Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (22 page)

on the bathroom door. Bran handed it to him. “Well, since we’re up,

follow me.”

Bran nearly asked where they were going, but caught himself just

in time and followed Jonathan mutely downstairs. For a moment he

dared to hope it was just to the kitchen—though he didn’t entertain

fantasies of either eating with utensils or having a nice steaming cup

of black coffee. But they turned right instead of left at the bottom of

the stairs, which left only the dungeon.

Bran’s feet tried to freeze, and he stumbled over them.

“You all right?” Jonathan asked, eyeing Bran over his shoulder.

Bran nodded, but he was pretty damn sure Jonathan knew better.

He was so busy thinking
Not again, not yet, too soon
that he forgot to

answer Jonathan out loud.

“One,” Jonathan said, yawning again.

What’s the matter, Jonathan? Wear yourself out wailing on me

yesterday?

“Come on.” Jonathan reached back to grab Bran’s wrist, and only

then did Bran realize he’d stopped moving. “Don’t worry, I’m not

going to hurt you.”

He sure said that an awful lot for a guy who couldn’t seem to
stop

hurting him.

Jonathan led him into—and, thankfully, straight through—

the dungeon, to the bathroom at the back. “I expect you to groom

yourself without any supervision from me. I want you clean inside

and out—and that means
two
passes with the shower shot, not the

one I let you get away with yesterday, though the second need only

be a quick rinse, just a little water and no need to hold it. I also expect

you to be clean-shaven on your face, groin, and armpits; and to brush

and floss your teeth and comb your hair. No shaving nicks, no missed

spots, no stray hairs, no rough patches—you’ll be punished for any

and al . And the most important rule? Don’t you
dare
touch yourself

except to wash and groom. Your body isn’t yours to pleasure anymore,

it’s
mine
, and I expect you to be ready to perform for me at all times.

Are we clear?”

Truth be told, he was so worn out and fucked out he hadn’t

even contemplated
touching himself. Strange, then, how Jonathan’s

words—
be ready to perform for me at all times
—sent a little flutter

through his stomach, and a not so little flutter that settled in his balls,

made his dick twitch. “Yes, Jonathan.”

“Good. Lastly, I expect all this done before I wake up each

morning. Which is usually no later than seven. And the bathroom

had better be spotless when you’re done with it. If I come down here

and find so much as one hair in the sink, it’s coming out of your

hide.”

Welcome to fucking boot camp, Bran.

Jonathan lifted the enema nozzle from its cradle and thrust it

toward him. He shifted from one foot to the other. “Um . . . should I

do that now, Jonathan?”

“Yes, since you only have”—Jonathan consulted his watch—

“well, you’re actually 90 minutes late, but let’s say you have until nine.

That’s half an hour. Which should be at least ten minutes more than

you actually need if you stay focused.”

Bran turned on the water, his gaze zeroing back in on that damn

nozzle Jonathan had shoved up his ass. How the hell was he supposed

to use that thing?

“Would you like me to give you a demonstration?” Jonathan

asked, once more in mind-reader mode.

When had his life become so fucking absurdly embarrassing? Oh,

that’s right—yesterday. And fuck
Jonathan for it. “Sure, Jonathan,” he

replied. “Why don’t you bend over, and I’ll watch?”

“That’s two.” Jonathan shook his head, mock-sympathetic. “If

you’ve already forgotten how much these demerits hurt, then clearly

I haven’t been hitting you hard enough. My apologies”—he clasped

Bran on one bare shoulder—“I’ll simply have to do better next

time.”

Awake for fifteen minutes and I
already
want to strangle him.

Didn’t bode well at al .

God, he needed a cup of coffee.

Still, if he didn’t want to hurt himself with that nozzle, he was

going to need some help. “Yes, Jonathan. I’d like you to show me how

to use the . . . shower thing.”

Jonathan still had it in his hand, so he merely stepped over to

the shower and flipped a switch at the base of the shower head. “You

divert the water from the shower head to the nozzle here. Test the

water on the inside of your arm before you insert the nozzle, and lube

it first as well. Otherwise you’ll get a very unpleasant surprise. If the

water’s too hot, it will burn. If it’s too cold, you’ll cramp. Do it slowly,

or you’ll cramp. Don’t use too much water, or you’ll cramp.”

“So what you’re telling me is, I’m going to cramp?”

Jonathan chuckled, but that didn’t stop him from saying, “Four.

What I’m telling you is not to be careless or hasty. You didn’t cramp

when I
did it, right?”

By the end, he’d felt like he was about to, but, “No, Jonathan.”

“All right, then.” Jonathan handed him the nozzle. “Go ahead.”

He took it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. “Uh . . . can I

ask you something, Jonathan?”

“Very good. Yes, you may ask.”

“You want me to do this now? With you standing here?” He

swallowed hard. “Jonathan?”

“Why not? You did it with me here yesterday.”

“But . . . but I
didn’t
do it yesterday.
You
did.”

“Five.” Jonathan leaned in, peered at him. “You seem quite out of

sorts this morning. What’s wrong?”

“I’m sore,” he said, then added a hasty, “Jonathan,” when he

realized he’d nearly gone two in a row on that mistake. “And I’m not

used to skipping my morning coffee.” His growling stomach added to

his list of complaints, but he didn’t dare give it voice; Jonathan would

just tell him he’d brought that one on himself. “Have a bit of a raging

headache, actually,” he admitted instead. “Jonathan.”

Like a fussy mother, Jonathan pressed the back of his hand to

Bran’s forehead. After a few moments, he declared, “Probably just

need to eat.” Did that mean he’d
let
him? No, Bran decided, probably

not. “And no coffee until you’ve earned it, which means no demerits

for an entire day.” A wan smile, and then, “I suspect your contract

will be up before
that
happens. Anyway, take care of yourself. You’re

down to twenty-two minutes. I’ll be in my office. Don’t be late.”

