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He feels a sharp jerk as Randall uses his knife to start a tear at the hem of his shirt. He steels himself as Randall slowly tears the fabric open from the bottom up, short tugs as he rips upwards inch by inch. He can feel the chill hit his sweat-damp skin as it’s exposed to the coolness of the dungeon air.
Jamie’s mind is blank. He had thought he’d have to fight against himself to hold still, that he would feel disgusted or angry or ashamed; but here in the moment, all he feels is a kind of icy stillness both in body and mind.
Jamie’s body is stiff. He feels petrified, like a piece of wood carved ages ago by the slashes of Randall’s whip. His mind, too, is frozen: it can’t reason past the feeling of the shirt torn away to expose his back. The gears in his head won’t move.
---
Earlier, after the door to the dungeon cell slammed closed behind Randall and Claire, Jaime listened to their footsteps echo down the flagstones until he couldn’t hear anything more. He prayed that Randall would keep his word, that he’d escort Claire to safety as he’d promised.
Then Jamie waited in the dank cell for what felt like eternity, but was probably no more than a few minutes.
Once the footsteps were out of earshot, Jamie tried to take stock of his situation. It was hard to focus on anything past the wave of apathy that seemed suddenly to wash over him. His hand was a raw, throbbing mess—but as long as he sat still, it was bearable. Jamie’s body was used to acclimatizing to pain. The thought of physical violation, too, only aroused a kind of mild revulsion in him. Mostly he just felt bone-tired. Despair was in its own way an anesthetic.
There was nothing he could do, so he thought about Claire.
I’ll remember her now; the feel of her skin and the scent of her hair and the touch of her mouth on mine. I’ll think of her until that door opens again. And I’ll think of her tomorrow, when I stand on the gallows, to give me courage at the last.
Between the time the door opens and the time I leave this place to die, I will not think at all.
---
When the door finally opened, Jamie was rudely jolted out of the numbing comfort of his thoughts. From his position seated at the table, he wasn’t able to see the doorway without twisting his body around. That prospect didn’t seem worth the pain it would involve.
In his mind’s eye, Jamie could see the man at the entrance to the dungeon: Captain Jonathan Randall was leaning against the wood of the door, watching him. Jamie’s skin prickled under the imagined gaze.
After a moment, he heard Randall descend the stairs and cross the room, unspeaking, and come to stand beside him. Jamie still didn’t look at him—he couldn’t bring himself to move. A heavy pause, then Randall touched Jamie’s neck, making him shudder internally. Then, jarringly, the captain knelt down and begun to unlock the shackle around his prisoner’s ankle.
Jamie was started. The idea briefly crossed his mind that he might use this unexpected release to try to escape—
But his broken hand was still nailed fixedly, painfully to the table. And even if he could somehow wrench that free—Jamie had given his word. He must not struggle. He had to keep Claire safe.
Instead, almost convulsively, Jamie reached out to put his free hand on Randall’s on the table in front of him. Randall glanced up at his touch, surprised. Jamie still didn’t look at the captain as he spoke.
“She’s away safe.” It came out more a statement than a question, but Jamie wanted Randall’s explicit confirmation.
“Yes,” Randall answered, “you have my word.” Randall put his other hand over Jamie’s as he spoke so that suddenly he was cradling Jamie’s undamaged hand in both his own. Randall’s expression was gentle, even perversely kind. The man’s hand pressed softly against Jamie’s skin, soothing, the way one would do to calm a spooked horse.
The soft, cloying sincerity that colored Randall’s tone made Jamie’s insides twist in confusion and disgust. It was impossible to comprehend this man.
Before Jamie could marshal his thoughts, Randall abruptly pulled his hands away from Jamie’s and walked around to stand behind his prisoner. Jamie heard a soft clink of metal: the captain had drawn his dagger.
When Randall started cutting his shirt, Jamie’s mind went blank.
