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Bong. "Well done, Dahlia and Drake. By my count, Dahlia’s twelve lashes are complete. Drake requires one additional. Once complete you are free to use the music room as you wish until time for lunch. There are interesting things happening in the torture room that require my attention. Good day."
Drake looked into my eyes. "Last one. Almost there."
I hated hurting him. I didn’t want to hurt him, but Sam would probably be watching right until the last strike. If he really wanted to watch whatever depravity was happening in another part of the house, he’d be pissed if I took too long. When my hand arched down, I put more strength and energy behind the swing, fueled by my rising libido. My aim was off, and my hand turned at the last second. Instead of the flat of the strap hitting him, the heavy rough edge of the leather strap caught Drake in the back of the arm. Not a cut, more like an actual tearing of the soft skin. An inch and a half long wound opened and blood oozed down to his elbow.
"Oh shit." I dropped the strap and put my hands to my mouth. "I cut you. Are you all right?"
Drake hissed in pain and reached around to grab the wound. "I’m good."
I snatched up my discarded sweatshirt and pressed it to his arm. "I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that to happen."
Wincing, he patted my arm. "It was bound to happen. A couple of yours were close to cutting the skin too." He glanced up at the speakers, then whispered, "I was holding back a little with yours, though." He grinned. "Don’t tell anyone."
"I should have done the same. Then you wouldn’t be hurt." I pulled the sweater away and the sight of the blood sent another wave of guilt through me.
"Dahlia, It’ll be fine. I’ve suffered worse right? If I can handle getting stabbed or electrocuted, a little cut on my arm is no big deal."
We sat on the piano bench together. It had been a long time since we’d been able to sit and simply enjoy each other’s company. It was strange, but nice too.
"It’s gotten easier to do this to other people," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "But for some reason I still have a hard time hurting you."
Drake gave me a sad smile. "Same. I hate hurting you. To be honest? You’re the first person I’ve felt that way with. I think part of why I’ve survived this long is that this came easily to me. Hurt or be hurt. It was an easy decision."
His words sent a shiver through me. He hadn’t said it specifically, but he made me sound special in his eyes. The first person he’d had a hard time hurting? As depraved as it was, that might be the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to me.
I looked closer at the wound, and winced. "Jesus Christ, Drake. It’s deep. I think, damn, I think you need stitches or something."
Drake sighed and nodded across the room. "Our gracious host thinks of everything."
Following his gaze, I spotted a bright red first aid kit attached to the wall above an ornate record player. I frowned and furrowed my brow. The whole house was nothing but an altar to depraved misery and pain, yet he’d still put things like that around. Strange.
"Okay. I guess I’ll see what it has." I stood and walked over, pulling the kit off the wall.
Inside was a remarkably well stocked kit. No scalpel or anything that could be used as a weapon. The closest thing would have been a pair of scissors, but those had a blunted end and would have made a poor tool to fight with. On one side there were a dozen different sized bandages, medical tape and gauze, antibiotic, and cortisone creams. On the other zippered side I found a thermometer, instant hot and cold packs, a rolled up elastic bandage, and finally, a small suture kit.
"Um, I think I found something that will work," I said, returning to the bench.
Drake eyed the suture kit suspiciously. "So, uh, do you have any experience with that?"
"Nope," I said, then glanced at his arm again, the blood hadn’t stopped oozing yet. "I can figure it out though."
"Okay. I trust you," Drake said, looking into my eyes.
I took a few deep breaths as I threaded the needle and clamped it into a pair of small medical pliers. Before I began, I wiped down his arm and wound with a single use alcohol pad.
"Argh, fuck." Drake hissed. "Shit, that hurts."
"Sorry." I leaned forward and gently blew on the cut, and he sighed with relief. "Ready?"
Drake gave me a sarcastic grin. "Sure. Can’t get worse."
His skin was surprisingly hard to shove a needle through. The flesh bulged and it took everything I had to get the damned thing to push through. Drake grimaced in silence, and every time he winced or closed his eyes, another wave of shame hit me. Along with that, though, was a weird and dark enjoyment. He was at my mercy. I inflicted pain, and a miniscule part of my mind enjoyed it. I couldn’t help getting off on it. I was wet again; warmth radiated from my pussy each time he gasped in pain.
Almost as though Drake could sense it, his free hand reached behind him and rested on my thigh. The heat of his fingers almost made me drop the needle.
"Dahlia?"
"Yeah? Did I hurt you?" I asked quickly, my fingers freezing as they worked.
