The Shepherd (The Game 6)

Not that I was impatient or anything.

“Then how about lunch?” Sloan suggested. “We can exchange battle stories about this one.” He jerked his thumb at me.

Nice.

“I don’t have many to share yet, but I’d love to take notes on anything you can provide.” So Archie was definitely on board.

“You could also meet up to discuss everything you love about me.” I threw that out there and scraped the last of my food off the plate.

“I’m sure there will be some of that too, Owner.” Archie placated me with a smile I could only describe as mischievous.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You let me know if I should start calling you brat, boy.”

“Shush, I’m trying to make friends here,” he replied pointedly. “This is important.”

I snorted a laugh. It was impossible to pretend to be annoyed.

That night, I was a world away from a nice lunch on the porch with Archie and Sloan. Archie was at home with Kyla, tasked with expanding his profile in our online forum so he could start getting to know our members, and Sloan was in DC, building his case to Carol. Last time he’d texted me, he’d informed me he had spoken to Carol’s folks, who were still thankfully on his side and supported the idea of moving the kids to Winchester. They said the same thing I did; the kids needed a fresh start, particularly Jason and Jamie.

And I was…here, at the bottom of an old rock quarry, having spent the evening torturing brats, waiting for the night to be over. I mean, the Sadist in me loved putting brats through hell, or an obstacle course as it were, but this was the one component I’d had plenty of. I’d suffered no shortage of impact play over the years.

The screams of brats were deafening by the last station that I’d been the host of. I had beach sand and mud everywhere, it was dark, it was getting cold, I was wet from acting as a spotter in the little lake, and my arms were scratched up because brats tended to resist.

My mind was split. Half of me was at home with Archie, maybe watching a movie with him on the couch. Perhaps sharing a bottle of wine, making out, giving each other foot rubs… While the other side of me was very much present, albeit in a mechanical way. My heart wasn’t in it. I was vigilant about pain thresholds and limits, super focused on expressions and reactions, but I found no pleasure in their suffering tonight.

My station was structured simply. With brats standing in line at the beginning of the sandy beach, their faces contorted in the fluid glow from countless torches, a handful of Sadists were positioned in the sand to give the brats a solid beating. If they wanted the pain to cease, all they had to do was shout out their love and admiration for Sadists.

For some bizarre reason, that was difficult for several of them. Among them, Corey—but I was getting through to him. A friend of mine held the boy in place as I gave one of my favorite leather cat-o’-nine-tail whips a good workout. The end of every strand was knotted and smattered across Corey’s exposed back with force.

“Are you ready to surrender, pet?” I grunted and struck him again, to which he screamed out his protest.

“Fuuuck—no! Goddammit!”

I grinned and pulled my filthy T-shirt over my head to use it to wipe sweat off my forehead.

Sweat, mud, welts, scratches, and cuts had turned his back, ass, and thighs into a work of art.

I loved seeing marks on Corey. He brought out the Sadist in me more than most others could, for some reason.

After switching to a single-tail whip, I put some distance between us and made sure I had a wide berth to work with.

“Brace yourself, boy,” I warned.

Corey sucked in a hoarse breath.

My friend withdrew his fingers from Corey’s back, hitching them under Corey’s armpits instead.

I tested the whip a few times first, hitting the sand, which made it easier for me to predict how hard the tip would hit him. Then I took a few deep breaths and gripped the handle tightly, and I pulled back and lashed forward, the thick leather cracking through the air. With a forceful snap, the end made impact on Corey’s shoulder blade, and not a single sound left him, except for a choppy gasp.

I knew exactly what that pain did to him, and it felt as if my mind intertwined with his, becoming one. I envisioned the razor-sharp hurt hitting so hard that he didn’t know how to react at first—until it shattered and spread through him like wildfire. It was the kind of pain that squeezed your lungs and robbed you of the ability to breathe.

The pain that finally made this autistic boy cry.