, but I could never get past the fact it hurt her. I was an oblivious fool. She must have been so frustrated with me.
Now, I get to make it up to her. “Here, though? This is for me.”
Her voice has that high, breathy note again as she stammers, “B-But—no. You said two punishments.”
I twist my fingers, and she groans. It doesn’t sound like only pain. “This isn’t a punishment. It’s me making use of what I own. And afterward, you’ll thank me.”