The image Jethro painted drove needles deep and painful into my heart. I couldn’t think of such horrible people or such a sorry existence. How could my ancestors have done such a thing?
“He should’ve snuck up the stairs and slaughtered his employer while he slept, but his inner fire had been well and truly beaten out after years of abuse. He had no other drive but to stay alive in the hope redemption would save him.
“That night, he only took enough to keep them alive, because no matter their rancid living conditions, he wasn’t ready to die. He wasn’t ready to permit his children to fade away. He was ready to find his self-worth again and fight. To find the rage to commit murder. And to do that, he needed strength.
“Tiptoeing back to the basement, he and his family had their first good meal in years. Scotch eggs, crusty bread, and anything else he managed to pillage.” Jethro smiled, before continuing, “Of course, their meal didn’t go unnoticed.”
I gulped, completely wrapped up in his tale.
“The next day, the cook announced someone had been in her kitchen and stole. Mr. Weaver immediately turfed my family from their beds, finding evidence of misdeeds in the way of crumbs and hastily devoured food. He announced a crime had been committed; therefore, punishment must be paid.
“He dragged Frank Hawk to the village square where he strung him up on the whipping post and left him to hang by his wrists for a day and a night in the dead of winter.” Jethro’s hands suddenly clasped mine, straining above me to thread his fingers through my digits—his touch cold and threatening.
I shivered, biting my cheek.
His lips brushed against my ear as his cock twitched against my lower back. “Do you know what they did to thieves back in the 1400s, Ms. Weaver?”
I closed my eyes, bile scalding my throat.
Yes, I knew. The methods of law enforcement were a hot subject at school. The Tower of London had extreme inventions for dishing out pain to those who didn’t deserve it.
“Yes,” I breathed.
Jethro tugged my fingers. “Care to share?”
Swallowing, I whispered, “The usual punishment for stealing was hands being cut off, ears nailed to spikes, flogging…all manner of beastly things.”
My fingers ached beneath his as he squeezed hard.
Then he stepped back, letting me go. “Can you empathize with my ancestor? Can you tap into the panic he must’ve felt to lose a hand or other body part?”
I squeezed my eyes, nodding. It would’ve been awful and even worse for the wife as she stood by and watched the love of her life—the same man who had no power to protect her—accept punishment, all for just keeping her alive. A life she probably didn’t even want with rape and destitution as the highlights.
Jethro said, “This is the easiest debt to endure, Ms. Weaver. But back then, it was one of the worst.” Moving behind me again, his fingers fumbled at the hem of my t-shirt. Pulling it from my skin, he tore it in half with one vicious tug. The crack of the material ripping echoed in the octagonal space.
I jerked as humid air kissed my naked spine.
A moan escaped my lips as I finally understood what he would do.
I wanted to beg for mercy. For him to stop this ridiculous ancient tally and let bygones be bygones, but no sound came as he shoved my tattered t-shirt to my shoulders, exposing my back. His fingers were firm and unyielding as he reached in front and undid the button on my shorts.
“Please,” I moaned as he undid them and shoved them to my ankles.
Jethro didn’t reply, nor did he ask me to kick the discarded shorts away. I let them stay—imprisoning my ankles, just like the cuffs imprisoned my wrists.
Leaving me naked and quivering with fear, Jethro disappeared.
I didn’t try to follow him with my eyes. I kept them squeezed tight, shivering and trembling, wishing I was anywhere but here.
Jethro tapped me on the shoulder a few moments later, his touch harsh and demanding. “Open your eyes.”
I reluctantly obeyed, focusing on his flawless face and cold, unforgiving gaze.
He dangled a flogger in front of my vision. It held a multitude of leather strips with knots in regular intervals down the strands. “Have you seen one of these?”
I nodded.
I was a designer. I garnered inspiration from everything and anything, including different lifestyle choices, eras, and kinks. However, there was nothing sexually playful about this one. It was mean and meant to hurt.
I balled my hands, cursing the pins and needles in my fingertips as blood rushed faster. “Yes.”
“And do you think it was a just punishment for stealing something, all to keep his family alive?”
I shook my head. “No.”
Jethro agreed, “No. Especially in the dead of winter where his body was frozen and brittle, and the slightest touch would’ve been agony.” He ran his finger down my shoulder blades. “You’re warm, in a humid room. Your skin is supple and flushed. Pain won’t register as badly as if I’d placed you inside a freezer or dumped you in ice water before we started.”
He dropped his voice. “Want to know another secret, Ms. Weaver? Want to know something that could potentially get me into a lot of trouble?”
My eyes flared. The way he asked…he was serious. I twisted, trying to catch his eye, but he remained just out of looking distance. “What?” I breathed.
Jethro pressed his body against mine again, digging his belt buckle painfully into my lower back, sandwiching my naked skin harder against the post. “I was supposed to do that. Supposed to make you so cold, I could snap your arm with one touch. You were supposed to be numb and chattering with chill so that every lash would make you scream in endless agony.”
I swallowed hard, fear lacing my blood. “Why—why didn’t you?” Even my heart stopped beating in fear of missing his answer. I needed to find a way to understand this man, before it was too late.
He dropped his voice to barely a whisper, “Because no one should have to be as cold as I’ve been taught.” He suddenly stepped back, letting the flogger hang down in his grip.
He snapped, “I suggest you hug the post, Ms. Weaver. This is going to hurt.”
NILA IMMEDIATELY DID as I said.
With no hesitation, she pressed her body harder against the post, doing her best to hold on despite the restricting cuffs.
Every muscle in her back stood out: every ridge and valley from her trim arse to her taut shoulders. Bruises from vertigo stained the flawless white. Scratches from trees and nature marred her with violence. Every rib stood out as she stopped breathing and locked her knees.