Chapter 15 Isha #2
She might scream around her gag—though with her fondness for punishment, I rather doubt it.
A low table and a bronze tray holding clusters of needles in varying sizes and a black inkpot appear. She shifts her weight on her knees nervously, futilely craning her neck once more at the metallic tap of three needles bundled tightly together against the pot’s rim after I dip them.
“Hold still.” The words are a soft warning before the sting, and then I prick her with the inky teeth—the first of what will be thousands upon thousands of little bites. I begin at the top of one of Daesra’s claw marks.
Her back arches against the bench as she sucks in a long, hissing breath around her gag. I only dip the needle cluster again and poke her again—and again.
She can’t seem to help starting, at first, even once she knows what to expect.
Unfortunately I can’t tell her that the pain will abate so long as she doesn’t move, as was true with the dagger.
I can only caution her as gently as possible, soothe her with the threat of something worse if she doesn’t listen.
“If you spoil my design, I’ll only have to start over—from the beginning. And I have eternity, my dearest.”
Eventually she forces her body to obey me, or else her muscles go slack from exhaustion.
At one point I tell her to stop grinding her teeth so hard against the gag or she might break them, and then I don’t hear the sound again, only her slow, deep breaths.
Certain parts of her body—closer to the crook under her arm, her neck, or along her spine—still make her seize up every once in a while, her hands making fists so tight her knuckles turn white on the other side of the pillory.
But she doesn’t move or try to speak beyond that, which is good for her sake, not even whenever I sluice cool water over her back to clear the blood mixing with the excess ink and wipe it clean with a fine cloth.
Throughout it all, she manages not to spoil my design, though it wouldn’t have cost me much to begin again. And I would have.
When it’s done, I’m not even sure how much time has passed, so absorbed was I in my work. Perhaps the equivalent of a mortal day. Maybe two. Sadaré doesn’t move when I wash her back one last time.
I take a moment to admire my art. Immaculately rendered chains and thorny branches, freed of any leaves or blooms by the grip of winter, thread up her back like laces around the two scars.
Behind them a black sun rises, casting frost-like patterns wherever the shadow pushes through.
Those dark rays stretch all the way up the edges of her shoulders to her neck and down along her ribs to the dimples at the base of her spine, throwing out lacy, crystalline cold.
It’s a remarkable composition, I have to admit—rather like one of my songs.
For a brief moment, I feel a burst of something like pride.
And for once, it’s not just for her, for holding so still, but for myself.
“Hm,” I say, somewhat bemused.
Sadaré rasps in response, almost as if she’s trying to speak around her gag. I lean over the pillory to unstrap it from her mouth. The leather is surprisingly dry, though riddled with teeth marks.
“You may speak now, Sadaré.” I give her the name like a gift. She has earned it.
But she seems to want only one thing. “Wa-water,” she chokes out.
I’m before her in an instant, holding a cup to her lips. Unlike her usual hesitation, she gulps it down greedily until it’s empty.
Guilt seeps through me—I should have thought of this earlier. But she usually disdains my offerings, and I’m not used to caring for mortals so minutely.
No, I tell myself sternly. You got wrapped up in your own design and didn’t think of her. If she’s been bound in a pillory and gagged because of me, it’s my duty to care for her on a minute level. I feel even more thoroughly chastised by her lack of complaint.
So when she says, after tentatively moving her jaw and flapping her wrists weakly, “I’m so tired that I’d like to kneel at your feet for a while.
Can you please free me?” I leap to the pillory, even lifting it myself, and slowly help her sit upright in a kneeling position on her cushion, where she nearly falls over in my arms. Pulling my chair closer, I leave her sagging against my thigh.
I would still prefer to put her to bed after what she has endured at my hand, despite the fact that she’s kneeling willingly before me for once, which would have been cause for triumph in the very recent past.
“Wouldn’t you rather—?” I start.
“No,” she says, cutting me off with a surprising amount of insistence despite her feeble voice. She nuzzles her cheek against my thigh.
Even though it goes against all my instincts, I let her stay where she is.
If she wants to be there, then she’s earned that as well.
The soft pressure of her leaning against me, the slope of her beautiful back now claimed wholly by my mark, fills me with a deeper satisfaction than I was even expecting. Beyond what I hoped.
Slowly, she starts to nestle her head deeper between my legs—at first because I imagine she’s getting more comfortable, though I truly think a pillow would suit her better.
And then her fingers brush my bare ankle and slowly start to work their way up my calves under my robe, massaging as they go.
Her touch is pleasant, so I allow it, never mind that I should be massaging her—although not her back, since that would possibly end her—
The meandering path of my thoughts abruptly halts, because her hand has found its way to my inner thigh, squeezing and kneading, closer and closer to where I realize she’s headed. That part of me understood before I did, because it’s stirring to life.
“Sadaré…” I say warningly.
