AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A long pause followed before Drystan finally cleared his throat. “The bishop … is a … good man. Do not speak ill of him. He wants only to cleanse your soul.”
“Your affections for the man are concerning to me.”
“I do not have affections. It is admiration and nothing more.”
Admiration. The very word became blasphemous when paired with Bishop Venable. “Let us speak of your admiration once he has meted out punishment against your flesh.”
After rinsing the cloth, Drystan shook his head, his gaze directed toward the fluid in the basin that seemed more blood than water. “Forgive me for speaking candidly, My Lord, but you would avoid such punishment if you stopped inviting it. The idea that you ventured into the woods so late at night–”
“Do not endeavor to lecture me as if you have no sense for why I ventured out.”
“They were together.”
If there was anyone who loathed his father as much as the baron, it was Drystan. And only for the way Lord Praecepsia had always treated his mother, his own sister, like a common whore. “I am tired. Leave me.”
“As you wish, My Lord.” An air of disappointment clung to his tone, as he lifted the basin from the bedside table. “I will return in the morning to check your wounds.” Basin in hand, he made his way to the door, and the click signaled his exit.
The baron had suffered small punishments throughout his childhood, but Drystan, as the whipping boy assigned to him, had taken most of his spankings. He’d never truly suffered such unbearable lashings that felt like his skin had been torn clean off his back. The pain had intensified since he had left the cathedral, and it was only the brisk, nighttime air which had numbed the agony on the carriage ride back to the manor. Right then, however, it pulsed with new torment, spasms that clawed at his skin with fresh pain, and he curled his fingers into the soft pillow and attempted to breathe through the cotton.
The stifling of his breaths sent a shiver through his body and a rush of blood to his cock. Intrigued by the sensation, he undid his breeches just enough to spring himself free and buried his face in the pillows once more. As he ground his hips into the mattress, the pain across his back flared and, coupled to the lack of breath, had him dizzy with euphoria.
He moaned into the cotton and imagined a soft, feminine form beneath him. One with full breasts and curves, and while the girl at the meadow could not have been more than fourteen, two years younger than him, it was her face he saw in the blackness of his mind. Her moans in that song-like voice which had coiled around his senses. He drove his groin faster into the mattress, daring himself not to take his cock in hand, but as another zap of pain streaked across his skin, he could not help it. Snaking his hand beneath him, he lifted his hips just enough to stroke his shaft, face still buried.
What in Hades had taken hold of him?
He had certainly worked himself that way before. Had eased the ache of his cock many times in the night, but never to the tune of pain and fantasy. Somehow, the two had crossed paths in his mind, creating an exquisite sensation that had his stomach flexing and his ballocks heavy and aching for release. As the pressure heightened, the air waning, he moaned harder, pumping his fist with furious determination. Thoughts reverted from the girl to the wounds on his back, and what he imagined to be a grotesque display of violence. The rage from before twisted inside of him again, and before he could process what was happening to him, a wave of dizzying ecstasy swept over him, crashing into the back of his skull on a flash of bright light. He grunted out a muffled completion into the soft cotton as jets of hot release shot forth, wetting his stomach and chest, just before he lowered his hips to the mattress, and ground out the last of it.
He’d never felt anything so intense and pleasurable in his life, but in the calm that followed, a cold sensation moved across the back of his neck. The realization that it was not pleasure alone that had brought him to such a pinnacle, but the pain. The agony and violence inflicted against him.
The thought left his stomach churning with disgust, and pulling his hand from his pants, he shuddered, repulsed and ashamed.
What had he done? Why?
Surely, there was something wrong with him. What kind of ill-minded person could think such vile fantasies?
Thoughts of his father back in the cabin sprang to mind, and the pained expression on his aunt’s face while his father took her savagely. Violently. He could not imagine inflicting such torment. The baron’s first time with a woman had been at the cusp of fourteen. She was a scullery maid, four years his senior, who had pulled him into a closet after a few curious glances. They’d held private trysts every night, her having taught him things about a woman’s body, and how to give pleasure, as well as receive. He’d always enjoyed the satisfied smile on her face afterward. It had given him a sense of pride to know he’d learned so quickly, and she would praise his skills, referring to him as a youngadeptus. His mother had eventually found out and promptly kicked her out of the manor, but the seed of euphoria had been planted in the baron’s head. On two occasions, he’d sought out slightly older girls from the village, who were happy to oblige him, due to his title and appearance, but most wanted marriage and promises he could not keep at such a young age. Therefore, most nights had been spent stroking himself to climax, which he found most satisfying during baths when the water would wet his skin. However, at no point did he harbor a single thought of pain, or violence, during those sessions. Something had shifted inside of him. A terrifying discovery.
Was that how it would be with a woman from then on? Gleaning pleasure from her misery?
As if in punishment, a searing hot jolt like a trickle of boiling water ran down his spine and left him stiff and trembling. The worst of his wounds stretched from one shoulder blade to the other. He screwed his eyes shut and squeezed the pillow so hard, his knuckles burned. But as the heat in his hand intensified, he released the pillow to find the skinny, jagged lightning bolts dancing across his fingers.
A thought struck him then.The mouse in the woods with the crushed tail.
He had healed it with his own hands.
A narrow trench across his arm was the evidence of an errant lash from one of the leather braids, and he set his finger over it, imagining his flesh as it was before his punishment. He focused hard on the image in his mind, and felt warmth beneath his palm. A strange, wet sound had him opening his eyes, and when he lifted his hand, he watched with morbid fascination, as the wound’s edges stretched toward each other, sealing the gash from one end to the other, until nothing remained. Not a single indication that a whip had ever touched him there. No cut, nor bruise, nor scar.
Confounded, he stared down at his hand again, then rested it at his shoulder, unsure if the healing required direct contact with the wound itself. In spite of that, he imagined his back, the entirety of it, healed and flawless as it was before that night. The same wet sound he had heard moments ago reached his ears. A tightness stretched across his back, but he felt no pain. On the contrary, a cool, soothing sensation blanketed his abused flesh, and he lay against the pillow once more, reveling in it. It wasn’t long before the feeling faded, and he hesitated a moment, then pushed up from the bed, tucking his manhood back into his breeches.
There was no pain.
No agonizing burn.
He ran across the room to the embellished golden mirror, which his mother had purchased from Venice. There, he twisted enough that he could see nearly half his back was free of any bleeding wounds, before he checked the other half, noting the same.
Healed, just as he’d healed the mouse’s tail in the woods.
The baron lifted his hands, staring down at them, his mind swirling with so many questions. The most prominent of which being, what else could they do?
