Bastard's Bride (Loftry University Playthings 4)

CHAPTER5

Luke

That one fragment from my past, that alluring girl with the riveting eyes, leaves the room, her blue eyes abandoning me to the pain that swirls about my body. It seems that Shrinky Dink is done with me but makes no moves to get me down. I’m forced to lean against this pole despite how loud my legs are screaming at me.

The only positive about it is that it’s leeching some of the agony off of my abused fingers and putting it elsewhere. It’s distributing the pain clusters so that I can finally manage it. It’s what pulled me out of my lapse into unconsciousness. Just in time to see the little rabbit shuffling out.

The need to hunt down my prey, to tackle her, and force her to stay beneath me beats at my brain, sending blood away from my extremities and into my cock. Is she leaving because she can’t handle the pain I’m in? Or is she leaving because every fucking thing abandons me?

Either way, the need to rip this school apart until I find her and claim her winds through my body like a snake, coiling through every bit of muscle until I’m primed and ready to chase. I follow her small form as it darts about, slipping out of sight into the darkness.

The only way I know she’s truly gone is from the light that slices through when she opens the door in the back. She pauses for a moment, and I watch as she turns back around. I can’t see her mask since she’s backlit, but I feel her gaze on me just as surely as I’d feel her fingers trailing down my chest.

In an instant, she’s gone. Poof. As if she never existed. Those curious blue eyes are no longer here for me to search for, to long for. I’m stuck with just myself and the sadistic bastards intent on harming me. Even now, my eyelids droop as my body tries its best to slip me beneath the healing waters of unconsciousness, but I can’t allow it. I have to be alert, prepared for anything.

Judging by the outline, Mr. Smiley walks up to me and slides his mask off, confirming it is indeed him. Tossing it to the floor next to Shrinky Dink’s, he flashes me a wide grin.

“This looks like it hurts. Does it?” Reaching out, he grabs one of my fingers and waggles it back and forth, sending vomit up into my mouth. Gritting my teeth, I force my breath out through my nose. “Thank you for trussing my present up so nicely for me, Andrew. I appreciate the thought.”

Shrinky Dink doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t look happy either. It’s probably the notion that Mr. Smiley is getting some enjoyment from the quack's efforts. If they’re at odds like they appear to be, I can understand that sentiment. I wouldn’t want my hard work to benefit someone I hated either.

With a clinical air, he pulls his notebook out again and makes some notes before stuffing it back into some hidden pocket. Once more, he reaches out and maneuvers a finger sending a splintering shard of agony through my hand. Hazarding a glance over, I note the swelling in the joints, but it’s not nearly as bad as it feels.

“Can you move your fingers for me?”

I stare at him as thoughts whizz through my brain. Is this part of the initiation? Or is he actually doing his job as a physician? The wicked smile on his lips makes me think it’s at least a little of both with a stronger leaning toward the former.

Try as I might, nothing moves. The ropes hold everything immobile, keeping my fingers from pointing in weird directions, but it’s still obvious there’s an injury to the area. Discoloration fans out over the knuckles but fades into white as the swelling presses against the ropes.

Mr. Smiley tsks softly and circles me, examining every inch that’s not covered in rope. The pain continues to intensify with each moment as the smaller ropes bite into the flesh of my hand and start to cut off circulation. In fact, with the few moments of lucidity I can manage, I notice an odd tingling throughout my body.

I don’t deal in bondage, but even I know that ropes aren’t supposed to stay this tightly on the body for too long. Shrinky Dink just watches but makes no move to loosen them. I don’t want to call out because that would be too close to begging. Eventually, Mr. Smiley stops in front of me and digs into his damned pockets again.

Instead of his notebook, however, he pulls out a scalpel. My heart stops for a few moments as the light glints on the wicked blade. We never discussed limits, and at first, that was fine. They made it very clear that no safeword would be able to save me tonight. Stupidly, I agreed. That was when I thought The Society was made up of soft men that didn’t know the first thing about pain.

Now that they’re proving me wrong, I want to stop this. Knives don’t normally scare me, but that’s because I’m usually the one wielding them. With this physician, I have no clue what he’s allowed to do or how far he’s allowed to go. For this brief span of time, I finally have a moment of clarity on why this group thinks safewords are necessary.

If I was allowed one, I’d be tempted to say it. Mostly, it’s the fact that I’m tied up. He could jab the scalpel into me, thrusting until he pierced an organ, and I’d be helpless to stop it. Or he could slice open an artery and let me bleed out. There are so many things that can go wrong with knives, and scalpels can be even deadlier.

“I hope you weren’t planning on getting these ropes back, Andrew.”

As the words leave his lips, Mr. Smiley starts slicing into my bond, freeing me one strand at a time. Relief floods my body as feeling starts to come back into my limbs. If the physician is freeing me, then perhaps it’s all over. Perhaps the others were here just for show.

Mr. Smiley saves my hands for last, leaving the right one high into the air as he goes back to the dislocated fingers of my left. Without warning or precursor, he grips the injured digits and, one by one forces them back into place. Though he leaves the wrist hanging there, he slides that scalpel underneath the thin ropes and starts to saw through the fibers.