Then he turned and left, leaving Bran standing there staring at

that stupid fucking nozzle.

Bran climbed in the shower, letting out a yell at the first blast of

hot water on fresh welts. He nearly slipped and cracked his head on

the tile.
What a way to die—on the floor of a dungeon shower with a

fucking enema nozzle dangling over my head.
Once the shock wore

off, he lathered up with Jonathan’s ridiculous organic soap, scrubbing

very carefully around the mass of welts his torso and inner thighs

had become. The hot water on his unmarked skin actually felt pretty

amazing, and he hadn’t craved a good wash so much in years. He

washed his hair next, rinsed again, scalp still sore where Jonathan

had pulled his hair. Which, come to think of it, was pretty much

everywhere.

Well, nothing left to do but the damn fucking enema. But . . .

would Jonathan even
know
if he skipped it?

He did have his tongue halfway up your colon yesterday, idiot.

And fuck Jonathan and fuck his own dick for getting excited at the

memory of it.

He sighed. Well, best to get it over with as quickly as he could.

He turned the heat down, tested the temperature on the inside

of his arm, just like Jonathan had told him. A little lower, barely

lukewarm. That ought to do. He grabbed the tube of lubricant from

the soap dish and squirted some on the end of the nozzle, and in it

went.It actually felt pretty good.
Really
good, in fact. Bigger than a

thumb, smaller than a dick. Smooth enough not to hurt. He angled

it toward his prostate, and damn if his dick didn’t stand up and

salute. Well, Jesus, no wonder—he hadn’t gotten off since yesterday

morning, and this entire fucking atmosphere seemed purpose-built

to keep him perpetually horny. One little tug—what could it hurt?

Jonathan would never know. Might help him
stop
hurting—or at

least make him forget how sore he was for a few minutes.

He was already so aroused he nearly came the second he wrapped

his fist around his dick. Must be the thrill of being caught, because it

sure as fuck wasn’t the thought of how he’d spent the night. Or the

evening before it.

Although he did have to admit to a certain fondness for the

tender Jonathan who’d—

Shit. Please tell me I did
not
just come thinking of Jonathan being

tender.

Except for the part where he had, apparently. Splattered the far

wall of the shower and everything.

He grabbed the shower head from its cradle and rinsed off the

wal , then put it back. Reconsidered and took a long drink from the

shower head before re-hanging it. For a second he almost forgot he

still had the damn nozzle up his ass. He reached behind him to make

sure it was seated properly before flipping the switch to divert the

water from shower to nozzle.

It didn’t feel so bad at first—a little cooler than he’d have liked,

but that was okay. Everything seemed fine, so he turned up the

flow—and promptly doubled over, gut cramping. Just like Jonathan

had warned him.

He sank to his knees, groaning, until he remembered to turn the

fucking water off. Jesus, how the hell was he supposed to do this
twice
?

Yanked the nozzle out hard enough to hurt himself, clenching against

the urge to let his bowels void right then and there. No fucking way

did he want to clean
that
up.

He practically had to crawl to the toilet, but he made it just in

time. Never felt such incredible relief in his life. How many more

minutes did he have left? Didn’t matter—it’d take as long as it took.

Jonathan would find some excuse to punish him no matter what he

did.When he was finally done, he staggered to his feet—sighing at

the lack of pain in his gut, if not the rest of his body—and climbed

back in for a second go. Impatient as he was to get this over with,

he went much more slowly this time. Jonathan hurt him plenty; no

reason for him to add to the pile himself.

He toweled off, then shaved—and shaved and
shaved
. A week’s

worth of artful stubble . . . no way was he finishing in half an hour,

and of course, Jonathan had to know that. Well, let the little fucker

wait.

Pits next—God, he felt like a fucking
girl
; who shaved their

armpits
?—which took longer than he’d have thought. He kept

missing bits, and the hair was too long. Clogged the damn razor right

up. Hopefully Jonathan would give him a new one before he had to

shave his face again, or things wouldn’t be pretty.

At last he got around to combing his hair, brushing his teeth,

and cleaning up the bathroom—which took for-fucking-ever, with

all the hair in the sink—then headed down the hal way, poking his

head into the kitchen as he passed.

Damn, the cook was there, kneading dough at the center island.

A white-haired, sixtyish lady who reminded him of his grandmother.

No way could he sneak past her to grab food, but he might be able to

con her into giving
him some.

Then she looked up at him and grinned, and that’s when he

remembered he wasn’t wearing a fucking thing. She gave him a long,

leisurely look, up and down and back again. Now her grin didn’t look

anything
like his grandmother’s.

“You must be the new boy. Brandon, is it?”

“Um.” He cleared his throat, folded his hands in front of him, for

all the good it did. “Bran, actually.”

“You’re cuter than the last one.” Her gaze dropped to his crotch,

her grin widening. “And taller too.”

Oh, God. Is
everybody
in this house a pervert?

She chuckled, went back to kneading her dough. “You gingers

sure do know how to blush,” she said as he maneuvered himself

behind the island.

“Um, yeah, so . . .” His eyes darted to the muffins cooling on a

rack behind her, to the cup of coffee—no longer steaming, but who

the fuck cared—resting on the corner of the island, within easy reach.

“Is that, uh, yours?” He pointed at the coffee.

“Yes, dear, it is.”

Okay, not gonna offer him one of his own then. “So I’ll just grab

a muffin and go, then. Nice to meet you . . .”

“Sabrina. And nice try, honey. Touch those and I’ll crack you

with a rol ing pin.
And
tell Jonathan.”

Shit.