by Tiegan Clyne
“Be quiet, Sebastian.”
He ground his teeth, then pulled over and slammed on the brakes. He threw the car into park and turned to face his passenger.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded. “Ashmar would have killed you!”
“Maybe I wanted him to!”
“I don’t want him to!”
Sebastian turned on him, his eyes flashing as his anger finally burned free. “I don’t care what you want! I am tired of being a slave, of being a thing, and I cannot live this way! If you won’t release me, then kill me, or I swear I’ll find a way to do it myself!”
Christopher stared at him with wide eyes, almost as if he was shocked that Sebastian would say such a thing. Finally, he reached over and flicked a switch on the collar around the dragonel’s neck. It fell free, landing in his lap.
“There. You’re released. Happy now?”
Sebastian bolted from the car but stopped as soon as he got out. There were fields of crops on both sides of the road, and no breaks in the expanses of grain that he could see. The sky was black with no moon and no stars, and he had no idea where he was supposed to go from here.
Christopher left the car and stood beside it. Sebastian walked a few careful steps away from him, watching him warily. The demon crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the vehicle.
“Due east of here is Kristal, the only city in the Badlands. It should take you seven or eight days to walk there, but GenTel’s hunters will catch you before you ever see the city gates. If you go west, you go back into the heard of Numea, where they can easily find you and take you back to Crown Holdings, where they’ll sedate you and express you until you die from a heart attack, or worse. Up ahead is a crossroad, and if you follow it south, you’ll eventually reach Sovina, where Prince Almovar has cryptomorphs locked up in a fenced enclosure so he can hunt them without a speck of sportsmanship. If you follow it north, you’ll end up on the border of Kevdon, but that border is heavily guarded, and no unattended cryptomorph will ever get through alive.”
He had no idea which path to take, or even if he should believe the things that he was being told. He hesitated, looking around in all directions, hoping for some sort of sign to show him which way to go.
“You haven’t eaten in three days. You’ve had several hydration patches, but you’re on the ragged edge of dehydration anyway. You’re still healing. Those shoes don’t really fit you. How far do you think you can go before Ashmar and the Countess find you?” Christopher opened the passenger side door. “Get in the car, Sebastian.”
The dragonel shook his head, staring around himself at the growing plants and the thick, velvety darkness. It seemed like a good place to die.
“I said, get in the car.”
He looked at Christopher, and their eyes met. He realized his mistake a second too late. He began to feel too sore and too weak to walk. All he wanted was to crawl into the car and go to sleep. He knew he was being compelled, but he lacked the strength to fight it. Obediently, he got into the car and let Christopher lock his seatbelt around him. He was asleep before the car started to move again.
Christopher was afraid.
By now, the Countess had been told about their flight. She was no doubt unleashing all the hounds to bring them back, and from the prickling at the back of his neck, she had called in some demonic favors as well. He could feel a dark cloud rushing at them, descending toward the car like a harpy out for blood. Evil and darkness always recognized its own.
He had two choices: turn back or keep running. As long as the Countess had his marker, she would be able to find him, and the things that she could do to him even at a distance were the stuff of nightmares. In truth, the choice was punishment now or a more severe punishment later.
He turned the car around.
It was dawn before he saw the lights of the gates glaring on the horizon. Christopher stopped the car and took a moment to put the collar back around Sebastian’s neck, reactivating it by tapping the code into the controls. The collar hummed and beeped once, announcing that it was back on line, and he had a breathless moment of anxiety, wondering if the Countess had already sent a command, but the collar remained inert. He blew out a sigh of relief and continued driving.
The guards at the gate leveled their guns at him when he approached, and the one in the lead barked at him to stop. He obediently did as he was told, parking in the road and rolling down the windows. The guards swarmed the vehicle, their laser sights dancing over the interior and both occupants.
Lord Ashmar stalked out of the guard house, his face twisted by an ugly sneer. “You brought it back,” he said. “After you bolted, we didn’t think we’d see either of you again.”
“This was all my fault,” he lied, and his voice shook. “I frightened him, and he panicked. I took him away to calm him.”
The military man snorted in derision. “You can tell your lies to the Countess. She’s waiting for you inside.”
They let him take the car to the circular drive behind the residential wing of the house, but the guards escorted them the whole way, their weapons at the ready. When he parked, he handed the keys to the guards, who snatched them away. He knew this drill.
Christopher leaned over and touched Sebastian’s lax hand. “Dragonel,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Awake.”
The words were just for the benefit of the watching guards and had no bearing on the control he had over Sebastian’s consciousness. He released his hold and watched as Sebastian blinked his golden eyes blearily. A red laser dot appeared on the dragonel’s forehead, and Christopher turned to glare at the guards. When he turned back, the look of betrayal and anger in Sebastian’s eyes made him cold.
“The Countess is waiting for you both,” Lord Ashmar told them.
“In her sitting room?”
The officer laughed unkindly. “In the cellar.”
Christopher closed his eyes so that no one else could see his fear. He took a breath. “Very well.”