---
Now, Jamie is jerked out of his trance once more by the sound of Randall’s words.
“It’s a masterpiece.” Randall’s voice is a whisper, soft and breathy. It sounds—reverent.
Jamie realizes with a shock that Randall is stroking his newly exposed skin now, softly running his fingers over ridges and furrows of Jaime’s ruined back. He can feel the fingers gliding over his skin like firebrands. Jamie wants to flinch away; he wants to spin around and hit Randal with all the force he can muster; he wants to vomit—
But he can’t do any of those things. The rusty nail holds his ruined hand immobile on the table. His bargain for Claire holds his body immobile on the chair.
Jamie wishes with all his soul that he could go back to the empty place in his head where he had been a few moments ago.
He can hear Randall’s sharp intakes of breath, loud in the otherwise silent room. They sound involuntary, as if the man is overcome by the intensity of what he is doing. Jaime feels the bile rise in his throat.
Randall removes his hand and Jaime feels another jerk, a bit harder this time. Then the two sides of his ripped shirt are pushed aside and the skin of his back is fully exposed to the icy air of the dungeon room. There’s something wet on Jamie’s face.
Another pause, and Jamie can feel the captain’s eyes raking over the ruined skin of his back. He can hear the man’s continued harsh breathing. There’s a soft touch on the curve of his shoulder, then hot air against his skin as Randall speaks again. The lips are very close.
“How does it feel to be alive and wear so much dead flesh?” Jamie can feel each word land hot and damp on his chilled skin.
Like wearing armor. The thought suddenly comes to Jaime, unbidden. He imagines his skin as an unbreakable barrier between himself and Randall, and the image seems to give him some small bit of strength. I will get through this, he thinks frantically, I will endure and tomorrow morning my soul will be freed.
He doesn’t think about how methodically Randal had cut through that armor the last time he’d had Jamie at his mercy, at the whipping post.
Then Jamie feels a warm, wet pressure on his skin; once, and again. He realizes with a surge of revulsion that it’s Randall’s tongue.
Randall’s breath moves slowly up Jamie’s back. It feels as if the man’s lips are a hairsbreadth away from touching Jamie’s skin. He can feel himself start to shake slightly with the intensity of keeping himself from moving away from the captain’s loathsome caress. He doesn’t want to give Randall the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.
Jamie wishes, wretchedly, that the man would get on with the—with what he wanted to do. He hadn’t counted on these perverse preliminaries. Randall’s words from earlier come unbidden to Jamie’s mind: I haven’t even begun.
Jamie clenches his teeth and tries hard to still his body’s trembling. He needs to marshal his remaining strength and steel himself for what is to come. He will get through this with his wits intact, for his own sake and for Claire’s. He must, so that tomorrow she can hold her head high with the knowledge that her husband had died a man.
Jamie had promised to submit his body, but he will not surrender his soul to Randall.
He hears Randall speak softly again, the voice coming from just behind Jamie’s right ear—like a twisted imitation of a lover whispering endearments to his beloved. As if he can read Jamie’s mind, Randall’s next words cut like a razor; slicing through Jamie’s jumbled thoughts. For the first time since Claire left the room, Jamie feels a frisson of real fear thread through him.
“Shall we begin?”
Jamie sucks in a harsh, shaky breath. He curses himself inwardly for allowing Randall to get inside his head. He closes his eyes briefly and tries again to calm his mind. With his eyes closed, his broken hand comes more into focus; the harsh, throbbing pain is a welcome distraction from the impending dread of what Randall is going to do to him.
When he opens his eyes, he feels a bit more in control of himself. He looks at his hand; ruined and nailed to the table. His three middle fingers are bent at unnatural angles and the skin seems to be purple under all the blood. It throbs like holy hell and when he tries to move his fingers the whole hand goes up in a blaze of pain that shoots up to his shoulder and makes Jamie feel lightheaded. But as long as he sits still, the regular, pulsing pain seems to help clear his mind and focus his thoughts.
