Splinter - Part 2 of 2

[lovesrain44]

 
A/N: Thusly the story continues....

"Take down your trousers."

 

"Wh-what?" He looked at the vampire, tipping his head up to do so, and caught the expression in Barnabas' face, angry and pale, the skin stretched tight. "B-but why, Barnabas?"

 

"In my day," the vampire began in that tone he liked to use when explaining about days long ago, "a servant who had cost his master as much as you have done would have been sold in bonded servitude for as many years as it would have taken him to work off what had been lost. In your case, that would have been the rest of your life. But since I cannot sell you," here Barnabas shrugged as if to express his opinion about the bizarre attitudes of modern day man, "I must keep you. And if I must keep you, I will punish you, a punishment that will roughly equal the amount of those books."

 

"B-but—"

 

I'm not gonna make it.

 

"P-please, Barnabas, can't I work off the amount another way?"

 

"No." The vampire's mouth moved into a thin line. "Your trousers, Willie."

 

Willie's hands moved to his belt buckle, his fingers trembling as he tried to undo the fastening.

 

The metal was cool to the touch, the leather warm, and he thought how he'd much rather it be the belt than anything else, and he stopped and looked up at Barnabas, hair falling over one eye as he did so. He shook his head to move the hair out of the way and Barnabas' eyes shot up.

 

"I warn you, Willie," said Barnabas, his voice lowering to a growl, "not to test me, not with a pile of valuable books burning in the bookkeeper's fireplace as we speak."

 

"No," started Willie, his mouth going dry, "I wasn't, I mean, I was just—"

 

"Your punishment can only get more severe the more you delay."

 

There was nowhere to move, now, not with him looking like that, stating his warning like that, not with his eyes looking like flat iron, his fist tightening around the base of the switch. Willie undid his belt buckle, and then the top button and zipper of his pants. Hesitating only a second, he heard rather than saw the switch as Barnabas lashed the air with it.

 

"Now."

 

If he'd been running he would have stumbled, his hands were shaking so badly that pulling his pants down over his hips became a major ordeal, almost refusing to budge. But he pushed at them until they were down by his knees, and then straightened up again.

 

"Lower," said Barnabas, tipping the end of the switch at Willie's ankles. "And these, as well."

 

He tapped the edge of Willie's laundry-greyed briefs. With an ache in his throat so big it almost choked him, he didn't dare hesitate in slipping his hands beneath the wide elastic band and pushing the briefs down his legs, all the way to his calves. The tails of his button-down shirt dappled the tops of his thighs, and a cool breeze that threatened to raise goosebumps swirled between them. He couldn't even look at Barnabas now, but only kept his eyes on the table top, on the piece of paper that lay there, crème colored against the time-darkened wood.

 

Don't make me, please don't make me.

 

"Now," said Barnabas, his tone dark and dire enough to dissuade any last protest Willie wanted to make, "bend over."

 

Barnabas, it seemed, was going to make him make himself.

 

And Willie did it, but it was almost a weightless falling as he bent himself at the waist, feeling the stretch in the back of his bare legs, and the pressure on his arms as he propped his chest on them. Feeling like lead, his head fell forward, resting on the bunched, clasped circles of his hands as if he were about to pray. He only half noticed that as his legs shifted beneath him, his garments slipped further down his calves, letting even more damp air gather on his skin. And then he waited, hysteria rising like a tide in his chest.

 

He's not going to kill you.

 

No, of course not. He's going to save that for a special occasion.

 

He felt something brush against the side of his hip, and then he felt Barnabas moving the tails of his shirt high up on his back. Now the cold air really moved over him, over bare skin, stirring the hair on the back of his thighs. All of his muscles tightened as he heard Barnabas step back, as if to give himself enough room. And then, with a hiss, the switch came down. It landed on the highest part of his backside, where the flesh thinned, just below his hips. And bit into him so hard, and so hot, he thought he was burning.

 

"You may count them, if you like," Barnabas said. "Twenty-two more to go. I thought I would round down."

 

Another hiss, and like snake's teeth, the switch bit into him again, just below the first. Willie let out a small yelp, trying to swallow it back, and failing.

 

"After all. . . ."

 

The sound had become shriller now, more like a scream, and the switch came down again on the full edge of his backside, going into him like a drill, and vibrating there like it was like twisting lava. ". . . I am not a monster."

 

Willie choked back a reply, but as the switch bit into him again and his whole back broke out in a sweat, the reply came out anyway, garbled and unintelligible. He was terrified. He knew he could make it to six strokes, and that, only barely. Beyond that loomed a darkened void of unchartered pain that his body already knew he could not take. The puff of his breath moved the piece of paper away from him, across the table, and he slammed his eyes closed as Barnabas hit him again.

