Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (24 page)

you’ll be getting all thirty at once.”

For a second, Brandon went so white that Jonathan thought he

might faint right there. But he recovered himself, swallowed hard—

what a lovely sensation beneath Jonathan’s pressing hand—and

stuttered, “Y-yes, Jonathan.”

Jonathan grinned at him, took his hand from Brandon’s throat

and stroked his damp cheek with it instead. “There’s a good boy. Now

thank me for correcting you.”

With the tip of the crop still resting against Brandon’s balls,

the man didn’t hesitate for a
second.
“Thank you for correcting me,

Jonathan,” he said. It came out all in a single breathless rush—maybe

just terror, but probably some anger in there, too.

“You’re welcome. And for my mercy, as well, don’t you think?”

Brandon nodded like he couldn’t quite figure out how to stop

himself. “Yes, Jonathan, thank you for your mercy.”

Jonathan stepped away, and Brandon fell to his hands and knees

again, breathing hard.

“Now be a dear and get the stool out of that closet.” He pointed

with the cane to the door in the far corner of the office. Brandon

followed warily with his gaze, then climbed to his feet to obey.

Jonathan settled at his desk with a grin, waiting for the moment

of realization—

Ah, there it was. Brandon’s knuckles went white on the open

door.“Don’t dawdle,” Jonathan warned. “Bring it here.”

Brandon grabbed the stool in one hand and put it down beside

the desk like it was on fire.

Well, close enough, I suppose, when he plants ass to Astroturf.

“Like it?” Jonathan asked, skimming a hand across the prickly

green plastic grass covering the hard wooden seat. “Made it myself.”

Brandon shifted from foot to foot, fingers clenching and

unclenching by his sides. But he
was
learning; he’d been asked a

question, and he replied, “No, Jonathan.”

“Sit anyway.”

Brandon eyed the stool, bit his lip . . . and sat. Gasped, whimpered,

curled in half and grabbed the edges of the seat in two white-knuckled

grips. “Yellow,” he choked out. “Please . . . Yellow.”

Jonathan stood, took Brandon’s face in both hands, gently

straightened him up and made him meet his eyes. Brandon blinked

at him, one tear trailing down his cheek.

“Breathe,” Jonathan ordered. “In through your nose, out through

your mouth. That’s it, good.” Brandon blinked away another tear, but

did as told, breathing slow and deep. He could do this. He might

think
he couldn’t, but he could. “Better?” Jonathan asked.

Brandon sniffled, shook his head, but he was visibly calmer now.

“Don’t lie to me,” Jonathan warned. Added, softly, “Or to yourself.

Better?”

Another sniffle. “A little, I guess. Jonathan.”

Jonathan stroked his hair, kissed the crown of his head. “Good

boy. You’re a tough one, Brandon; you’ll be fine. Ten minutes, all

right? Then you can have your cushion. Here”—he sat back in his

own chair, set the little timer on his desk and turned it so Brandon

could see it—“you can peek at it if you want to, but focus on me. On

something besides the pain. Learn to push through it, come out the

other side. Let the endorphins carry you; you might even find you

enjoy it.”

The look on Brandon’s face said
You’re crazy
, clear as day, but he

nodded, kept his eyes on Jonathan’s face.

“And no squirming,” Jonathan warned. “It’ll only make you more

uncomfortable.”

Jonathan tried to work for the next ten minutes, but that perfect

picture of suffering beside him made it impossible. At last the timer

went off, and Brandon practically oozed off the stool and onto the

floor, then scooted gingerly over to the cushion. He knelt, assuming

the position Jonathan had shown him the day before, knees and

shoulders lined up just about perfectly despite the trembling in his

limbs.

“Very good,” Jonathan said, genuinely impressed. Brandon really

was a quick learner. Now if only he could learn to get out of his

own way . . . “Here,” he added, taking a stack of papers and a box of

envelopes from the far edge of his desk. “Stuff these. If you wish, you

may lie down while you do it.”

Brandon wasted no time rol ing onto his stomach, propping

himself on his elbows. Jonathan took the opportunity to admire his

handiwork, even reaching out to give those fresh welts a soft pat.

The flesh there was still burning hot; he couldn’t resist flattening his

palm against it. Brandon gasped, shuddered beneath his hand, but

managed to pick up his first sheet of paper, fold it in thirds, and seal

the envelope. His fingers shook the whole time.

Wonder how he’d take it if I rubbed some menthol into that skin . . .

Jonathan’s cock jumped at the thought, but no. Even with the

lies, the muffin, the masturbation, he couldn’t quite justify that kind

of punishment.

Yet, anyway.

But given Brandon’s attitude problem? Soon, no doubt. Soon.

CHAPTER
12

n the morning of the fourth day of Brandon’s refusal to eat,

Jonathan threw his fork down, grabbed Brandon by the arm, and

dragged him bodily into a chair. By now Brandon needed the help;

he was clearly lightheaded, not quite entirely with it. The weight loss

was starting to show—must’ve been three, four pounds already. Too

much for a man who’d started this process whip-lean.

