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The animal was still there. The demon.
"I want you to hold." He prowled around me, stopping his words mid-flow. "Very." I heard him breathe me in. "Very." He was prolonging it, dragging it out. "Still."
I wasn't moving.
"Very." A touch, on the back of my neck. Cold, like a blade. Knives were the one thing that scared me. "Very." He knew that. "Quiet."
What are you going to do? What are you going to do? Cole, St. Martin, Sir – what are you going to do?
And God help me, I wanted it. Whatever it was, I wanted it. I wanted his touch, yes, there was no other way to find comfort here. Either as the aftercare or during or – or something, at some point he'd touch me with care.
Gently. Healingly.
But before that? And in a rush I understood I wanted this as much as he needed to do it. Whatever was driving him, there was a counter measure in me, something that called out for him to hurt me and banish it.
Maybe it was the time apart. Maybe it was the feel of Vincent's hands on my skin.
It was stupid and careless and dangerous and I didn't care. It was something that probably anyone would want to have me committed for.
But I wanted St. Martin to clean me out, to leave me emptied and bruised and bleeding and broken open and ready to be filled again.
Then I wanted Cole to fill me.
15
Annie
He punished me.
Nothing that had happened was my fault. In fact, I had been "The Hero" of the scene, saving St. Martin only this afternoon from Kie and her gun (and wondering what would become of St. Martin's soldiers who had left her armed after everything else had gone down).
I had been the one to kill Vincent Geddes and even if that threatened St. Martin's world view, still I felt that merited consideration.
Wanting it on the other side of the door, that was one thing. When the punishment starts, there's never a want component and any sub who says otherwise possibly needs to seek help.
Then again, for me this was help. I knew that now. I'd made the choice to come back here. Because right up to the notarizing of the contract, I could have chosen to go.
He circled me. I stood, wearing the shift again. It clung to my upper body and then fell to just below my ass. Almost a baby doll dress, the low scooped neck and spring style.
He circled me and his eyes were cold. He's taller than me. He used his height. He looked down at me. His mouth remained unsmiling. His eyes, cold, so cold, didn't find mine.
They never did at times like these. Every time he had brought me into the cold and echoing chamber of pain with its spanking benches and tables with ankle and wrist straps, its St. Andrew’s Cross and its racks and racks of striking toys, with everything else the room contained, when we were here, he didn't meet my eyes.
It wasn't because of roleplaying or fearing breaking character. He wasn't going to break into laughter or blush if he met my eyes.
It was that here, Cole St. Martin became someone else. Someone dark and driven. Someone who understood other humans only by the way they screamed.
"Don't make a sound."
Or didn't scream.
Visions. Snatches of movement. Outside my body, looking in. Or seeing in mirrors that were here tonight, that hadn't been here before.
St. Martin, circling me.
The cold on the back of my neck. His breath, I thought. He seemed that cold inside. Then the mirrored doors of a cabinet swung shut and I saw myself in the shift, I saw St. Martin and realized he wore nothing but black, fully-clothed, black boots, black jeans, black long sleeved t-shirt despite the heat of the spring day. Black gloves.
The knife gleamed in the light. I wasn't Kie. I hadn't sworn to allow knife play. But there was no negotiation for this, was there? This was punishment. For letting myself be taken, perhaps.