He climbed out of the car and walked around to the passenger door, which he opened. Sebastian stepped out into the dawn’s chill, his mind now alert. He glared at Christopher, who only nodded.
“I understand,” he whispered.
“No, you don’t,” Sebastian disagreed. “You never will.”
Lord Ashmar ushered them into the house and down a path that Christopher had hoped he’d never have to walk again. Sebastian walked beside him, doing his best to keep Christopher between himself and the officer who had hurt him so badly. The dragonel’s jaw was clenched, but whether he was angry or afraid, Christopher couldn’t tell. If he was wise, he was both.
Their path took them to a heavy oaken door braced with iron bars and with a speakeasy at the top. Lord Ashmar rapped on the door with his cane, and Sebastian stared at the object with ill-concealed horror. The speakeasy opened, and a guard on the inside nodded to his superior when he recognized him. The lock clicked, and they were pushed through.
The smell of the cellar never changed. It was always dank and musty, and the smell of cold concrete was a reminder of unpleasant things. Sebastian’s cheeks were pale, and Christopher wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been told that his were the same. He had never wanted to come back down here.
The Countess waited for them, seated in a wooden chair that looked like a gothic throne. Her long legs were crossed, exposed by the slit in her long red skirt that had fallen open. The needle-like stiletto heels of her shoes flashed in the light as she swung her foot, impatient. On the arms of the throne, her hands curled, the pointed nails painted a brilliant blood red. Her hair was in a single plait that draped over one shoulder. She glared at Christopher with icy eyes.
“If you have an excuse, you had better start talking,” she told them both.
Sebastian took a breath to speak, but Christopher got his words out first. “He was hallucinating because of an interaction of the sedative and the suppressant,” he lied. “I tried to calm him, b
ut it only made him worse. He bolted in his fear…”
“Taking the time to get dressed in your clothes?” The Countess looked and sounded unconvinced. Christopher began to sweat.
“Dressing him was part of how I tried to calm him. When he ran, he was terrified, because he didn’t know where he was. You know that cryptomorphs go a little feral when they’re frightened enough.”
He hoped that she believed him, but though she still smiled like a raptor, she was unreadable. “Go on,” she said. Behind them, Lord Ashmar sighed.
“The situation was made worse when he was shock-stunned. I needed to take him away until he was calmer.” Christopher looked into her eyes, silently begging her to accept his story. “We came back as soon as he was manageable.”
The Countess turned her face toward Sebastian. “Is this the truth, dragonel?”
“I…”
Christopher risked a moment of telepathy. -Say yes.-
Sebastian sighed. “Yes, Countess.”
She laughed almost in disbelief. “Then the fault for this entire escapade lies with you, Christopher?”
He raised his chin and answered. “It does.”
“You’re admitting that you failed as a veterinarian and put my dragonel at risk by mixing substances that caused a bad reaction?”
She could normally trip him over his professional pride, but this morning was different. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Dragonel, there is a stool in the corner. Sit there and be silent. Do not move from that spot until you’re given permission.”
Sebastian looked over at the place she indicated. A low, three-legged stool occupied a lonely corner of the basement, pushed back against the cold concrete wall. He went and sat there as he’d been commanded.
Christopher swallowed. “What is your pleasure, Your Grace?”
“Punishment, of course. Lord Ashmar will do the honors.”
The officer smacked his cane against his open palm. “Strip and go get the cross.”
His heart pounding, Christopher removed all his clothing and put them aside neatly. The Countess ordered, “Give them to your pet to hold.”
Christopher brought his clothes over to Sebastian and handed them to him. He removed his gloves last of all, putting them on the pile. Sebastian looked down at Christopher’s hands, at the roadmap of scars, and he seemed surprised. He smiled for the dragonel, trying to reassure him, hoping against hope that Sebastian wouldn’t be forced to watch.
He turned back and walked across the room to a closed door, which he opened. Inside were three different rigs - a spanking bench, a set of stocks, and a cross. He had been told she wanted the cross, so he dutifully pulled it out. It moved easily on wheels that could be locked into place once the rig was in position, so it didn’t even rumble as he pushed it across the black stone floor.
“Put it right here, in front of me, but so that your dragonel can see your face,” she ordered. “Since you’re taking this punishment for him, he should get to see how much you enjoy it.”
Sebastian looked like he was going to be ill. Lord Ashmar stepped up and checked that the wheels were securely locked. Christopher allowed the officer to put the leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, and when Ashmar tilted the entire rig forward, he leaned his weight against the wood and waited, spread-eagle and helpless.
The Countess rose from her throne and strolled across the room to a hanging rack filled with floggers, whips and canes of varying thicknesses. Christopher couldn’t see what she was selecting, which was part of her intention in positioning him like this. He would know what she chose only when it made contact with his flesh.
She spoke again, and her voice was both in the room and in his mind. “How long has it been since you properly fed?” she asked. Her cold hand ran down his spine.
“Days,” he admitted.
“I thought so. I can sense how empty you are.” She chuckled. “Well… I guess you’re not going to heal too quickly, are you?”
“No, Mistress.”