Randall is going to use his body. Jamie had agreed to it and he’s resigned to it. There is no point in going to pieces at the thought of it now.
Glancing up at a movement, he sees that the captain has walked around to the front of the small table. As Jamie watches, Randall sits down on the table in front of Jamie, his legs hanging off the side of the table but his body twisted slightly so that his torso faces Jamie. The captain’s face is schooled into his usual unreadable expression.
Seeing no profit in staring at the man, Jamie drops his gaze back to his own ruined hand and waits for whatever will happen next. But despite his words, Randall seems to be in no hurry to begin anything. He just sits there on the table, one leg swinging back and forth, his inscrutable eyes watching Jamie.
They stay like that for what feels like a long time.
Jamie doesn’t know what Randall wants and he’s not disposed to guess. Now that there is nothing happening to distract him, Jamie is once again aware of his utter exhaustion, and he realizes that the constant pain in his hand is beginning to make him feel sick. His ribs, bruised from the struggle earlier, are also starting to ache dully whenever he draws in a breath. He feels his head getting heavy so he lowers it onto his arm, the undamaged one, and closes his eyes.
A moment later, Jamie feels a soft touch on his scalp. He stiffens, expectantly—
But Randall is just stroking his hair, gently, over and over. Jamie waits for what will come next, but Randall doesn’t do anything else.
After a while, Jamie closes his eyes again.
---
He must have slept for a while, because when he lifts his head and opens his eyes, Randall has moved off the table. He is drinking something out of a silver flask. Jamie’s first thought is of Claire.
“You saw her leave these walls?” Jamie asks, again. At his words, Randall looks up and nods, gazing straight into Jamie’s eyes.
“Yes. We are both men of our word.” Randall’s voice is soft and serious. There’s nothing malicious in his tone. In fact, for the first time, Randall seems to address Jamie as an equal; like someone worthy of his respect. Jamie looks at him for a moment and believes the man is telling the truth. Randall is a lot of things, but he’s never been a liar.
“Drink.” Randall is holding his flask out to Jamie. Seeing no point in refusing, Jamie takes the proffered flask and sips. It’s strong whiskey, a welcome if an unexpected gift. Jamie tilts his head back slightly and starts to pour the burning liquid down his throat, gulping thirstily; but Randall takes flask away before Jamie’s done. Randall closes the flask, puts it down and then gets off the table to pick something up from the floor before moving towards Jamie. Jamie suppresses a small swell of panic when he sees the dagger, not sure what to expect; but the captain only says, “Let’s see if we can make you more comfortable.”
As Jamie watches, Randall puts braces the tip of the dagger against the table and slides the blade under the head of the nail piercing Jamie’s hand. The captain means to wrench the three-inch nail out of the table to free his broken hand, Jamie realizes. He braces himself for the pain well before Randall pauses and says, “This will hurt.”
The pain is white-hot and it seems to go on forever—somehow much worse than when the nail went in. As Randall pries the nail out with a few excruciating jerks, Jamie can feel each wrench of the rough metal in his flesh; he can feel the nail scraping across the raw nerves inside his hand, a completely unnatural feeling. Randall isn’t trying to draw it out, but the nail is embedded deep in the wood of the table so Jamie has plenty of time to feel every bit of the agonizing, nauseating process.
Jamie’s not sure exactly when the nail is completely out of his hand; he sees bright spots in blackness before his eyes and the next thing he knows, he’s on the floor, retching. His entire arm is throbbing in agony.
Things are hazy, but now he can feel the cold stone floor under his shoulder where he’s landed, hard. He can hear loud gasps—sobs. He stops as soon as he realizes they’re coming from him. He closes his eyes and breathes through the pain, gets control of his gasps.
Something is restraining his arms; it’s his own ripped shirt, which has mostly fallen off of him. He pulls his arms out of the shirt sleeves and starts to think about bracing himself enough to sit up, but before he can do it he feels strong arms pulling him up and back.
