Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (23 page)

“Do be a dear now and tell him you tried to steal food. I don’t

much think he’ll appreciate hearing it from me.”

Shit shit
shit. Bran rubbed at his neck, tried on the smile that

made every woman he’d met since his days on the streets want to

feed him, and said, “Yeah, um, about that . . .” He inched around the

island, let her look at him, kept that damn smile pasted on his face. “I

didn’t know . . . I mean, maybe just this once you couldn’t tell him? I

won’t do it again.”

She leaned over, patted him on the arm. “Of course you won’t.”

“So we’re good then?” he asked, hardly daring to hope. It seemed

impossible that
anything
could go right for him in this place.

“I’m quite good, thank you, yes. You
,
on the other hand, won’t be

good for some time if you don’t get on up there and admit the truth.

That’s a beautiful smile you’ve got, but you won’t be swaying me with

it; I know who signs my paychecks, after al . Now off you go.”

Jonathan sat at his desk, toggling through the camera feeds from

downstairs. Didn’t take Brandon more than thirty seconds to sprout

wood after he’d stuck the nozzle up his ass. And of course, despite

Jonathan’s explicit instructions, Brandon didn’t waste any time

getting himself off.

“Tsk, tsk, Brandon,” he muttered to his screen. “Whatever am I

going to do with you?” Luckily—for him if not for Brandon—he’d

brought a cane along with him from the dungeon. Clearly, it was time

to teach Brandon another lesson.

He couldn’t help chuckling as Brandon tried to charm a muffin

out of Sabrina. That woman had superhuman strength of will—or just

a healthy sense of self-preservation. Unlike someone else Jonathan

could name.

And speaking of, here he was, still flushed from his shower. At

least he’d shaved—kind of a shame Jonathan needed to enforce that

rule; he’d rather liked all that ginger scruff. He waited a moment,

until Brandon started to fidget, then got up and said, “Stay right

where you are. I need to inspect you.” As he came around the desk,

he added, “If at a loss for instruction, by the way, you should stand

as you kneel: feet shoulder-width apart, back straight, shoulders

squared, hands clasped behind your back, eyes on me.”

Brandon nodded, arranged himself as Jonathan closed the

distance between them.

“There’s water at the small of your back. You dried yourself off

too hastily. See that doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes, Jonathan.”

Jonathan
tsked
. “Don’t make that face at me, Brandon. I know

this seems silly to you, but there is method to my madness, I assure

you. You’re always so focused on the rest of the world, on tomorrow.

You need to learn to focus on yourself, on today. You need to learn to

take care
of yourself, take
pride
in yourself. Do you understand?”

Brandon blinked at him, but then nodded and said, “Yes,

Jonathan.” Even if he probably didn’t understand—at least not really,

not yet. He would, though. Soon
.

“Good. Arms up.” Brandon obeyed, and Jonathan ran fingers

over the newly-smoothed skin of Brandon’s armpits. “Not bad for

your first time,” he said. Then he slowly circled around to the front,

gaze locking on Brandon’s as he grasped Brandon’s chin in one hand,

turned his head this way and that. “You did a decent job here as well.

No cuts at al . No rough patches. Very good.” He let go of his chin

and stood back. “So . . .” he said, “is there anything you’d like to tell

me?”Brandon blinked, shook his head, panic flashing in his eyes as he

realized he hadn’t answered aloud. “No, Jonathan.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, Jonathan.”

“Interesting.” Back around the desk, where Jonathan scooped up

the thin rattan cane he’d propped against it. He tapped it lightly on

his palm as he approached Brandon again. “How many demerits have

you earned today?”

A moment’s pause, as if Brandon were contemplating another

lie. His eyes darted to the cane, stayed there, pupils dilating.
Afraid.

Good.
“F—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “Five, Jonathan.”

“So
many
?” Jonathan chirped, mock-surprised. “It’s so
early

still. You must be terribly misbehaved. Makes me wonder what you

might’ve done while I wasn’t looking.”