And then she seizes my hardening length in her hand—which feels more blissful than anything I can remember—and lifts up the hem of my robe, ducking her head more swiftly than she has any right to move in her state.
If I thought the touch of her fingers felt pleasant, that of her lips wrapping around me is simply divine. She delivers on the promise she made with that cherry and more. Far more.
Warm. Wet. Silk. Surrounding me. I can only sink into it.
I could stop her—I should stop her—but the will to do so drains out of me as she swirls her tongue over my tip, kissing and sucking, and then plunges me deeper into her mouth. She moans against me, and I throw back my head with a sharp exhale as her voice vibrates through me.
My mind spins, even though I can’t manage to speak. I should have seen this coming, ever since she dropped her plate. Her attempts to undermine my control are nearly constant, and yet she somehow still manages to surprise me.
And it’s addicting. The thought flashes through my mind unwillingly, as does this: I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want to take everything from her until she’s as good as lost, which might be the only way to—
No. I abruptly cut off the thought.
The warmth starts to intensify in my base, radiating down my legs and up my chest, as her lips and tongue circle and plunge along my length, over and over.
And yet each time she passes, it feels fresh and new, building on what came before.
I grip her hair in my hand—only an illusion of control, which is what I thought I was giving her with the punishment she so obviously craved.
That’s all I have now, but I grasp for it anyway.
She moans again, and my fingers tighten as I feel the sound of her in my bones.
I want her so badly I can’t breathe.
When she looks up at me, the worship in her eyes nearly pushes me over the edge.
It makes me feel somehow more of a god than I am.
She’s clay in my hands, but somehow I’m burning up, breaking apart, in hers.
Perhaps this is how Breath felt when they formed the first mortals from the mud, giving away pieces of themself to do it, and then reuniting with the source to keep their creations alive.
I feel as divine as if I weren’t in the underworld, separated from the gods, beneath them, alone, tainted with thanar—
Stop. I want to cease thinking, and Sadaré grants me my wish. As the heat rises inside of me, so does the pressure. It mounts with each dip of her head. As the molten ball inside of me liquefies my limbs, conscious thought escapes me entirely.
I can’t think. I only need. I’m desperate. I need this pressure to—
The heat erupts through my body. Never before have I been so aware of my corporeal form and so outside of it at the same time.
Never appreciated it so exquisitely or been so despicably beholden to it.
And yet I can’t even spare any thought toward hating it.
The glow that suffuses me burns as bright as my divine soul, as radiant-hot as aether.
It washes everything else away in beautiful fire for one pristine moment.
When I begin to come back to myself, both slower and faster than I would prefer, my face is numb. The feeling of not feeling is almost as shocking as what I felt. How did she manage to—
But then she adjusts her weight on her knees, and my floating thoughts abruptly snap back into place.
I seize her head in my hands and hold her fixed, her lips still wrapped around me, her tongue lightly teasing my tip.
If she plans to do everything that she demonstrated with the cherry pit, I won’t allow it.
I shove my length deeper into her mouth, feeling her choke.
“You wanted it, so swallow it like a good girl.” Astoundingly, the command in my voice is laced with languor. I sound intoxicated. I can’t remember the last time my composure slipped to such an extent.
Her throat bobs as she swallows, her tongue lapping against me—which is torturous, I realize, when the overwhelming intensity makes me twitch. But I don’t give her the satisfaction of jerking away, instead letting her finish every last drop.
She certainly doesn’t look triumphant when she gazes up at me. She looks dazed. Even grateful. And she can barely keep her eyes open. I whip my robe down, covering myself with an exasperated sigh.
“Now will you let me take you to bed, you infernal creature?” I demand.
I don’t wait for her answer before scooping her up in my arms. A strange possessiveness overtakes me, and I’m not sure if I want crush her to me or cradle her gently.
I opt for the latter, avoiding her back as much as possible and ignoring the urge to press her into my chest until I’ve absorbed her inside of me.
I could transport her immediately to her rooms in a blink, but I want the time to ponder these confounding feelings.
And yet I don’t manage to think much. Walking as smoothly as I can, my steps lighter than air, all I can focus on is the beating of my own heart.
It’s almost painful in my chest beneath Sadaré’s cheek, when I’ve hardly ever noticed it before.
What did she do to me?
I can’t ask her, even if I wanted to. She’s fast asleep before we reach her quarters. I lay her on her side in her bed, still mindful of her back, and pull the covers over her as softly as a whisper. Suddenly, I have the ever-more-absurd urge to lie down next to her and watch her sleep.
I won’t allow it. I’m the god of death. This can’t happen again. With a mortal, no less.
And yet I linger, finding it much more difficult to leave her here alone than I did the last time. Even though I finally manage to tear myself away from standing in her doorway like a shadow, I feel as if I leave behind a piece of myself when I do.