Page 33 of At Their Mercy: Part I

Whatever. I hated them both now.

I breathed through clenched teeth, willing the pain to settle. But then it came again, with a thwacked splat over the backs of my thighs. Paddle, maybe. A narrow one.

Breathe through the pain.

Breathe through the pain.

Oh my God, breathe through the fucking pain. The terror came down on me over and over. Thighs, ass, so much ass, back to the thighs, then the soles of my goddamn feet, and ass again. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. I couldn’t grit my teeth any harder. I might crush them.

It wasn’t long before my eyes started burning with tears. I wasn’t ready to break already, but there was something about receiving pain in a suit and nobody acknowledging my existence. More than that, not hearing anything but the impact of each strike, no voices, no breaths, no⁠—

“Ow!” Okay, Tate yelled. That was some sound. “Fuck!”

“Shut up,” Master Kingsley growled.

I white-knuckled the edge of the bench as the strikes came harder and faster, and I couldn’t fucking hold back anymore. My ass was on fire, my lungs burned, the air was sucked out of me, I couldn’t tense up any further, the water was frigid, every shallow breath felt damp, and the world was dark.

A hot trail of tears blended with the cold water, and the suit was no longer comfortable. It fit too tight.

My breaths turned choppy. It was a blow of defeat. Crying felt like surrender, whether it was good or bad, and it further fucked with my mind. Like a tool that could be used against me. Sobs and hitched breaths were whispers of information to two Sadists.

Don’t make a sound.

I made sounds. I couldn’t help it. The harder they beat me, the louder my cries became. But at least I wasn’t alone. Macklin was sniffling and whimpering a lot. Only, this time, the Sadists didn’t tell us to pipe down. The silence from them stretched on. All I heard was the paddle striking wet fabric, my low sobs, Macklin, and the water gushing down the drain.

Talk to me.

Say something.

“Please, Master,” I choked out. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I couldn’t take it. “D-Daddy?”

I didn’t like this combination! None of the shit upsetting me would’ve been enough on its own, including the pain, but when it all hit me at once?

It sounded like the paddle hit the floor. Right after, I had hands on me again, and they were yanking me down the bench until my legs dropped. Oh God, I was gonna get it now. Fingers pried my ass cheeks apart, a zipper was pulled down…

Why wouldn’t they say something?!

Macklin started crying more too. Tate was a superhero. Aside from labored breaths and the occasional grunt, he was so quiet.

It pissed me off, because my threshold for pain was high as fuck.

I blamed the suit.

Goddamn you, zentai!

“Please say something,” I croaked.

Nobody said a word, and a beat later, one big-dicked Sadist went balls deep in my ass.

“F-fuck,” I coughed.

I didn’t even know who it was. Savage grip on my hips, punishing thrusts—whoever it was used me for his pleasure. And nobody was coming to my front. That was usually what happened. One fucked me, and the other came to use my mouth, but that was impossible now.

“Please, Daddy,” I heard Noa cry.

It was the first time I’d heard him in ages. Was he restrained? I would’ve thought he’d protest that shit a lot louder.

I concentrated and zeroed in on the noise the implements the other Sadists used left behind, the sounds Tate and Macklin couldn’t hold back, however faintly they reached my ears, but Daddy or Owner using me brought me back. I felt their hands on me, grabbing at me, kneading my flesh through the skintight suit, and things started to feel warmer. Wait, were they raising the temperature on the water?