For a moment, all he can feel is relief that he’s not on the icy stone floor anymore; that his weight is off his throbbing arm. He’s sitting, leaning against something—someone—and warm and protective arms are around him. Someone is shushing him, telling him that everything is alright, smoothing Jamie’s hair off his forehead and out of his eyes.
“The worst is over now. You’ll see.”
It’s these words, the incongruousness of them, that finally pull Jamie back to himself completely. Jamie opens his eyes and he can feel just-abated nausea coming back at the back of his throat. He swallows and tries to push it back, vainly.
He’s leaning against Randall and the man has his arms around Jamie, holding him against his body. Jamie can feel the wool of the man’s doublet against the bare skin of his back and arms, the buttons digging into his flesh. Randall reaches over for something and the movement brings the man even closer. Randall is already so near to him—too intimately close—it’s suffocating, but Jamie can’t do anything about it.
Jamie feels droplets of cool water as Randal strokes his wet fingertips softly across Jamie’s forehead. Randall has dipped his free hand in the water bucket, Jamie realizes, and is now smoothing the cool water over Jamie’s skin. His other hand holds Jamie’s head still by gripping his chin firmly, but not ungently.
Why? Jamie wants to ask. Why are you doing this?
Jamie can feel Randall’s eyes raking over his body, now mostly bared to him, stripped of everything except his kilt. Jamie keeps his own eyes locked on the bars at the far side of the cell, tries to think about nothing. Randall speaks again.
“Dear God. You are a magnificent creature.”
It takes every ounce of Jamie’s remaining strength to lie still, to not flinch or shove away, as Randall slowly tilts Jamie’s head towards him and leans in. The kiss is soft, lingering: a gentle pressure on the side of Jamie’s mouth. Randall’s lips are soft and moist.
Randall’s grip on his chin is much firmer; an unyielding force holding Jamie’s head still.
Jamie doesn’t respond, and when Randall pulls back he turns his face away from the man. He clenches his eyes shut when Randall strokes his forehead again once, twice, with the tips of his fingers. Somehow, these fleeting, intimate touches feel worse than any of the considerable pain Randall has already inflicted on him.
He keeps his eyes closed as Randall pulls Jamie’s face close and kisses him once more. The lips are more demanding this time, and the man’s fingers dig into the skin of Jamie’s jaw as he holds him still for the onslaught. Jamie keeps his eyes resolutely shut and clenches his teeth together as he feels Randall’s tongue against his lips, pushing to gain entry. He focuses on keeping the rest of his body still. He had given his word.
Finally, Randall draws back.
The voice comes again, reproachfully, “It’s like kissing a corpse.” A light tap on Jamie’s nose.
Good, thinks Jamie. Maybe Randall will bore of this if Jamie just continues to lie unresponsive. He knows it’s a futile hope even as he thinks it.
“I know you can do better,” Randall continues.
From the proximity of his voice, Jamie can tell that the man’s face is very close to his own. Unwillingly, Jamie opens his eyes slightly; it’s enough to see Randall leaning in to kiss him again. Jamie can’t help it, he turns his face away in disgust. A small sound of protest escapes his throat despite his effort to stay silent.
“Shhh.”
Jamie twists his head as far away as he can. The man’s perverse gentleness make Jamie’s gut twist with revulsion. He can’t stop himself from trying to get away, even if it’s just a symbolic escape. Why can’t Randall just get on with it, what’s the point of all this—
Randall grabs a handful of his hair. With a rough twist of his wrist that shoots a flash of pain through Jamie’s scalp, he wrenches Jamie’s head back to face him. The man is starting to lose patience, finally, and a part of Jamie is relieved.
He still keeps his eyes angled away from Randall’s face. Refuses to look at him.
“My men can have Claire back here within the hour.” A spark of fear shoots through Jamie at these words. Claire. Reluctantly, he meets Randall’s eyes.