“Brandon, this has to stop. Contract or no contract, I won’t allow

you to damage yourself.”

Brandon’s jaw clenched, just like every other time the subject of

eating had come up. “I won’t eat from your hand like . . . like a fucking

dog
,
Jonathan. So you can stop asking me. Or,” he added, like he didn’t

even want to say it, “you can order me.”

“I’m not asking, and I won’t order you. Not on this; you

have to come to it yourself or it doesn’t
mean
anything, do you

understand?”

Brandon nodded hesitantly, said even more hesitantly, “Pride.

Walls. All that. I get it, Jonathan.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose. But if you can’t let that go, if

you insist on doing this to yourself . . . I won’t sit by and watch. Two

more days. And if you can’t make peace with letting me feed you, I’m

sending you home.”

“But you
can’t
—”

“Actually, I can. There’s a very clear medical provision in our

contract, and you’re on the cusp of seeing it breached. Any doctor in

the country would agree with me. I told you I’d never harm you and

I meant it; nor will I let you harm yourself.” He leaned forward in his

chair, laid a hand on Brandon’s thigh. “Two days, Brandon. Can you

do this?”

“Yes, Jonathan.” Too quick and automatic for him to have given

it any real consideration. He drew himself up, sucked in a breath,

almost as if he were bracing himself for a blow. “I just need a little

more . . .”

“Patience?” Jonathan prompted. “I’ve given you plenty. And

I have no intention of waiting until you col apse. Now answer me

again—and this time
think
before you speak—can you do this?”

Brandon’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. He looked

wrecked
—smal , frightened, upset, maybe even on the verge of tears.

“I don’t know,” he said at last, voice tiny, cracking in the middle. He

shook his head, threw his hands up. “I just . . . I don’t know. Believe

me, this isn’t fun, I don’t
want
to be like this, but . . .”

“I understand.” Jonathan reached for Brandon’s hand; Brandon

offered it to him, and he held it in both his own. “I
could
help you.

Obviously I haven’t done enough, underestimated what you needed.

Do you want my help?”

Brandon thought about it for a moment, then said, hesitantly,

“This is going to hurt, isn’t it.”

Jonathan chuffed. “You know it will. But the choice is yours.

How badly do you want this?”

Three million dollars
flashed clear as day across Brandon’s face.

Jonathan was no fool; he knew why the man was here. Shame it

wasn’t more than that—especially when it’d become so clear to him

that it
could
be, that Brandon was
built
for this if he’d just
let go
, but he’d take it for now. Who knew . . . maybe after this, after Brandon

was eating again, all those walls would be down and they could start

to do the
real
work, start to share in pleasures instead of constant

punishments. He didn’t want to spend the next six months like this

any more than Brandon did—frustrated, exhausted, always at odds.

“I want it,” Brandon said at last. Added “Jonathan” like the reflex

it had become. And then, surprising Jonathan, “Please. Help me.”

Bran thought it couldn’t get any worse than that fucking cane,

but Jonathan proved him wrong within two minutes of dragging him

back into the dungeon. Into the bathroom first, then into the shower.

Then that fucking nozzle again. Not like he had anything to clean out

anyway; he hadn’t eaten in days. Yet still Jonathan shoved the thing

up so high Bran could almost feel it in the back of his throat.

Then he turned the water on.

It flowed in warm and slow, just like last time. But unlike last

time, it didn’t stop. Jonathan kept going until Bran felt like he’d

fucking
burst
, until cramps set in so bad they sent him to his knees.

Still the water flowed, Jonathan’s hand warm and forceful at the nape

of his neck.

“Almost there,” Jonathan said as pain ripped through Bran’s gut.

He was afraid to even look
at himself, sure that much water must

have bulged his stomach out. “I’m pul ing out the nozzle now. Hold

the water in. Trust me when I say you don’t want to have to clean this

up if you fail.”

Bran believed him.

Jonathan made him stay like that long after the nozzle came out,

one hand still firm at the nape of his neck, the other pinching his sore

ass cheeks together. Only when the cramps had reduced Bran to a

quivering, begging mess did Jonathan help him out of the tub, guide

him to the toilet and let Bran end the pain. “Water the grass, too.

This’ll be your last chance for a good long while.”

Didn’t have to tell Bran twice.

They finished in the bathroom, and Jonathan led him back out

into the dungeon. Bran’s eyes skipped from one rack of implements

to the next. Which would Jonathan use first? He seemed quite fond

of the crop, but Jonathan had beaten him with it enough to know it

wouldn’t break him. Maybe a cane then? One of those fat ones at the

end of the rack, maybe.
Shit. Why did I
ask
for this?

“Up you go,” Jonathan said, patting the padded leather table near

the center of the room. “On your belly, legs spread.”

Bran let his eyes close for just a moment, took a deep, steadying

breath, and resolutely did
not
think of all the things Jonathan might

do to him on his belly as he climbed up onto the table. He supposed

it was a good sign, at least, that Jonathan didn’t restrain him. Meant

Jonathan thought he could hold more-or-less still through whatever