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thejusticelounge2013-06-25 10:23 am
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2013-06-25 10:23 am
Entry tags:
mother
It didn’t smell right at all, that was the first problem. Vanilla and musk and Damian’s stomach turned at the syrup in the air, but the woman behind the candles thought her offering delicious indeed. He could see it in her practiced smile, lipstick a shade of red dark enough to be dried blood. He moved toward her, but she held out her hand.
“Money on the table,” she ordered, and he opened his wallet.
Two hundred, three hundred, and still she nodded for him to continue. Five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills were fanned across the silk runner. “That’s all for now. I’ll take it back if you don’t earn it,” Damian warned, and she laughed low and musing.
“I think I’m going to enjoy you,” she told him. She sauntered toward him, slow, careless. Damian decided to make certain she didn’t enjoy him at all. But he obeyed when she said, “On your knees.”
Her eyes were blue. That was wrong, also, and they regarded him with something too akin to fondness. He tried to focus on the dark spill of her hair instead as long fingers explored his throat, ears, the short hairs on the back of his neck. She wrenched his chin up suddenly and forced him to meet those glacial eyes that he’d already begun to detest. “Are you even old enough for this?”
“I’m rich enough for it,” Damian said, and a quirk of her brow told him they had an understanding.
She pulled up a chair and reclined, long legs stretching with the creak of black leather. “Get undressed. I didn’t tell you to stand!” she barked, and the tone of it made something inside Damian spark to life. He fell back upon his knees, wiggling from one side to the other to remove his clothes from his position.
When he was naked, legs spread apart and hands behind his head as he’d been instructed, the woman looked down on him as if she were already bored and rose to examine a line of instruments on a table. “Are you bad, boy? Did you come here to be punished? Beg me for it.”
“No,” Damian ground out, jaw clenching in silent defiance. He’d come here for something of the sort, perhaps. He wanted to beg, but she had to prove first that she was worth it. And his stomach churned once more because, no matter what torment she administered in that sugar-smoke room, he knew she could never convince him to relinquish control. He wanted to give it to her, to someone, but no one seemed to know how to take it.
She didn’t realize she had a teenaged assassin-turned-vigilante sprawled bare on her floor, either, so she pressed on. “No what?“
Damian’s face must have betrayed his confusion, because her sigh was exasperated. She was stern again when she corrected him: “You’ll address me as ‘Mistress’ when you speak to me.”
“Please. You’re lucky I’m acknowledging you at all, you egotistical harlot.” It was the wrong and right thing to say, because she was flaying his back with a bull whip within the next minute. She slapped his face, she dripped hot wax on his chest, she locked his spread feet on the opposite ends of a metal bar and used leather cuffs to bind his wrists. He was aware the entire time that he could escape the restraints with little effort, and it ruined everything.
“This isn’t working,” he finally said, and he began popping his thumbs from their sockets to free his arms.
“We still haven’t learned our manners.” She seemed unimpressed by his resistance, and she grabbed his chin to still him. “What did I tell you to call me?”
“I’m not calling you ‘Mother,’” Damian spat, and he felt his face burn red at once.
Interest flashed in her silvery eyes. “Now, that’s not the title I ordered you to use. But if you want me to be Mother,” she whispered, leaning close to his ear. “I certainly can be.”
He quirked a brow at her, and they reached another understanding. He allowed his thumbs to return to their joints.
The spiked heels of her boots rapped the cedar flooring as she circled him, the palm of one hand smoothing across his scalp. The whip cracked his already-thrashed back without warning, and Damian groaned after enduring everything else in silence. “You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you? Yes. You’ve misbehaved, but Mother knows just how to discipline you, little boy.” The snap of leather on bare skin echoed once more.
“Damian! My name is Damian, Mother.” He needed to hear her say it. His voice was high, needy and he was glad for the extra excuse to hate himself in this moment. “And I’m not bad. I’m wicked. I need you to fix me. Please. Please, Mama.”
“Mama’s here, Damian, baby.” She retrieved something from her table of toys, a string of clear large beads that were unfamiliar to Damian, though he could make a guess about their function. “Hands and knees,” she commanded as she circled behind him.
It was more painful than he’d anticipated, and he roared his misery into the floorboards. He forgot the vanilla, the blue eyes, the fact that the restraints were no match for his strength and skill. He struggled against them like a caged animal gone mad. He begged Mama, please more times than he could count. He didn’t know what he was asking for, but she seemed to understand it just fine.
