"Shh," Whumper crooned, circling Whumpee as they tried and failed to shift away from him, "It's okay. The worst is over now. After all," his voice shifted to a low tone, "you said you'd do as I say."
The reminder was a stark warning. Pain seared across their back, blood caked their torn shirt to their skin, and Whumpee could barely even raise their head to look at him.
"Only if... fuck--" They crashed back to the floor. "I'd only do whatever you wanted if you didn't do this..."
CW: female whumpee/ whumper/ caretaker, carewhumpee/whumper, multiple whumpees, bad caretaker, med whump, dissociation/ depersonalization, unreliable narrator, implied past whump (bruises, whipping), blood, dehumanization, “it” used to dehumanize, hair pulling, description of an infection and mutilation, self victim blaming if you squint, compliant whumpee
@ladywhumpdiaries
Day #5 of the lwd event: Caretaker
–
Caretaker pushed her door open. Keys were sat down, bag discarded then her clothes. The hallway walls blurred and distorted into the cold edges of a shower. She braced her hands against the colorless porcelain, letting the hot steam roll the day off her back. When she opened her eyes again she was in her bedroom.
Bed, sleep, wake up. Again.
The sole of her shoes stuck to her feet. Her skin wrinkled and loose like a flimsy white coat. She couldn't feel her heartbeat anymore, just sharp plastic with someone's face on it where she remembered it to be. The closest thing to a rhythm was a quick beep when she held it close to something.
Then she’d swap out one pelt for another. Sleep, wake up. Again.
To say it was a blur felt too simple. It was more a tunnel that spiraled into endless….something. Not nothing. Nothing would be better than whatever this was. This something started with a simple flick of a pen. Drowning desperation. Heaping bills she didn't have the means to pay.
She shouldn't be complaining. She hated people that complained in vain. She asked for this—stayed up night after night hoping for a job that couldn't come soon enough.
Now she had enough to buy more than the bare minimum. She had a good job, a good paycheck. She didn't even have to speak to anyone if she didn't want to.
Or, she didn't used to. There was another puzzle piece in her mirage of something; an intern. A trainee that always complained about the work despite barely having to do anything. Even though she needed this job just like caretaker did. Evidently not as much.
Big eyes would catch the shoddy luminescent lights whenever she’d whine about a task or combat caretaker’s words, staining them a dirty yellow that highlighted hued patches along her spotless skin; she though practiced tears would buy her a pity pass, Caretaker saw right through her.
Overgrown hair would fall in her face whenever she rearranged the tools. Caretaker could always find her pushing it out of her face at the corner of her eye, contaminating once sterile gloves that already didn't stay clean for long and wasting equipment, all because she refused to wear a hair tie.
She was jittery too. That was understandable—this job wasn't like any other. But at least caretaker tried in the beginning. She dug her hands into the bitter, squishy uncertainty, assessing what was necessary and driving her hands deeper still.
Their hands never came out clean. That was something the little pip-squeak would just have to get used to.
But caretaker wasn't one without patience. So she guided the girl’s hands whenever they faltered, ignoring her crocodile tears and reminding her why they did this in the first place. To survive.
An electronic heart beeped the door open, easily sliding it to the side before nothing was in her chest again. She ignored the smell of bleach burning her nose and clinging to the smoothed dermis. It kept it pristine; the only stain on it the straw light flickering overhead. No more purpled or green shades. She was better now.
Pip-squeak was already there, shaking like a leaf, hair still disobediently falling in her face while she stared at her feet, shifting scales like a small lizard, her attempt to save it by tucking it behind her ears unsuccessful.
The boss was there too, leaning back against the sink while she watched the scene unfurl.
She wouldn't need to be there if the girl would just get her act together. Caretaker only needed to be supervised in the beginning. It didn't last long. But now this girl that she didn't even ask for was making her look like a rookie again.
But she kept her tone even, unfazed, as she walked over to the girl, “What's the verdict on this one?”
The girl’s eyes flickered to the body on the table; laid on it's stomach, digits twitching while liquid dripped from it's face, it's back a complete mess of much needed patchwork. It would need to be cleaned first, everything her eye caught was covered by blood and oozing discharge, not to mention to crisscrossing, torn flesh that needed to be darned.