Beads of perspiration were popping up on Brandon’s forehead.

“Um, well, okay. I tried to get a muffin from the kitchen. But Sabrina

wouldn’t let me. Jonathan.”

“Smart woman. Loyal, too.” Another light rap across his palm

with the cane, then he ran the tip of it across Brandon’s chest, right

where he’d struck him with the crop last night. Such lovely red marks.

They’d have company soon. “One more chance: is there anything
else

you’d like to tell me?”

Brandon swallowed hard, and Jonathan could practically see

the wheels turning in his head. Was he going to admit it? “N-no,

Jonathan.”

“Very well, then. Lean over the desk—ass out. Prop yourself

against it with both hands.”

Brandon swallowed again, pulse pounding at his neck and

temples, wide eyes discs of bright green with only the smallest dot of

black in the center. For a moment, Jonathan thought he might bolt,

but then he shuffled up to the desk, pressed his thighs to it, planted

his hands on either side of a stack of files and let his arms take his

weight.

Now it was Jonathan’s turn to swallow.
Good Lord
, Brandon

was gorgeous like this. He stepped close, ran a palm down one tense

arm, outlining muscle and tendons with his fingertips. He pressed

himself up against Brandon’s back, murmured in his ear, “Feet apart,

shoulder-width.” Backed up and watched Brandon force himself to

comply, bare toes digging into the area rug and shuffling sideways

half an inch at a time.

“That’s it,” Jonathan said. “Ass out, now.” Another second’s

hesitation, then Brandon bent a little more. “And hold still.”

He brought down the first blow with all the force he could muster,

snapping the cane across the crease between Brandon’s ass and thighs.

Brandon let out a cry and slumped against the desk, knees giving out

in a single, perfect moment of shock.

Jonathan let Brandon have his moment, then said, “Back up,

please. We’ve only just begun.” Brandon trembled, tried to comply,

but his arms and legs had already turned to rubber.

With an impatient grunt, Jonathan grabbed him by the elbow

and yanked him to his feet. “Brace yourself more firmly this time. I

won’t stop again.”

Then he circled around to the other side, running the tip of the

cane along Brandon’s ass as he went. Such beautiful, terrified shivers.

Too bad he couldn’t drag this out for the rest of the morning, but he

had work to do.

Another strike, right across the back of Brandon’s other thigh,

another perfect red welt blooming on that pale skin. Less of a shock

this time, but Brandon still let out a shout, arms shaking, head

hanging low between tense shoulders.

A third strike, half an inch below the last one. Brandon’s cry went

straight to Jonathan’s cock, and in the window behind his desk he

saw a faint reflection of clenched eyes, bared teeth. Shame he hadn’t

put a mirror up.

Oh well, next time.

He circled back around to the other side and landed the fourth

strike right below the first one.

Brandon fell to his elbows with a vicious cry, forehead pressed

to clenched fists. His knees had gone again, and he was breathing

so loud and fast the sound filled the entire room. Hard as Jonathan

was hitting him, he was surprised the man had made it even this far

without fal ing again.

There’s something to be said for stubbornness.

“Don’t hyperventilate,” Jonathan said. Not very soothing, true,

but this was a serious lesson Brandon needed to learn. Now was not

the time for softness. “And get up. Palms on the desk or you’ll earn

yourself another strike.”

Well, that did the trick. Brandon sucked in a huge, wet gasp—

Crying already? How lovely!—
and levered himself back up. He didn’t

lift his head, but Jonathan didn’t fault him that. He took a moment

instead to admire the play of muscle in Brandon’s back, the line of his

spine, the broad canvas of pale skin his for the marking . . .

One more on this side, another sweet red welt right below the

last one. Such gorgeous, perfectly placed stripes. Almost like a candy

cane. Brandon gasped, arms shaking, yet managed to hold himself in

place. Impressive. But he still had one more left to take.