“We have an agreement,” Randall says, smirking slightly. He’s pleased with having finally garnered a reaction. Jamie is furious at himself for giving Randall the satisfaction, but now he’s forced respond. He must keep Randall’s thoughts away from Claire.
“That I would not resist,” he says.
“Ah.” Randall nods a little, looking amused. He lets go of Jamie’s hair. “So that’s your plan. To submit, like Christ on the cross.”
Jamie doesn’t say anything; he turns his face away again. Randall’s hand strokes Jamie’s chest, absently. The soft touch is repulsive, but Jamie doesn’t let himself react until Randall speaks again. The words make him stiffen, involuntarily.
“Well. We will see about that.”
Abruptly, Randall shifts behind him and then lifts Jamie up onto his feet, his arms wrapped around Jamie’s chest from behind. The man is much stronger than he looks, thinks Jamie, and a frisson of apprehension goes through him at the thought.
Jamie grunts in pain as the change in position jerks his injured hand. His bruised ribs protest agonizingly at the manhandling, but he allows Randall to stand him up and push him towards the table. Jamie focuses on holding his hurt hand against his chest, using his good hand to squeeze his wrist, below the injury, to hold it as still as possible. He breathes through the pain that shoots up his arm with each jostle.
He’s not sure what’s about to happen now. He thinks Randall will probably drop him against the table, maybe push him down until he’s bent over it. Jamie braces himself for the shove; tries to hold his hand in a way to keep his weight from landing on it.
Instead, Randall deposits him on the stool.
Jamie hunches protectively over his hurt hand and tracks Randall’s movements warily from under his disheveled bangs. Randall walks unhurriedly around the stool and then lowers himself down until he’s crouching in front of Jamie. Jamie can feel the panic welling up in him again. He pushes it down and forces himself stay on the stool. He waits with growing dread.
This is what he finds most disconcerting about Randall’s behavior. The man is so deliberate in his actions, so meticulous. It’s all the little pauses, the waiting for Randall’s next move, that undo Jamie’s control.
He can’t stop from recoiling, slanting his head away involuntarily as the man moves a little closer to him. There’s another moment of delay, then—
Jamie jerks up, alarmed when he feels Randall’s hands on the hem of his kilt.
Randall lifts the fabric, slowly, folds it up over Jamie’s knees. The man only pushes the cloth up as far as the middle of Jamie’s thighs. Jamie is still mostly covered—but he feels exposed, raw, painfully defenseless as these new inches of skin are bared to Randall’s eyes.
Then, unbearably, Randall puts his hands on Jamie’s knees and starts to push them apart.
It’s another horrible, methodical movement, and Jamie can’t help it, he flinches violently, twisting away from Randall. Stop, he wants to say, don’t.
There’s a dense, all-consuming objection that resounds in his bones, in his soul. But he’s helpless, he gave his word that he wouldn’t resist. And Randall keeps catching him off-guard—Jamie doesn’t know what to expect next so he can’t marshal his defenses against each new defilement, not even in his mind.
Jamie can hear himself breathing heavily, almost sobbing. It’s shameful. He tries desperately to hold back the sounds.
“Shh.”
Jamie squeezes his eyes shut; turns his face and upper body away as far as he can without moving from the stool. He breathes hard and lets Randall slowly push his thighs apart.
Randall sits back and looks up at him. It takes everything in Jamie to keep from closing his legs back together.
Jamie’s head is still turned away, but now he can feel Randall’s hand touch the skin of his thigh, just inside his knee. Then the man starts to slowly slide his hand up Jamie’s inner thigh.
Randall takes his time. Jamie knows the captain is watching his face, enjoying the small, irrepressible flinches that Jamie is trying so hard to hold back. Randall’s hand moves slowly higher up his thigh, brushing softly against the sensitive flesh. The skin is lighter there, Jamie knows, softer and more vulnerable.