 

Fuck Byron.

 

With the sixth stroke, his body began screaming at him to make it stop, as the heat built up in his spine, and the jagged edge of pain shot its way into his head. Nowhere to go, the pain and heat had nowhere to go but deeper inside of him, deep into each last recess of his body, until the tears were spilling down his cheeks and onto his clenched hands.

 

Fuck them all, I'm never reading again.

 

His world became the switch, and he quickly lost count, knowing only that he must have lurched up off the table at one point when Barnabas' hand came down in the small of his back, fingers spread wide to keep him still. Everything was black and red and vibrating. Long, thin lines of something horrible ate its way into his flesh, and as they began to accumulate, he began to feel so heavy, and it pressed down on him so hard, he feared his lungs would burst. Burst with the heat, and the pressure, and the scream that wanted only enough air to give it voice.

 

And then the blackness came, waves of it, crashing over what there was of light and air and sound, and he sank into it gratefully. But the pain followed him even there, making him feel like he was being torn apart from the inside. And in his mind, a frail whimper was the only thing he could realize, a whimper that echoed after each stroke of heated teeth.

 

At some moment, he began to realize that his teeth were biting into own his hand, and that his hands were wet with tears, and that he was sobbing. Everything else was perfectly still.

 

"Twenty-three," said Barnabas.

 

No, there's no way. No way I made it.

 

His sobbing grew, and he could not seem to stop it, not by holding his breath, not by unclenching his teeth from his fists, not by burying his head in his arms. It seemed impossible that he'd made it, and yet he had, though his body still vibrated at such an intensity that he began to grow sick to his stomach. The heat in his body was making him break into sweat all over, and with the coolness of the Old House, this quickly turned into chills. Then his legs were shaking, and he gulped back the sobs as hard as he could.

 

I gotta keep standing, oh, Christ, just keep standing.

 

"Pull yourself together, and look at me, Willie."

 

The voice came to him, cutting through the heat and the nauseating loops and jumps of his stomach. Willie managed to uncircle his arms and reach down slowly past the edges of the table, letting his head rest against the coolness of the wood as he grabbed the waist of his underwear and his trousers. Pulling them up together made them rub roughly against the criss-crossing welts on the backs of his legs, making them vibrate all on their own, wrenching another sob from his hard-gritted jaw. It took him forever, it seemed, and by the time he was just pulling his pants over his hips and about to give up, he felt Barnabas' hand grip his upper arm. The vampire pulled him upright, and Willie used the force of this motion to pull his pants up all the way, his hands shaking as they redid the zipper and button, but the belt was beyond him. He tried opening his eyes to look down at it, but this only pulled the skin along his backside up tight, sending a new, sharper bolt of pain into his head. Barnabas grabbed him with both hands now, those hands slipping up his arms to cup at the back of his neck. The vampire forced him to look up, to look into dark eyes through the curtain of tears still falling, as the hands, cold as circles of ice, cut through the dampness on his neck.

 

"How hot you become when I whip you," Barnabas remarked.

 

But Willie felt cold now, cold because the way those dark eyes appraised him, and the way they shuttered half closed, and how the hands on his neck tightened imperceptibly. It could not be happening, but it was. The vampire's mouth moved, and there was a glint of teeth, and Willie moaned, and his eyes closed, and he felt the stillness shatter as he was pulled close to rest against the wool-clad hardness of Barnabas' chest. Arms encircled him, holding him tight against solid muscle cold enough to steal his sweat from his skin. His own hands flew up as if to push away, but there was no room for leverage, no room at all, only a single moment where he could make a fist and thump it down, only to find the force of the blow muffled by the thick cloth of a wool lapel.

 

"P-please, don't, Barnabas, don't, please, please—"

 

But his words were absorbed by the wool of Barnabas' coat, by the arms that held him close, and then by the cold prick of silversharp teeth on his hot neck. He arched, clutching at Barnabas' coat, as the sharpness slid into him, and slid out again, all in one lightning quick movement. He could almost feel his own blood flowing out of him, as his heart, thumping hard, pumped it obligingly to the surface of his skin. And then a mouth, cold and hard, encircled a spot on his neck, and a tongue moved the blood and the mouth began to suck.

 

The vampire's mouth quickly went from ice cold to warm, and then the only evidence that it was still there was the pressure. Pressure of suction as Barnabas slowly drank from him, pulling back a bit and then moving forward, holding Willie in his arms, almost rocking him. Drinking and swallowing, his breath filtering through the stillness to stream down Willie's neck.

