Free Dalton (Mistress & Master of Restraint) by Erica Chilson Page B
Authors: Erica Chilson
lover. Instead it will be thrust away by Jon- my grandfather’s partner in crime.
What makes it worse is that it’ s because of a barter between my parents, both punishing each other, but using me for the pain. History repeats its elf.
This is eerily similar to the same barter that Pierre used with my other grandfather- Anthony Sr. The Marconi and the Fontaine ’ s alliance was wrought through the exchange of my mother’s virginity to Tony resulting in my birth. I’ m nothing but a pawn in a ga me played for over twenty years. A game for dominance, not of Masters, but gangsters. It’s a game with no rules or safewords.
“Don’t fret, son. You’re a freak. It’s what you were made to endure. I’m sure you will love it. Just be thankful that I haven’t ordered you to punish as Bruno does. I feel you would enjoy that too much. We mustn’t allow you to take pleasure in your own punishments, should we? Carry on, Jon, time is a ticking.” He gloats and taunts with a single laugh.
My pants are ripped from my rear and a large hand presses my forehead to the ground.
White-hot searing pain radiates my bac kside and I scream in shame. I’ m thrust back into the present with that last strike of the cane. I blink the tears away until my vision clears.
“How about you shower? I’ll wait and rewrap your rib and put ointment on you r back when you get out. Okay, S on?” His large hand engulfs my shoulder and lifts until I find my footing.
I shuffle into the bathroom in a daze. I try to ignore the moi sture running down my thighs that’s dripping from my dick. It’ s shameful that my father knows the end result of my punishment. I take no pleasure from the release nor do I ever remember it. I’ m always too far into the past reliving my nightmares in an alternate reality that is more real than my present .
I stand as wa ter cascades my body in a fog of my own making. I no longer feel the need to scream or murder. I start to weep as the emptiness returns. It isn’t a void that can be filled by the love of a parent or a sibling or even a friend. It is the void I feel when I want to be held and comforted- not out of pity, but love. When Master dotes on me it’s out of pity or obligation or reward. Devlin and Spyder do it out of love and acceptance. It’ s not what I need. I doubt I will ever find it. I lean my head on the tile wall and weep until my eyes are as empty as my soul.
I sit cross-legged in the center of my bed waiting for Nurse Devlin to tr eat me. I’ m nude- an occurrence that isn’t often. Usually just for the amount of time it takes to shower and redress. I feel e xposed, not just in the flesh, but to the depths of my soul. My father is a formidable Master. He can read me like an open book. I haven’t been able to stay the flow of tears leaking from my eyes. They fall in a strange pattern- sometimes in a torrent and then a moment later a trickle, only to pick back up again.
Strong hands wrap a sports bandage tightly around my midsection. It hurts sharply for a moment and then the relief sets in as I can breathe easier. It dulls to a mild ache. The cool touch of ointment smeared into my inflamed skin is soothing and comforting. I feel his fingertip trace the four tattoos imbedded into my skin. Two large tattoos over the bulk of my shoulders and two smaller ones directly beneath.
Devlin follows up the nursing with basic comfort by helping me dress in pajama pants and a soft, long sleeved t-shirt. The feel of the jersey cotton is a comfort for my skin. The paddle of a brush is pulled through my hair eliciting vocalization from my throat.
“You don’t have to do that, Dad. I can take care of my own hair.” I say in protest.
“I want to. Besides it would hurt you to raise your arm to do it. Let me take care of you as you take care of all of us. Let me sho w you that I love you. Please, S on,” he pleads.
I don’t answer. I sit contently as he runs the brush through my hair. It’s a
What makes it worse is that it’ s because of a barter between my parents, both punishing each other, but using me for the pain. History repeats its elf.
This is eerily similar to the same barter that Pierre used with my other grandfather- Anthony Sr. The Marconi and the Fontaine ’ s alliance was wrought through the exchange of my mother’s virginity to Tony resulting in my birth. I’ m nothing but a pawn in a ga me played for over twenty years. A game for dominance, not of Masters, but gangsters. It’s a game with no rules or safewords.
“Don’t fret, son. You’re a freak. It’s what you were made to endure. I’m sure you will love it. Just be thankful that I haven’t ordered you to punish as Bruno does. I feel you would enjoy that too much. We mustn’t allow you to take pleasure in your own punishments, should we? Carry on, Jon, time is a ticking.” He gloats and taunts with a single laugh.
My pants are ripped from my rear and a large hand presses my forehead to the ground.
White-hot searing pain radiates my bac kside and I scream in shame. I’ m thrust back into the present with that last strike of the cane. I blink the tears away until my vision clears.
“How about you shower? I’ll wait and rewrap your rib and put ointment on you r back when you get out. Okay, S on?” His large hand engulfs my shoulder and lifts until I find my footing.
I shuffle into the bathroom in a daze. I try to ignore the moi sture running down my thighs that’s dripping from my dick. It’ s shameful that my father knows the end result of my punishment. I take no pleasure from the release nor do I ever remember it. I’ m always too far into the past reliving my nightmares in an alternate reality that is more real than my present .
I stand as wa ter cascades my body in a fog of my own making. I no longer feel the need to scream or murder. I start to weep as the emptiness returns. It isn’t a void that can be filled by the love of a parent or a sibling or even a friend. It is the void I feel when I want to be held and comforted- not out of pity, but love. When Master dotes on me it’s out of pity or obligation or reward. Devlin and Spyder do it out of love and acceptance. It’ s not what I need. I doubt I will ever find it. I lean my head on the tile wall and weep until my eyes are as empty as my soul.
I sit cross-legged in the center of my bed waiting for Nurse Devlin to tr eat me. I’ m nude- an occurrence that isn’t often. Usually just for the amount of time it takes to shower and redress. I feel e xposed, not just in the flesh, but to the depths of my soul. My father is a formidable Master. He can read me like an open book. I haven’t been able to stay the flow of tears leaking from my eyes. They fall in a strange pattern- sometimes in a torrent and then a moment later a trickle, only to pick back up again.
Strong hands wrap a sports bandage tightly around my midsection. It hurts sharply for a moment and then the relief sets in as I can breathe easier. It dulls to a mild ache. The cool touch of ointment smeared into my inflamed skin is soothing and comforting. I feel his fingertip trace the four tattoos imbedded into my skin. Two large tattoos over the bulk of my shoulders and two smaller ones directly beneath.
Devlin follows up the nursing with basic comfort by helping me dress in pajama pants and a soft, long sleeved t-shirt. The feel of the jersey cotton is a comfort for my skin. The paddle of a brush is pulled through my hair eliciting vocalization from my throat.
“You don’t have to do that, Dad. I can take care of my own hair.” I say in protest.
“I want to. Besides it would hurt you to raise your arm to do it. Let me take care of you as you take care of all of us. Let me sho w you that I love you. Please, S on,” he pleads.
I don’t answer. I sit contently as he runs the brush through my hair. It’s a