FICTION — The Ties That Bind

Silver cutlery clinked and echoed in the empty dining hall as Clarissa Williams toyed with a fork. She was a woman who knew what she wanted in life, and she was not afraid to get it. Take Thomas, for example.

She smiled at him, as he, in the lean muscle and youth nearly twenty years her junior, set the gold-edged plate down before her, and deftly stepped aside, head bowed and waiting for further instruction.

Clarissa adjusted her evening gown and regarded him, a fine looking young man in a dining jacket and crisp shirt; for although it was only the two of them, they still upheld tradition. “You may eat now, Thomas.”

“Thank you Countess.” He pulled up a nearby chair and bent over his plate, he speared a prong of asparagus.

She smiled. “It looks delicious.”

“Thank you Countess,” he continued to stare at his plate, pushing around morsels of food.

“What’s wrong Thomas?”

He looked up at her, tender brown eyes threatening tears, “It’s just – just my time here is nearly done, isn’t?”

Clarissa nodded. They both knew it was. The day for Thomas’s release was soon approaching. He would go back into the world, and not return.

Suddenly he twisted from his seat, falling before her, and lay his head lay upon her lap; he sobbed, broad shoulders shuddering with grief.

Raising her hand, she stroked his dark curls as he choked out sobs. “Come now, Thomas,” she smiled, “You’ll ruin my dress.”

His head still down, the sobbing slowed, and he murmured into her thigh, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Clarissa sighed. This was always a problem, these young men struggled so upon release; it was not the ties that bind them that they feared most, it was the freedom afterward.

She trailed her fingers through his hair, dragging her nails down the back of his neck; gently now, for it was not the time of play. That would come later.

He stiffened beneath her touch.

“Thomas, what ever am I to do with you?”

Slowly he lifted his head, brown eyes meeting hers, “Can you keep me?”

“Thomas,” she said sharply.

He looked back down, both of them startled by his boldness.

“What a preposterous thing to request.” She slid her fingers across his shoulder blades, he flinched remembering her touch the previous night. “You know your service ends in mere days. Then you may leave.”

“But what if I don’t go?” he stared down at her dress, burgundy silk now spattered by tears.

“Thomas, you must leave, your term ends. That is final.” Clarissa twisted in her chair, and tugged at the tear-stained silk, “Look at what you’ve done now, you’ve ruined my dress.”

“I can fix it Countess.” He looked up at her eagerly.

“I know you can,” she sighed.

As she stood, he leapt to attention, and pulled her chair out for her, heavy oak lifted off the marble floors with ease. Sometimes, Thomas was good to have around, one of the better ones who came through, she thought to herself, invaluable, really. And so attentive to all the little things.

He stood beside her, clean shaven and lean youth, and nodded at the table. “Shall I do the dishes, Countess?”

“Don’t worry about it, Minet will be along shortly.” She turned toward the doorway, “Come now, Thomas, you have some work to do.”

Her high heels clicked across the marble flooring, his footsteps falling behind; soft echoes rang out in the empty hall.

*

As the heavy wooden door swung closed, Clarissa smiled; they would be alone in the workroom for quite some time.

Thomas already lay prone on the floor, head turned sideways and waiting for her.

High heels clicking on cold tiles, she walked over and regarded him. His clothes were already removed, and folded neatly over the back of a chair, for she never did tolerate sloppiness. His shoulders, oh his shoulders, they were a sight to behold. Lean muscle cut with lash marks, some faded to faint bruising, others still gleaming red and raw, and all colours in between; a sign of true artistry.

She raised her foot and pressed her heel to his cheek; flesh dimpled around the point. “You would like to stay with me, would you Thomas?”

“Yes, Countess,” he sighed.

Pressing harder, she leaned her weight against his face, the high heel dug into his cheek, bruising seemed imminent, “You’d like that, would you?”

“Yes Countess.”

Clarissa eased back, and lowered her foot to the floor. She watched as his cheek faded from scarlet to dull red. “You are rude and impertinent. You do not deserve this.”

“Yes, Countess – shall I be punished?”

Clarissa glanced at the wall spanning the length of the workroom, alongside a leather bench hung ropes and straps and paddles of various types, and her favorites, the floggers, simple but effective tools, that, in the right hands were a joy to behold. Multiple tails flailing with utmost precision onto tender flesh – oh, but – what workmanship and skill they spoke of. Truly sublime.

Thomas sat up expectantly.

She glared at him, “Thomas, did I tell you to move?”

“No Countess,” although he glanced downward, a smile played upon his lips.

“Fetch me the cane.”

His face fell. “Not the floggers?”

Her hand flew of its own accord, striking the still red cheek. “Such impertinence, Thomas, really, I expect better from you.”