Christopher felt something made of leather and metal dangle against his calf, and then she drew the cat o’nine tails up over his skin to drape the business end over his shoulder. The Countess ran her hand over his chest, then down to squeeze his hardening cock.
“You love punishment,” she observed. “That’s why you lied to me.”
-Don’t do this for me,- Sebastian begged. He was a quick study at mind-to-mind communication, and Christopher made a mental note to block him out before the pain became too much to bear. -I hate you, but I don’t want to see you suffer.-
The bald honesty of telepathy made Sebastian’s words echo with truth, and Christopher closed his eyes, gently pushing the cryptomorph out of his mind. What was about to happen was something he intended to endure alone.
“Does he know what you are yet, pig?” the Countess asked.
“Yes, Mistress. He does.”
She chuckled. “I doubt that.” Her hand grabbed a fist full of Christopher’s dark hair and yanked his head back. “But he’s about to find out.”
Lord Ashmar stepped up to stand in position, and Christopher shuddered in anticipation. He wasn’t afraid of the pain, and he wasn’t afraid of looking weak in front of Sebastian. Those were both givens at this point.
He was afraid of how much he was going to love this.
“Dragonel,” the Countess said as she walked back to the rack of toys. She opened a drawer and poked through it as she ordered, “Put those things on the floor and come forward.”
Sebastian did as he was told. He approached the cross, glancing up nervously at Christopher’s face where he could see it between the wooden arms, which crossed at the bound demon’s upper abdomen.
The Countess stopped the dragonel. “Close enough. Kneel, right there.” Sebastian obeyed. “Face him.”
When he turned on his knees, his face was only a few feet away from Christopher’s now rampant cock. He was close enough that he could reach out and touch him if he chose, or if he was ordered to. He was certainly close enough that he stood the chance of being hit by flying sweat, or blood...or cum.
Lord Ashmar shoved a ball gag into Christopher’s mouth, buckling it tightly behind his head. He held up a blindfold.
“His eyes?”
“No.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” He sneered at Sebastian, then returned to his position. He shook his arm to limber it, holding the cat in his hand. The metal triangles braided into the leather tails jingled like windchimes.
The Countess sat in her throne once again and crossed her legs, her long, sharp nails drumming on the wooden arms. She had something in her lap. “Lord Ashmar, you may begin.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sebastian felt sick. His stomach was tied into a million knots, and watching Lord Ashmar prepare to use the cat o’ nine tails made him afraid for Christopher.
“Look at him,” the Countess ordered. “You may look at two things: his face or his cock. If you look anywhere else, I will have Lord Ashmar cane you again.”
He looked into Christopher’s eyes, for once wishing that the demon would do something to his mind to make this situation less horrific. No influence came, however, and he could almost feel Christopher receding from him like the tide rolling back out to sea.
“Count for me, Sebastian,” the Countess said. “I want to know that you’re paying attention.”
The first lash fell on Christopher’s back with a crack, and he tossed his head back with a hiss that whistled through his nose. His lips curled back from the ball gag and he looked up at the ceiling, eyes wide.
“Sebastian!”
“One, Countess.”
“In this room, you will call me Mistress.”
He swallowed. “One, Mistress.”
The cat slashed out again, and Christopher gasped.
“Two, Mistress.”
The game continued, with Ashmar lashing Christopher and Sebastian counting out the blows. Christopher was as stoic as one coul
d have been at first, but by the time the tenth lash hit his lacerated flesh, he was crying out in pain. His eyes filled with tears that rolled down his cheeks, and long strings of saliva fell from his lips, since the gag made him unable to close his mouth. His face was contorted with pain, and when the next lash fell, he made a guttural sound and Sebastian nearly forgot to count.
His eyes had changed.
Instead of their usual deep, expressive chocolate brown, his eyes had become completely black, except for twin points of glowing red light where his pupils should have been. The floggers and the other toys began to bounce and rattle, and wind sprang up from nowhere, whipping through the room. The Countess laughed and Lord Ashmar stepped back to rest his arm.
“Sebastian, look down. What do you see?”
He looked away from Christopher’s face and turned his eyes to the second place he was allowed to look. Christopher’s cock was hard as stone, weeping from the tip and bobbing with every frantic beat of his heart. A drop of pre-cum fell to the floor.
“I said, what do you see?”
“His… his cock, Mistress.”
“Should he have release, dragonel?”
Sebastian sensed a trap, and he looked up into Christopher’s face. He was sweating and pale, his hair sticking to his forehead, but he was alert. He met Sebastian’s gaze and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
“No, Mistress.”
She laughed, delighted. “And why not?”
“I…” He was confused. “I don’t know.”
Lord Ashmar snorted.
“Could it be that you bear some ill will toward your master, Sebastian?” He hesitated, and she said, “Answer me honestly. I warn you, I can smell a lie from a mile away.”
He sighed and admitted, “I do.”
“Why?”
Sebastian chose his words carefully. “He… he took my will away.”
“When?”
She sounded honestly curious, and he answered, “During the dinner, and again in his room later, while I was healing.”
He was omitting one last time, and she seemed to know it. “And?”