Page 25 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

Ezra

Perfection couldn't be rushed.

I stood silently in the doorway, observing Micah without announcing my presence.

He bent over the worktable, applying the specialized mixture to the canvas with newfound confidence.

The glowing moth toy sat beside his materials, casting a soft blue light across his workspace.

His body moved with a grace that hadn't existed two weeks ago when I'd first led him down to my private collection.

When he'd stood before the transformed bodies and chosen to stay rather than flee.

The bone ash from the pianist's hands gleamed across the canvas, catching light in that unmistakable way—ghostly, luminous, uniquely mine.

His technical skill had advanced remarkably.

There was no hesitation in his movements, no reservation in handling materials that would horrify ordinary people.

Even the stump of his amputated finger—the first joint he'd sacrificed to our art—had become an asset rather than a liability.

He'd adapted his grip on the specialized brush, using the healed wound to create unique pressure patterns impossible with conventional technique.

His body had changed too. He looked leaner, more defined from our rigorous schedule and the specialized diet I'd prescribed. Zinc, selenium, L-arginine—each chosen to coax his body toward the next phase of creation.

Micah was fully aware of the purpose behind his regimen. I'd explained it to him a week ago.

"My cum?" He’d tilted his head, eyes wide. "As a medium for the next series?"

"The most intimate contribution possible," I'd confirmed. "Your essence literally becoming part of the work. The proteins and minerals, properly prepared, create a binding agent with unique properties."

Rather than disgust, his expression had shown wonder, followed quickly by determination. "How long must I wait to produce the proper amount?"

"Three weeks minimum. The concentration increases significantly after prolonged abstinence."

He'd nodded seriously, accepting this assignment with the same dedication he brought to all aspects of our work. "I won't touch myself," he'd promised. "Not even when I'm alone."

Now, fourteen days into his denial, the strain was beginning to show. As I watched, his hand strayed from the canvas, pressing briefly against the front of his pants. He paused, then allowed his palm to linger, applying pressure.

His breathing changed, becoming shallow and rapid. The specialized brush lay forgotten on the worktable as both hands moved to his belt. The soft sound of his zipper descending followed, but I waited until his hand started moving to interrupt.

"Micah." My voice cut through the studio like a blade.

He froze, face draining of color. Slowly, he turned to face me, eyes wide with fear and embarrassment. His maimed hand clutched reflexively for the moth toy, drawing it against his chest where it glowed brighter in response to his distress.

"Daddy, I—" he began, voice breaking.

I raised my hand, silencing him. I entered the studio, closing the door behind me carefully. "You made a promise. You gave your word regarding your contribution to our work."

He swallowed, hands dropping to his sides, zipper still partially open. "I'm sorry. I didn't—I wouldn't have—"

"But you were about to," I interrupted, disappointment evident in my tone. "Fourteen days of control, undone for a flicker of relief."

His cheeks flushed, but his arousal didn’t fade. Interesting.

"What happens when agreements are broken, Micah?" I asked quietly, standing before him now.

His eyes lowered, unable to meet my gaze. "Correction is required."

"Look at me when you answer," I commanded.

His gaze lifted immediately. "Correction is required, Daddy."

"Yes, it is." I sat on the sturdy wooden chair in the corner of the studio. "Remove your belt and bring it to me."

He hesitated only momentarily before complying, hands visibly trembling as he slid the leather from its loops. The stump of his little finger looked raw against the dark leather as he gripped it. He approached me slowly, holding the belt out like an offering.

I took it from him, testing its weight against my palm. "Pants down. Over my knee."

The flush deepened across his face, but he obeyed without question.

First, he carefully placed the moth on a nearby shelf, positioning it so its glowing eyes faced him.

A silent witness to his correction. Then, he lowered his pants and underwear before carefully positioning himself across my lap.

His erection pressed against my thigh, his arousal undiminished despite his impending punishment.

"Ten strokes," I announced. "You will count each one and thank me afterward. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Daddy," he replied, voice already taking on that particular quality of submission.

I doubled the belt, gripping the buckle end securely. The first stroke landed firmly across both cheeks, leaving an even stripe of pink against his pale skin.

