Page 45 of There’s a Way (Mythic Beast #2)

Davy

I got the hated black cane and kneeled by the humbler.

He hadn’t told me I was going to be caned in the humbler, but he clearly wanted me to prepare for it.

Was it a mindfuck, or was that his plan?

I had no way of knowing, so I kneeled in complete silence, my arms over my head with the cane balanced on my palms. Alone with my thoughts.

A slave doesn’t get to decide what happens to him. A slave exists solely for the pleasure of his Master. Will needed to hurt his slave, and it was up to me to suffer for my Master.

I’d been disappointed when he just sent me to clean the pool and then work out. This was what I’d wanted, so I should be thankful. I tried to talk myself into being thankful, but I never quite got there.

I don’t know how long I sat with my thoughts before music suddenly flooded the room. Drums and guitar. Raw. Feral.

Sometimes Master hurts me and fucks me in perfect silence. Sometimes there are ballads in the background. Occasionally, he pulls out something completely unexpected, like Enya or Air Supply.

But just raw music? Riffing on the guitar with drums and nothing else?

It meant my Master was in a mood, and I was finally relieved to know he was going to reassert what we are to each other: Master and slave.

Sadist and Masochist. Owner and owned. All the anxiety from moments earlier was gone.

Now that it was about to happen, I only felt relief.

I was indoctrinated into the lifestyle as a slave. I’ve never been a mere submissive. I understand that the kind of devotion I have to Master isn’t seen as normal by most, but it’s my normal.

However, after being away from constant reminders of my status for a while, kneeling with my arms over my head while holding one of Master’s most brutal canes, second only to the damned stainless one…

I suppose it’s dark romance to most, but it’s just plain old romance to me. Proof of how much I mean to Master. Proof he’s my Master and I’m his slave.

Proof of my devotion to him.

He walked into the playroom wearing sexy jeans — no shirt, no shoes — and my libido went into overdrive, my heart raced, my stomach did somersaults, my cock throbbed .

Master pulled a remote from his pocket, pushed a button, and the music stopped. He walked to me and took the cane from my hands. “Arms behind your back and kneel up.”

I rose up on my knees while slowly letting my arms down because they were practically frozen in place, so it took a few seconds to get them behind my back. Once I was as he’d commanded, Master put the cane in front of my lips and I obediently kissed it.

“Knees and chest.”

I hate the humbler. I hate the cane.

And yet, not for a million dollars would I have complained about what was to come. I needed this like I need oxygen and water to live.

And yes, my Master was clearly in a mood, but that was okay. My job as slave is to conform to his needs. To be whoever he needs me to be.

Master’s nimble fingers mounted the humbler on me in a few seconds, instantly centering my balls as my sole focus.

But then Master sat down behind me and said, “Crawl across the mat, return, and then make the turn so you can go back down the mat again, but wait until I tell you to go again by touching the bottom of your foot with the cane. I’ll give you from zero to five strikes of the cane, depending upon the speed and grace with which you make it to the other end of the mat and back. ”

Fuck . Crawling in a humbler hurts your balls. It just does, and there’s no way around it. Making turns hurts even worse.

But as soon as Master touched the arch of my foot with the end of the cane, I was off as fast as I could manage, and then the music was blasting the room again, filling it with raw, feral energy.

I made as wide of a turn as the mat allowed and returned, but then struggled to get turned around with a sharper U-turn so I’d be situated for Master to cane my ass.

The first strike had me yelling out in pain, screaming into the chaos of the music.

The second had my eyes watering, and then… nothing. No touch. No cane. I breathed through the pain and dealt with it, and then was surprised by a third strike, almost immediately followed by the touch to the bottom of my right foot.

I was nearly paralyzed from the pain so it took a few seconds to move. I resolved to slow down a little this time and try to look more graceful, but after a few seconds I realized slowing wasn’t going to help with that, so I sped up and tried to concentrate on being smooth, if not graceful.

Meanwhile, the backs of my legs throbbed with heat and pain, along with my balls.