Then Randall touches his cock, and Jamie can’t stop himself from jerking again in shock.
Jamie is soft. His body is in too much pain and he’s too miserable for any physical arousal, despite Randall’s caresses. Undaunted, the man closes his hand around Jamie’s cock and just holds him there for a moment. Randall’s hand is warm and his grip is soft, it feels—
Jamie can’t help himself, a miserable noise escapes his throat. He’s trying to hold back, to not give Randall any reaction, but he knows he’s failing miserably in the face of this newest onslaught. He can taste bile at the back of his throat.
Then Randall starts to move his hand under Jamie’s kilt. He squeezes Jamie’s cock gently, then releases, and again, rhythmically. He’s watching Jamie’s face.
“How does that feel? Is that nice?”
Jamie grimaces and grunts in protest and keeps his eyes turned away, but otherwise doesn’t move. He’s still clutching his broken hand against his chest. It throbs, and Jamie focuses all his attention on the pain. Randall’s hand feels unnaturally warm against his skin as the man continues his rhythmic manipulation under Jamie’s kilt, but it doesn’t produce the result Randall is looking for. Thank God for small mercies, Jamie thinks.
But then Randall lowers his head and Jamie sucks in a startled breath as he feels an impossible, wet heat surround his cock. Then there’s a steady, pulling pressure there and Jamie can’t help it, his mind goes to the last time his body felt this particular sensation, when Clai—
No. He will not think of her. He will not bring her into this—violation.
Jamie tries to ignore what Randall is doing, tries to stop himself from feeling it. He tilts chin away and tries to focus on anything other than what’s being done to him under his kilt. But he can’t stop the assault of sensation and Randall’s mouth is so burningly hot and the suckling pressure—
Jamie feels another kind of warmth start to pool, traitorously, low in his belly. Small, unwanted tendrils of pleasure are beginning to coil through his loins.
“Oh.” Another sound forced out of him; this time not completely one of protest.
Jamie feels the shame flood his body as soon as feels his own reaction. No. He braces his good hand on the table, closes his eyes and refuses to let himself respond further. He focuses on the pain in his hand. He thinks about how much he hates this man, this English captain who’d taken so much pleasure in hurting Jamie again and again in the past; who’d hurt Claire—
Randall senses the change and lifts his head.
“Don’t play the worm with me.”
Jamie refuses to look at the man. He tries to keep hold of his ember of hate; focusing on that rather than on what’s happening to his body. Randall is still rubbing Jamie underneath his kilt, more forcefully now.
“Jamie, I just want this to be a pleasant experience for us both,” Randall is saying. The man’s voice is pleasant, conversational. It’s a bizarre juxtaposition against the involuntary sounds of misery and unwanted pleasure coming out of Jamie.
Jamie clenches his eyes shut and tries to shut out the sensation—but he can’t. He’s rocking with the effort of trying not to respond. He can feel his body start to betray him and—
He turns back to Randall, feels the red-hot anger course through him. It clears his head.
“Do what you must.” Jamie grinds out. He leans threateningly towards Randall.
“Take your pleasure and be down with it.” Jamie spits on the captain’s face.
He has to hold onto this anger, this disgust. It’s so much better than the helplessness he’d felt himself start to give in to before. Jamie had made a deal with the devil, yes; but that doesn’t mean he’d bargained his soul.
Randall leans away a little, taken aback. Jamie watches as the man’s expression goes from surprise to irritation at this interruption to the mood had been building.
“What I must?”
Randall’s voice is contemptuous. He looks mildly annoyed, but otherwise—
Nothing. Jamie feels his heart sink again. Clearly the man isn’t in the least daunted or even slightly unsettled by Jamie’s display. He watches as Randall reaches up to wipe the spittle off his face. Again, the man’s movements are unhurried and unnervingly precise.