He jerked slightly but maintained position. "One. Thank you, Daddy."

The second landed slightly below the first. "Two. Thank you, Daddy."

By the sixth stroke, tears had begun to flow, but his position remained perfect, accepting each impact as he surrendered more deeply. "Six. Thank you for correcting me, Daddy."

The final strokes intensified deliberately, ensuring the lesson would create a lasting impression. When the tenth landed, his entire body trembled.

"Ten," he gasped through tears. "Thank you, Daddy. I'm sorry I broke my promise."

I allowed my hand to rest on the hot pink stripes across his backside, gently stroking the raised welts. "What have you learned, Micah?"

"That my body belongs to our work now," he answered, his voice steadier. "That my pleasure isn't my own to take."

"Good boy," I praised, helping him to stand. His erection remained undeterred by the punishment.

I studied him. The punishment had served its purpose. Now came the restoration, the balance necessary for complete devotion.

"Come here," I said, voice softened as I settled back in the chair. I unbuttoned my shirt halfway, exposing my chest. "You need what only Daddy can give you."

Recognition flooded his tear-stained face. His lips parted with unmistakable hunger as he understood the offered reward. He retrieved his moth first, clutching it with his maimed hand.

I guided him onto my lap again, but face-to-face this time, his reddened ass tender against my thighs.

His erection pressed hot and insistent against my stomach, punishment having only heightened his arousal.

His face pressed against my chest, mouth seeking what had become his particular ritual of submission.

When his lips found my nipple, a sound escaped him—half groan, half plea. His mouth closed, and he began to suck. My nipple, already tender from days of similar attention, responded immediately with a sharp current of pleasure-pain that traveled straight to my groin.

The room filled with wet sounds as he worked his mouth against me. His hips rocked subtly, but I stilled him with a hand. The moth glowed softly in his grip, its light pulsing with his movements. I stroked his hair, savoring the control this strange intimacy granted me.

"There, there, boy. Take your comfort from me. I don’t like punishing you, but this…

" I cupped his balls, drawing a sharp breath from him. “This belongs to the work for now. You can’t waste all our hard work for a momentary pleasure. The art will outlive us both. You must give your best to the art.”

His sucking intensified to the point of discomfort, but I didn’t dare interrupt. A little pain now was such a small price to pay for such devotion, such obedience.

My cock hardened as he continued, his need for this connection feeding my own arousal.

The intimacy of this act went beyond conventional sexual gratification.

It satisfied something darker in both of us—his desperate craving for approval and my desire to be the sole source of another's fulfillment.

It was something I hadn't anticipated when designing his transformation.

After several minutes, I pulled his head back by his hair, watching his lips reluctantly release my nipple with a wet sound.

His eyes had taken on a particular glazed quality that indicated complete surrender, pupils dilated with desire.

My nipple stood wet and reddened from his attention, a pleasant ache remaining.

"Enough," I said, tracing his lower lip with my thumb. "Ready to please Daddy in other ways now?"

He nodded, expression flushed with desire. "Yes, Daddy. Please let me."

"Remove your clothes," I instructed. "All of them."

He complied without hesitation, carefully folding each garment and placing it on the nearby stool.

The moth sat atop his folded clothes, watching with luminous eyes.

Standing before me completely exposed, he awaited further instruction.

The discipline had only heightened his desire to please, evident in his earnest expression and attentive posture.

"Such a good boy," I murmured, my hand moving to the front of my pants. "Even after correction, you seek to please."

His eyes lifted to mine, and he licked his lips. "Can I suck your cock, Daddy?"

"Kneel," I commanded, satisfied when he immediately dropped to his knees before me.

The transformation of his language impressed me.

From hesitant and shame-filled to confident in his role.

The religious framework that had once constrained him now provided vocabulary for a different kind of worship.

"Yes," I replied, guiding his hands to my belt. "Take me out. Show me your dedication remains intact."

His fingers worked deftly at my buckle, removing my belt before unfastening my pants. The uneven rhythm of his hands reminded me he'd already bled for our work. His eyes never left mine as he freed my cock, his approach reverent and ceremonial.