When they were done, he emptied the rest of his wallet on the table by the door and scheduled another appointment.
“Money on the table,” she ordered, and he opened his wallet.
Two hundred, three hundred, and still she nodded for him to continue. Five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills were fanned across the silk runner. “That’s all for now. I’ll take it back if you don’t earn it,” Damian warned, and she laughed low and musing.
“I think I’m going to enjoy you,” she told him. She sauntered toward him, slow, careless. Damian decided to make certain she didn’t enjoy him at all. But he obeyed when she said, “On your knees.”
Her eyes were blue. That was wrong, also, and they regarded him with something too akin to fondness. He tried to focus on the dark spill of her hair instead as long fingers explored his throat, ears, the short hairs on the back of his neck. She wrenched his chin up suddenly and forced him to meet those glacial eyes that he’d already begun to detest. “Are you even old enough for this?”
“I’m rich enough for it,” Damian said, and a quirk of her brow told him they had an understanding.
She pulled up a chair and reclined, long legs stretching with the creak of black leather. “Get undressed. I didn’t tell you to stand!” she barked, and the tone of it made something inside Damian spark to life. He fell back upon his knees, wiggling from one side to the other to remove his clothes from his position.
When he was naked, legs spread apart and hands behind his head as he’d been instructed, the woman looked down on him as if she were already bored and rose to examine a line of instruments on a table. “Are you bad, boy? Did you come here to be punished? Beg me for it.”
“No,” Damian ground out, jaw clenching in silent defiance. He’d come here for something of the sort, perhaps. He wanted to beg, but she had to prove first that she was worth it. And his stomach churned once more because, no matter what torment she administered in that sugar-smoke room, he knew she could never convince him to relinquish control. He wanted to give it to her, to someone, but no one seemed to know how to take it.
She didn’t realize she had a teenaged assassin-turned-vigilante sprawled bare on her floor, either, so she pressed on. “No what?“
Damian’s face must have betrayed his confusion, because her sigh was exasperated. She was stern again when she corrected him: “You’ll address me as ‘Mistress’ when you speak to me.”
“Please. You’re lucky I’m acknowledging you at all, you egotistical harlot.” It was the wrong and right thing to say, because she was flaying his back with a bull whip within the next minute. She slapped his face, she dripped hot wax on his chest, she locked his spread feet on the opposite ends of a metal bar and used leather cuffs to bind his wrists. He was aware the entire time that he could escape the restraints with little effort, and it ruined everything.
“This isn’t working,” he finally said, and he began popping his thumbs from their sockets to free his arms.
“We still haven’t learned our manners.” She seemed unimpressed by his resistance, and she grabbed his chin to still him. “What did I tell you to call me?”
“I’m not calling you ‘Mother,’” Damian spat, and he felt his face burn red at once.
Interest flashed in her silvery eyes. “Now, that’s not the title I ordered you to use. But if you want me to be Mother,” she whispered, leaning close to his ear. “I certainly can be.”
He quirked a brow at her, and they reached another understanding. He allowed his thumbs to return to their joints.
The spiked heels of her boots rapped the cedar flooring as she circled him, the palm of one hand smoothing across his scalp. The whip cracked his already-thrashed back without warning, and Damian groaned after enduring everything else in silence. “You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you? Yes. You’ve misbehaved, but Mother knows just how to discipline you, little boy.” The snap of leather on bare skin echoed once more.
“Damian! My name is Damian, Mother.” He needed to hear her say it. His voice was high, needy and he was glad for the extra excuse to hate himself in this moment. “And I’m not bad. I’m wicked. I need you to fix me. Please. Please, Mama.”
“Mama’s here, Damian, baby.” She retrieved something from her table of toys, a string of clear large beads that were unfamiliar to Damian, though he could make a guess about their function. “Hands and knees,” she commanded as she circled behind him.
It was more painful than he’d anticipated, and he roared his misery into the floorboards. He forgot the vanilla, the blue eyes, the fact that the restraints were no match for his strength and skill. He struggled against them like a caged animal gone mad. He begged Mama, please more times than he could count. He didn’t know what he was asking for, but she seemed to understand it just fine.
When they were done, he emptied the rest of his wallet on the table by the door and scheduled another appointment.