Randall stands up and pulls Jamie up with him until the two of them are standing to face each other. Jamie looks at him, warily. He doesn’t understand what Randall is doing, but he will not—
“You think I cannot control the darkness I inhabit?” Randall’s voice sounds amused.
Jamie feels his eyes go wide; he’s not entirely sure what Randall is talking about. It’s disconcerting, like everything else about the man.
Randall reaches down and undoes Jamie’s belt. His kilt drops to the floor.
Now Jamie is standing, completely naked, in front the fully dressed captain. He feels unbearably exposed, and vulnerable, and—
Jamie only has time for one shaky breath before Randall suddenly grabs his neck roughly, turns him and shoves him face down over the table. The quick movement makes Jamie lose his balance and his broken hand is jolted against his body as he lands against the table. He cries out with the pain of it before he can hold himself back. He can hear Randall undoing his own pants. He can hear himself sobbing, quietly, and tries to stifle the sound.
“One way or another, I will get a response from you,” he hears the captain say, and Jamie freezes with—the wrongness of it, this impossible situation he’s in.
Now he feel’s Randall’s hand on him again, on the bare skin of his backside. Randall is holding him open with one hand he hears the man spit on his other hand before he rubs it roughly against Jamie’s clenched hole.
No one has ever touched him there before. It feels so—unbearably intimate. Even though Jamie knew this was going to happen, knew this was Randall’s ultimate purpose, he can’t help flinching away, can’t help grimacing and scrambling at the table uselessly.
Then, in new horror, he feels the blunt edge of what must be Randall’s cock nudge against him. Jamie doesn’t have time to prepare himself, to react, he doesn’t have time to think, before, suddenly, Randall slams forward into him.
Jamie yells in shock and pain at the sudden violation. He feels horribly, impossibly, stretched. He can’t take this; he can’t—stop, he wants to say, stop, stop, please—
Randall stills for a moment, and Jamie drops his head against the table, sobbing. He can feel Randall’s cock inside him, unbearably large. The spit hadn’t done much to ease the entry and Jamie feels strained to the point of breaking. He’s never experienced anything like this. He feels ashamed and nauseated and horribly open and defenseless.
All this awareness rushes through him in the second or so before Randall shifts his hands to pull Jamie’s cheeks apart further. Then the captain starts to thrust in earnest.
Jamie lifts his head at the sensation, horrified. He wants desperately to get away, but he’s trapped against the table, his hurt hand throbbing in its awkward position pressed against his chest. He tries to keep his weight off of it and grunts as Randall continues to thrust.
“Scream.” For a second, the command distracts Jamie, gives him something to focus on other than the pain in his hand and ass. He’s already grunting involuntarily in time with Randall’s thrusts, he realizes, but he grits his teeth against responding the way Randall wants.
Randall grabs his hair and jerks Jamie’s head back as he thrusts again, harder now.
“Scream,” he says, again.
Jamie can’t help himself, he hears himself sob, loudly.
The table is rocking with the intensity of Randall’s thrusts. Jamie scrabbles with his feet to get a solid hold on the ground. He has no leverage on the table because he can’t move his arms without having his chest crush against his broken hand.
“Scream!” Randall orders once more. His thrusts are growing increasingly violent.
Jamie is gasping and groaning in time with the thrusts. He’s crying now, from equal parts shame and pain, his sobs being torn out of him in yells.
Randall’s thrusting is getting more and more violent and Jamie can’t brace himself against the table. Each thrust is slamming his hips and scraping his balls against the hard, unyielding wood of the table. Jamie has this new pain to contend with in addition to the burning stretch in his ass and the sharp spikes of pain shooting up from his broken hand as each thrust slams his chest against his arm.
He can’t, he can’t bear this any longer. His hand reaches out of its own volition to grab the edge of the table; trying to pull him away from the pain.
White-hot agony as his now unsheltered, broken hand is rocked against the table and, at the same time, he feels a spear of tearing pain inside him.
Jamie screams.