I felt every inch forward, and when I finally hit the end of the fifteen-foot-long mat, again navigated as wide of a U-turn as I could manage, and while doing so, I thought about what might happen if I kept my knees in place, put all my weight on one of them, and then did a kind of pirouette around that knee, leaving it in place and using my hands to spin myself around.

When I returned to Master, I did the tight U-turn again because I’d need to do it away from him before I attempted it beside him.

Four excruciating, hellish strokes this time, and tears were flowing down my face after the second. Thankfully, he gave me some time after the last before he touched my foot.

And this time, I felt the music. Or maybe he helped me feel it by drumming his hand on the top of his thigh after he hit me the fourth time. So, when I moved forward this time, I did it in time to the music, advancing once every two beats of the drums.

I’d figured out that to spin near Master, I’d need to lift my right knee and spin clockwise in order to end up about the right distance from him, so I did that on the other end of the mat. It wasn’t super-graceful, but I thought it a better plan than the big U-turn, and it hurt my balls less.

The thing about the humbler is that you can’t put your hips at ninety degrees.

You can’t straighten that much. It hurts no matter the position, but there’s one angle that hurts the least, but you can’t stay in that angle and crawl.

I had to straighten them enough to crawl, and then the movement meant I was charged with hurting myself in order to crawl. Every movement hurt .

Torturing my own balls.

So, while the spin hurt a lot less than the big turn, it still hurt.

Only two strokes of the cane the next time, which meant I was onto something.

The next time, I worked harder to be on the beat of the music every time, and got another two strokes.

Eventually, after maybe three more times, though maybe it was two and I lost count, I only got one stroke of the cane.

It wasn’t until I forced myself to straighten my hips more and put some oh-so-painful swagger into my crawl that he merely touched my foot once I settled, and didn’t cane my legs or ass.

By this time, I was bawling. My balls hurt. The backs of my legs hurt. My ass hurt. And the spot between them possibly hurt the most — right in line with my balls aching.

When I came back the next time, the music stopped and Master said, “Good boy. You please me, Davy. So smart. So devoted. So dedicated.”

He worked the latch on the humbler while he talked, but I didn’t move until he told me to.

“Oh, your poor balls. You abused them quite a bit there at the end, didn’t you? Roll over and jack yourself off. No lube, just your hand and your dick.”

It’d been nearly nine days since I’d had an orgasm, so I didn’t need lube.

In fact, the extra friction might just help me get there faster.

My erection had flagged a little from the pain, but the humiliation of the whole thing had kept it from going soft.

It wasn’t rock hard, but it was still standing proud.

Some Masters like for this part to take a while, but not mine, so I got right to work with the knowledge that if I didn’t get myself off in a few minutes, it was possible I’d lose the chance for an orgasm.

A few slow strokes and then I went right to it, moving and twisting, remembering the humiliation and pain of crawling.

I flexed my ass so I felt the cane strokes even more, reactivating the pain that hadn’t even thought about calming down yet.

I’m pretty sure my begging started in less than a minute.

“Permission for your slave to orgasm Master? Please allow your humbled slave the privilege of release, kind Master!”

He let me go on with my begging until I thought my aching balls might just give up the ghost, and he finally said, “Permission granted, beloved slave.”

He’d never said it like that before, and my tears grew in volume and moisture as the orgasm tore from my body, a painful, glorious release that had me grunting and yelping.

I closed my eyes for most of it, but remembered to open them and meet his gaze at the end, tears flowing down the sides of my face to my ears as I lay on my back, looking up at him, jizz cooling on my stomach.

Rather than order me to feed it to myself, Master scooped his finger into it and fed it to me, his gaze on my tongue the whole time.

The silence in the playroom contrasted with the feral beat he’d played before, but I didn’t say anything.

And then, after he’d fed me everything on my stomach, he ran his fingers down the back of my throat and held them there. Our gazes met, and I opened my soul to him. I’m his, and I let him see all the way inside me while he held me with his gaze, his fingers buried in my throat.