 

It began to hurt, too much friction building up, too much blood being pulled out of him, and Willie began to struggle. But his struggling only made Barnabas clasp him tighter, until he was pressed right up against the vampire, his hips almost tangent with the vampire's hips, his legs parted by the vampire's thigh. And then, the vampire began to suck harder, tongue pressing against the open wound, and then the pain rose in his head, and burst into bright shards like falling stars, spreading down into layers of pleasure. The sudden hardness between his legs pressed against Barnabas' hip, and while the feeling of buildup shimmered down his spine, his eyes flew open, blind to everything except for the glow of the fire.

 

Christ.

 

This was why. The mystery of why Maggie had never screamed when he did it to her, why there had never been any accounts in town of women screaming when the local "monster" had attacked them. The skin between his legs tightened in pleasant anticipation, and all the flesh nearby began to vibrate slowly, his cock, rockhard, sending signals up the muscles of his back. His heart, already racing, picked up to an even faster clip, and he knew. They liked it. They even welcomed it back. Once tasted, it was something they would fling open their windows, or even their French doors, for. The buzzing grew behind his eyes, and Barnabas tightened his hold around Willie's waist, arms pulling him close, until there was no way that Barnabas would not know what was happening to him.

 

No. For the love of God, no.

 

He could not let it happen, and yet it was, the slow, almost mild pulsing that began in his groin, and the twitch in his gut. And then Barnabas moaned low in his own throat, and it was like a trigger, moving that mouth against him, and sending the sound of the moan inside of him somehow, as if Barnabas had whispered in his ear. Whispered something that Willie had always wanted to hear and never had. All the sensations flurried together, like a flock of birds sweeping through the sky, and then they flew into him, and then peaked. His eyes slammed shut as the orgasm jolted through him, spilling from him in hot, jagged shards, rocking him back in Barnabas' arms. With a sigh, the vampire's mouth released him, but the arms held him, even as the soft cry of reaction escaped him and the aftershocks rippled down his legs. He was glad of the arms because he was so unsteady he would have fallen, but he immediately tried to pull away, stricken that Barnabas would cause this reaction in him. Stricken by the mere thought that he'd liked it, and that his body, even now settling down, would want more. And by the dampness of his briefs, which he could feel sticky against his skin as he tried to break free.

 

Shuddering, he pushed against the arms that still held him, pleasure melting, hands becoming fists against the wool. Pain settled in along the length of his legs, the curve of his butt, and the wound in his neck began to throb. As Barnabas suddenly released him, he stepped away, falling half against the table as his legs decided they'd had enough and couldn't support him anymore.

 

"I think it will be some time before you are again careless with my property," Barnabas said.

 

Willie looked up, though he didn't want to, and his eyes caught Barnabas'. They were shining and dark and alive. His skin was warm and flushed, and there was not even a trace of blood on his lips to explain why. The vampire smiled. "Then again, maybe it won't be."

 

Willie's hands clenched the edge of the table so hard his fingernails cut half-circles into the surface of the old wood. Something inside him twitched, as if in response, and the words of denial sprang to his lips, even as he bit them back. Barnabas chose that moment to move in close, and Willie moved his face until he could only see the hard line of Barnabas' shoulder in front of him. He let go of the table and clasped his arms to his chest. His legs were trembling beneath him.

 

"I'm going out," the vampire announced in a low voice that raised the hairs on the back of Willie's neck, "and by tomorrow evening, I want all of the books in the library on the shelves, alphabetically, by author."

 

Willie felt the tips of the vampire's fingers brush against the wounds in his neck, almost tickling them.

 

"These will heal fairly quickly," Barnabas said, almost whispering, "but I doubt that you will forget them quite so soon. Or the reason for them."

 

Willie shot his hand up to brush the vampire away, but he had already moved off, and was walking through the doorway to the hall. Willie listened to the footsteps as they paused in the front hallway, and then the faraway click of the knob being turned, and then, finally, the slam of the door and then the silence.

 

In the vampire's absence, he realized the pleasure was still moving inside of him like a slow liquid, even as his head reeled from the loss of blood, and the backside of him, from hips on down, felt like it had been put through the meat shredder. Spit built up in his mouth and he realized he was going to throw up. Racing outside, he made it to the edge of the flagstones just as his stomach heaved up whatever the acid had grabbed hold of and spilled it onto the earth.

Shaking, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was pure dark in the back yard, not even the edges of tree branches stood out against the sky. Almost nothing stirred, except for a slight breeze from the sea.