On the other side this time. Jonathan circled back, running one

hand along Brandon’s quivering spine, all the way down to the small

of his back. He was tempted to give him a word of encouragement, of

genuine praise. Not too many subs could take six of his best their first

time out. Jonathan had half-expected him to be a blubbering puddle

on the floor by now.

Well, maybe this one would put him there. He brought his

hand up high, then drove down with enough force to make his own

wrist ache. It landed right below the last welt, twice as red. Brandon

screamed and slumped against the desk, then slid to the floor as the

second wave of pain hit, curled up tight and pressed both fists to the

backs of his thighs. Not
on
the marks—he probably couldn’t even

bear the
thought
of that—but below them, as if that would help. His

eyes were open wide, blinking too much, wet with tears.

Jonathan stood there enjoying the show for a long moment, then

said, “Get up.”

Brandon groaned, whimpered, slowly rolled onto his knees and

elbows, hands still fisted, forehead pressed to the rug.
Beautiful
sight.

Despite that, Jonathan couldn’t afford to indulge him. Not if he

intended to make this lesson stick.

“I said,
Get. Up.
Now.”

“You also said no blood,” Brandon rasped into the rug. “You

promised
.”

Jonathan sighed, squatted beside Brandon and pried one of his

hands out from under him. “Here,” he said, tugging until Brandon’s

fist hovered over the welts. “Feel for yourself. I didn’t cut you.”

Slowly, Brandon’s hand unfisted, and his fingers traced ever-so-

carefully over a welt, jerking away as if they’d touched something

burning before settling back to explore again. Must’ve hurt like hell.

“See? No blood. Now get up. Don’t make me ask you again.”

Jaw clenching, Brandon pushed himself up on his palms, grabbed

hold of the desk to pull himself to his feet. He stumbled and listed,

slumped against the desk a moment before pul ing himself upright.

His shoulders hitched with the effort of taking in air. A few stray

tears still ran down his cheeks, but he wasn’t crying so Jonathan could

hear.
Too proud. Still too damn proud.

“Look at me.”

Brandon lifted his head, swiping at his eyes. Sniffed.

“Hands at your sides.”

Brandon obeyed, hands uncurling. He wouldn’t be in
too
much

pain anymore—at least until he put pressure on those fresh welts.

Jonathan stepped forward, backing Brandon up against the

desk, the edge of it biting right into his cane stripes. Another lovely

whimper, Brandon’s teeth clenching hard. Jonathan kicked Brandon’s

legs apart and wedged himself between them, grasping the base of

Brandon’s throat in one hand. “Tell me why I did this.”

Another shuddering breath. “Because I tried to steal the muffin.”

His voice was smal , rough with tears. Perfect.

“Yes and no. Because you tried to steal the muffin, and because

I had to ask you about it—several times, I might add. Because you

were sloppy with your grooming, and took too long.” He paused.

“And because you touched yourself without permission.”

Brandon’s eyes widened. “How—?”

Jonathan’s hand tightened around Brandon’s throat, cutting off

the question. “Nothing happens in this house without my knowledge.

Think about that the next time you consider touching something

that no longer belongs to you.” He took a step back and trailed the

tip of the cane down Brandon’s chest to his crotch, pointing right at

his cock. “
That
is mine. I do with it as I please. You only get to touch

it if I give you explicit permission. In case I didn’t make myself clear

enough about that before.”

He slid the cane down to Brandon’s balls, gave them a gentle tap.

Brandon lurched like he’d been wailed on, whimpered softly. “And to

be clear now, those six strikes? Were the demerits you’d already earned

this morning. You’ve ten more coming for the muffin, another ten for

touching yourself, and another
ten for lying. But I can be generous;

I’ll hold them in reserve for you.” Jonathan met Brandon’s eyes and

said, slow and deliberate, “If you ever do
any
of those things again,