Page 31 of First Snow
A bright, stinging pain flares across his ass. The abruptness of the sensation makes him jump and gasp.
“Don’t get lost in your head now, sweetheart. I asked you a question.”
“Yes—” Arttu fumbles for words. He’s still at a loss, only remembering to hastily add a ‘sir’ to the end of his sentence.
“Better.” Faeling is right behind him again. Arttu can feel the heat radiating from his body and his breath tickling Arttu’s skin. “Now, whole sentences. What do you enjoy?”
“I—” Arttu squeezes his eyes shut. “I enjoy being watched,” Arttu chokes out. His chest tightens and more heat pools in his stomach from being forced to admit it.
“Good boy.”
Faeling traces the lines of Arttu’s body with the whip, making goosebumps erupt along Arttu’s spine. When they discussed the scene this morning, Faeling told him that the bull whip he uses is for show purposes only, and wouldn’t hurt more than a slap of his hand. He assured Arttu that he’s trained to properly handle the thing, that he wouldn’t hurt Arttu—at least not in a way that Arttu wouldn’t like.And Arttu believes him. Still, feeling the vicious thing being dragged all over his body and knowing Faeling is going to use it on him soon makes Arttu’s heart rate pick up and his hands tremble with adrenaline. Arttu loves every second of it.
“Now, we all know how much you enjoyed the spanking. Do you want me to use the whip on you too?”
“Yes, sir.” Damn, he doesn’t even have to pretend to sound eager, he’s just depraved like this.
“How much?” Faeling asks, never one to let him off the hook easily.
Glancing over his shoulder again, he sends Faeling a glare. Seriously? What does the bastard want him to say? The worst is that their little game fuels Arttu’s excitement even further. It’s exhilarating. The humiliation of confessing his depraved fantasies in front of a whole audience is as arousing as the thought of defying Faeling’s command and getting punished for it. Arttu twists in his restrained position, his brain scrambling for words but coming up blank.
Faeling uses the whip to caress the sensitive inside of Arttu’s thighs. “How much do you want this whipping, sweetheart?”
Faeling repeating his question is what breaks his composure. “Please, I—” Arttu moans. It’s difficult to even form a coherent sentence with how turned on he is. “Please, sir.”
“Not exactly an answer to my question, but since you’re begging so prettily…”
Arttu can tell by the purr in Faeling’s voice that he’s satisfied with Arttu’s answer. Faeling leans in close again, this time leaving no doubt that his words are meant only for Arttu’s ears.
“I’m going to make you feel so good,” Faeling promises. “All you have to do is take what I give you.”
Faeling takes a few steps back and Arttu has only a second to mourn the loss of his body heat before the first blow lands on his ass. The pain is intense. It has him gasping and writhing in his bonds. It also sends a wave of pleasure over his whole body. The next blows follow in rapid succession as Faeling finds a rhythm. The flare of pain each time the whip connects with Arttu’s bare skin forces a raw sound from his lips. He doesn’t even know if he’s screaming or moaning, probably both. Because no matter how sharp the pain, the pure bliss that follows every strike is all-consuming.
Arttu loses track of time. He has long since given up counting the blows or staying aware of his surroundings. He floats in a state beyond space and time, a place where only sensation matters, all doubts and insecurities gone.
Twisting in his restraints, Arttu can’t even tell anymore if he’s shying away from the burning flare of the whip, or arching into the pleasure it leaves in its wake. Arousal burns through his veins, more intense than he can remember ever experiencing before. He’s sure he can feel the sparks he saw dancing along the whip earlier caressing his body, each one like pure ecstasy where they run over Arttu’s shoulders, down his back, and over his ass and thighs. He can’t take much more of this.
“Come for me, darling.”
Something about Jareth’s voice has Arttu’s head spinning. It echoes in his mind and fills his being. Arttu doesn’t know hownotto obey. The second orgasm hits him as soon as the next strike lands. The pleasure is overwhelming, rippling through him with the force of a winter storm. Arttu gasps and writhes through its squalls, before the storm whites everything out.
“All hail Lord Blackrose.”
“What are you doing here?”
Voices disturb his blissful oblivion. One of them is familiar. Important. Arttu is tired and wants nothing more than to go back to sleep, but he needs to be awake. He stirs drowsily.
“It’s me, Diphylleia. Phyllis in this mortal realm.”
“I know who you are.” Arttu wonders what this Phyllis has done to make Jareth’s voice sound so angry and cold. “I don’t want you here.”
“I’m here to offer you my services, Lord Blackrose. I can help—”
“You aren’t welcome here,” Jareth interrupts. “And if you break The Truce—”
Arttu realizes he’s in Faeling’s arms, wrapped in a bathrobe. He wills his body to stay relaxed in Faeling’s grip, although the warm afterglow of their session is chased away by cold dread. What is Faeling talking about?
“Please, my lord, I can help,” the girl cries.