 

Please tell me that didn't just happen to me.

 

But it had.

 

He managed to make it back into the kitchen, the scent of something overly hot strong in the air. It was the soup, on low heat over the edges of the stove, chicken with stars and dried to a hard crust in the bottom of the pan. Willie lifted it with disgust, pitching it in the bottom of the sink and sending a few pumps of water into it. The pan, with a nice long soak, would be fine by morning. He, on the other hand, would be two weeks walking with a firm reminder of how haste could make waste while the welts on his body faded into an unpleasant memory.

 

The wounds on his neck would be gone within days. His body would heal, he knew that, even as he fought against the lightheaded feeling that threatened to make him pitch to the floor. Sitting down was an impossibility, so he grabbed the edge of the table and leaned over it again, as if for a beating, letting the coolness of the wood soak into his face, letting the table, with its sturdy age, support half his weight.

 

I'll just stay like this.

 

It was almost comfortable, except for the very edge of the table cutting somewhat sharply into him, and he took one, long, deep breath. Arms outstretched. Sweat fading, pleasure fading, the dull throbbing pain a continual tempo with his heartbeat. The thing to do was to take himself upstairs to his bedroom, out of sight for when Barnabas came back, and get a good night's sleep. Or as good as could be got, anyway. And that's what he was going to do. In a minute. In another minute. The memory trickled into the back of his brain, Barnabas' mouth on his neck, lips pulling against his flesh, that tongue moving so slowly against him, exactly like—

 

Willie lurched up, slamming his hands against the table, pushing away, his whole body shaking. His hands went to his head, so hot it felt it would burst into living flame.

 

Never. Never ever.

 

But he wasn't so sure.

 

Stumbling down the hall, he grabbed the stair railing and pulled himself up the stairs with it.

 

I will go lay down. I will sleep. I will forget this.

 

He could do the first thing. He could try the second thing. But he could not get his mind around how to do the third thing. He was the vampire's slave, even now, but reluctantly. Obedient but rebellious, and the whole while his eyes on a horizon he knew would someday appear leading to escape. If this . . . if whatever had happened drew him in, seduced him into Barnabas' arms, he would be trapped forever.

 

He reached his room and tumbled face down onto the bed, covering his head with his arms. This was the seduction that Maggie had fought, it must have been, although he could not remember a single moment when she had seemed attracted to it. Yes, she must have liked it when it was happening to her, it was overwhelming enough, but afterwards, she'd never said a single word nor acted as though she wanted its return. She'd practically spat in the vampire's face as though she'd wanted to claw his eyes out, and now it occurred to Willie why her fury had been so fierce. Barnabas' . . . pleasuring of her may have taken her body, but her mind, her soul, had never been drawn to him. That was what Barnabas had wanted of her, and what he realized he could never have, and that was why he'd wanted to kill her. Willie made himself sit up, his body slow and stiff to respond, and light a candle and take off his shoes.

 

I will sleep.

 

Sleep was the most important thing, the only thing. Tomorrow loomed all the duties that the Old House and Barnabas required of him, and beyond that loomed even more tomorrows. He needed his rest, his body needed time to repair. And he would be good. He would be obedient and careful, and not drop anything, or break anything, or do any misdeed that might earn him any type of punishment whatsoever. Barnabas' whippings heated up his skin, and the scent of him, now that Barnabas knew what he tasted like, would make the vampire want him again. Make him take Willie in his arms and open Willie's flesh and take warm blood into the back of his mouth, and—

 

Stop it.

 

The candle lit, shoes in a clutter on the floor, Willie shucked off his pants and lay back on the bed. Cool air stroked his hot skin, and he sighed with one, long, slow, deep breath. He was slightly hard with excitement, but he ignored it, purposefully moving his leg so that the welts were rubbed against the rough woolen blanket.

 

You will not, Barnabas, and I will not let you.

 

The trick was, he realized as the length of the day sucked him toward sleep, never let Barnabas know how it affected him. Like Maggie must have done, spitting into the vampire's face, hating him and never saying why. The vampire could come to his own conclusions about it and never come close to the truth.

 

Willie closed his eyes, still seeing the glow of the candle behind his lids and pretended that it was okay. Pretended that he had the willpower to resist, and the skill to keep it from Barnabas, and the complete lack of desire for another slow dance in Barnabas' arms.

 

Right now it was a lie, an obscene lie. But he would make it the truth as Maggie must have done, and keep his eyes wide, on the far horizon, where beach grass moved beneath water-borne breezes, where the air tasted of clean salt, and the sky was open, and blue, and went on forever.