It hurts almost as bad as him putting my joints back into the place. The back part of the scalpel rubs against the swollen areas, forcing sensation back into the nerves, firing them up. Bile rises as he takes his time, going at an agonizingly slow pace until they’re free. The weight of my fingers as they hang there isn’t any better. With a smirk, he jiggles them again, making sure they’re actually in place.

A roar of anger and anguish pours from my lips, and still, my piece-of-shit sperm donor stands there, not even flinching. At this point, though, I’m too weak and tired to even care. All I want is a hot soak and a long sleep.

Once my fingers are how he likes them, Mr. Smiley steps off the dais and rummages around for a moment. Splints rest in his palm, and for a moment, I’m grateful beyond what words can convey. I don’t care what they do to me, exactly, but I need a full range of motion. Having my fingers splinted will allow the swelling to go down and the tissues to calm.

He’s not at all gentle as he forces my fingers straight and bandages them up. No doubt he’s getting his rocks off by causing me even more pain. There’s nothing at all to be said about his bedside manner, but he stares at me, his eyes gleaming like a predator, like Ryker. My head pounds as Mr. Smiley disappears and Ryker takes his place.

Shaking my head back and forth, I try my best to dispel the image, but I can’t seem to do it. The two continue to superimpose onto each other like some carnival funhouse mirror. I watch warily as they move to my other hand and cut the bindings.

Once free, I clench and release my fingers, grateful to still have most of my mobility. As soon as I get blood flow back, I will have it complete range of motion. I make a move to take a step when his fingers press against my chest, forcing me back against the pole.

“You didn’t think we were done, did you? I merely fixed you up so we can continue to play.” Mr. Smiley snaps his fingers and holds out his hand, waiting until a set of cuffs rest on his palm before moving again.

With practiced efficiency, he wraps them around my wrists and pulls the cuffs up until he’s able to lock them to the ring. I’m back to being helpless, and I detest every moment.

“As you know,” he continues, his tone dry, matter-of-fact. “I’m the doctor here on campus. Any submissive that comes through has to be examined by me. It doesn’t matter if they’re male or female.”

He pauses for a moment to study my face, then slides his hands around my waist to position me just off to the side of the pole. Once more, like earlier, his hands skim my major muscles, touching them, testing them, then pulling back.

“I debated on giving you an intimate exam but thought against it. I don’t wish to humiliate a fellow Dominant in front of the submissives. So you’re safe in that regard.”

Once more, the scalpel gleams in the light, and my stomach plummets. With the dull edge, he drags it down my chest, following the line of my sternum. It bites into my skin, but it’s not cutting into me. There’s just a scraping sensation as opposed to a sharp, burning one.

Still, it’s far too close for comfort. It’s the one tool Ryker never used on me though he threatened me numerous times. That reason alone is why I choose to wield it. It’s something that’s not tainted with his vileness.

When Mr. Smiley dips down lower, angling the scalpel so that it rests on the tip of my cock, a cold sweat breaks out over my face and drips down the back of my neck. Out of everything about me, I love my cock the most. It’s the one thing that’s good about me, that and my ability to use it to drive others mad.

It’s the one pleasurable thing about my existence, and if Mr. Smiley jeopardizes that in any way, then what’s the point of living? Without my dick, there’s no way to fuck the demons away or keep them at bay. But there’s no way he can do this. The Society seems very clear about not allowing lasting damage. Anything he does with this scalpel will leave a permanent mark, one I didn’t sign up for. It’s one thing if I consented to some scarification, but it’s quite different in this situation where I have no control.

After several breathless moments, he moves it away, but my relief is short-lived. From the tip, he slides the dull edge along my shaft, making it jerk at the connection. I’m not attracted to this man in the slightest, but just having someone, anyone, touch me in a way that’s not pure aggression seems to make me hard.

With each bob of my cock, I swallow, willing the sharp edge not to catch on anything. I don’t usually pray to anyone, but when it comes to my dick, I’ll pray to God, Muhammad, Buddha, Gandhi, Mother Theresa, anyone. Eventually, he pulls back, and air flows into my lungs, filling them up before I blow it out.

“You didn’t think you were getting out of this without a mindfuck, did you? Though, granted, I thought Andrew over there would be the one to do it. Lucky me, huh?” He reaches up and pats me on the cheek before flashing his wide grin and walking off the dais.

That could have been much worse. Still, though, my left hand aches and throbs, and having both hands high in the air isn’t helping that. My eyes dart over the people in front of me in an attempt to distract myself from the pain. I can’t let my wits be dulled just yet. Two down and at least three to go. I have no clue if the dean will join in, making it an even four.

Mistress Bitch glides up to the dais and removes her mask, plopping it on the others with a loud thwack. The smile she gives me is hungry, predatory as she walks over.

“Look at what these big, mean men did to you.” She tsks for a moment, her tongue clucking as she smooths her fingers over my injured hands. “I guess it’s good that I’m your next one, seeing as I’ll make you feel so good in comparison to them. Do you like that idea? Do you like being a good boy for me so I can reward you with pleasure?”