He stared down at the floor, flushed with shame, tears threatening. Clarissa smiled, he was such a tender one, really. So willing, and such a pleasing nature, if she kept him –

“The cane, Countess?”

“Yes, the cane.”

Thomas leapt to his feet and returned, kneeling before her with the wooden cane in his hands, his eyes downcast but gleaming with anticipation.

Clarissa picked it up and swiped the air with it; classic bamboo, firm but still springy, it cut with a satisfactory swish. It felt divine in her hands.

“The bench, Thomas.”

She smiled as he kneeled before it, his chest pressed against the leather cushioning, for, she was one for the little comforts of life, even when administering pain. He lay, eyes closed, waiting.

“Count them, Thomas.”

He sighed.

Tight whoosh swept through the air, and sharp crack of wood striking his buttocks, firm muscle tensed and then relaxed.

“One…” his voice softened.

She swung again, lining up strike marks with utmost precision, for as in all things, neatness counted most. He flinched and immediately relaxed, his voice dropping into lower tones. “Two…”

As she swung, the bamboo sprung back with a satisfactory twang, and a brilliant red welt appeared below the other two.

His voice was muffled against the bench.

“Thomas, I can’t hear you.”

“Three…” his voice sounded distant, as though outside of himself.

The next strokes fell in rapid fire, two red welts blossomed below the others. Thomas exhaled loudly, lost in sensation.

Clarissa smiled at the neat rectangular marks reaching across his buttocks, all of them placed with utmost precision. Raising the cane, she brought it down again, “Thomas, I still can’t hear you.”

“Four… Five…” he sounded groggy.

“You miscounted Thomas.”

The cane flew again.

“Six… Seven?” Still muffled, his voice came from far outside of himself; he lay prone, all thought swept away in surging endorphins.

Clarissa smiled, her work was done. Reaching out, she trailed her fingers down his back, sweeping past a multitude of cuts and bruises in glorious multicolour. In an uncharacteristic move, she sat on the bench beside him, admiring her handiwork, light fingers tracing a pathway through it all.

Slowly, Thomas roused as though coming from a deep sleep, and shifted on the bench, lay his head upon her lap. Her fingers toyed with dark curls, he was such a sweet one, perhaps, just this once –

She smiled down at him, “Thomas, you please me.”

“Thank you Countess.”

“There is something I’d like to give you.” Her dress rustling, Clarissa rose and strode across the workroom, high heels clicking on the cold tiles. She reached up to a forgotten shelf and lifted down a small box.

Still kneeling beside the bench, his eyes widened as she approached.

“Thomas, do you know what this means?” She lifted a silver chain from the box.

He trembled in anticipation, and said softly, “Yes Countess.”

“You are mine, for as long as we both agree. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Countess.”

Her fingers slid around his neck, fastening the silver chain, heavy links that pressed into his flesh. Thomas closed his eyes, exhaling loudly.

Clarissa smiled, he was such a sweet one, so tender, and appreciative of all the little things. She swept her fingers through his hair, and suddenly seized hold, intertwined in dark curls. Thomas gasped, and remained immobile, eyes closed, his mouth hung open.

Bending down, she pressed her lips to his, his tongue met hers, exploring hungrily, for he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Eagerly seeking, he pawed at her, tugging at her dress; soft fingers reaching into slick folds, stroking and penetrating until she broke free. He reached for her, still gasping.

Clarissa leaned back against the bench, hoisting her skirts upward. “Come now, Thomas, you have some work to do.”

“Yes, Countess,” he smiled.

*

Clarissa perched on the chaise lounge, glass of brandy in her hand, watching the evening news. Thomas sat on the floor beside her, leaning against her thigh. His hand trailed, as though of its own accord, up and down her calf, toying with her ankles and high heels; a light touch that spoke of over familiarity.

She never would have permitted such liberties previously, but for Thomas, she found herself making constant excuses and exceptions. And now this –

The new anchor came on, announcing the bust of a ring of sexual deviants, predators and sadists, as it were. Ritualized abuse of young men and women, most now in a state of shock – Stockholm syndrome, the anchor said.

Images of blurry photos of limbs and torsos cut with bruising and lash marks flashed across the screen, while rough footage of men and women with jackets over their heads marched into the courthouse, hands bound in metal cuffs.

Thomas stared at the television, his collar gleaming in the flickering light. He shifted beside her, “You know, Countess, it’s scary out there.”

She smiled and stroked his dark hair, “Oh, Thomas, I’ll keep you safe from all that.”

 

*

Carly Zee enjoys chocolate, red wine, and erotica in near equal quantities. Her work appears around the world in various forms, including The Feminine Collective, Muse Press, and Twisted Sister. You can reach out and touch Carly at https://carlyzee.wordpress.com/

And yes, she will bite. But you’ll like it, I’m sure 😉