The girl stuttered out an answer, “Multiple..lacerations on their back,” and she used funny language like that. “Extensive bleeding and infection. Their pupils aren't responsive to stimuli.”
Caretaker felt a vein under her skin twitch watching her speak— at the small strands of hair brushing her neck with each shiver. In a swift movement she gripped the girls hair and pulled it all back into a ponytail.
She yelped, still so soft to anything and everything, screwing her eyes shut as caretaker took a hair tie from her wrist and secured the girls hair.
It felt like an itch had been scratched, like she could fucking breathe better. She leaned in, gripping her hair tighter for emphasis, “Keep this out of your face,” she bit before letting go and the girl nodded so fast her head might've popped off.
That was one thing she liked; the girl rarely needed to be told twice when a bit of force accompanied her words.
Caretaker straightened, staring at the girl expectantly while she donned that before-mentioned air brained look that made her eyes go wide. Caretaker deflated, “Continue..” she prompted.
A clue finally lodged itself in the girls head, “Oh, uh—no allergies. But their heart rate is lower than normal and they're having trouble breathing. Blood might be clogging their lungs.”
“Good. Next time that information should be shared first.” Caretaker walked over to the sink, turning the faucet on and scrubbing her hands clean.
The water hit the drain fast, dull suds sticking to her peeling skin, all while the boss watched on. The woman’s stare struck something deep in her from the sidelines, squeezing it out like puss from an infected wound. Painful but necessary. Better than dying. And caretaker was better.
Any semblance of her home skin was plunged down the drain. Every sound in her mind ripped from her till nothing was there. No, not nothing. Never nothing. Something without a name.
She shut the water off along with her thoughts.
Two fingers came to hold her chin. The grip was bruising as the woman turned her head this way and that, examining her as Caretaker kept her gaze still, never drifting downwards—towards the woman—towards her scrutiny.
Then the woman hummed and let her go, turning back to pip-squeak.
Caretaker grabbed another pair of skin and snapped it onto her wrist, “Alright. Let's get to work.”
TW: mostly emotional whump/angst, implied prisoner abuse, implied past noncon, implied past whipping, dubcon drugging, PTSD, poorly researched international affairs/law
✥ ✥ ✥
By the time the sun rose on day three in Turkey, a sort of cloudy haze had settled over Jack. He recognized the familiar signs of too-little sleep for too many days, and he was exhausted. That said, for the last few hours, with Derek’s back pressed against his chest, Jack felt at peace. At least, it was the closest to peace that he could remember.
There was some comfort in the steady rise and fall of Derek’s chest, held almost too tightly in his arms, his grip made even tighter with each tremor that rolled through his body. Jack stared at the clock, willing time to slow down, willing the sun to stay put, just beyond the horizon.
But distantly, the buzz of the phone and the insistent chirping of the birds pulled him back above the surface, and Jack was absolutely certain that hiding in this hotel room for the rest of eternity was not going to be a viable option.
He reached behind him and read the texts. Doctor at eight, or whenever Derek could be ready. Flight was scheduled for that evening at eleven, and there were meetings with the Embassy consulate and a lawyer to brief them on how the final day in Turkey, and subsequent departure, should play out.
He pulled Derek a little bit closer to him, pressing his lips lightly into the top of Derek’s head.
“Derek,” he eventually whispered.
Derek inhaled deeply, the muscles throughout his entire body tensing systematically. With one last quick squeeze, Jack released him from his grip.
“The doctor wants to see you at eight to clear you to travel.”
Derek rolled over slowly, his eyes red and unfocused, and stretched out on the bed.
“Okay,” he said evenly, lifting himself to sit. He ran a shaky hand over his forehead, wincing as he reached his hairline, and repeated, “Okay.”
They got ready in comfortable-enough silence; Jack packed his bags for check out and tried not to notice as Derek stood in the bathroom, staring at his reflection. He leaned in closer for a moment, scrutinizing his appearance. As soon as it started, the moment ended, and Derek’s arms circled his torso as he turned on his heels; he carried himself differently this morning. Jack couldn't quite pinpoint it.
“Derek?”
Derek paused to look at him, his hand on the doorknob. God. He didn't know when he would get used to seeing this new version of Derek. The paleness of his skin, the sharpness of his cheeks.
“You okay?” The words fell out of his mouth before he could pull them back in.
A sad smile played at Derek’s lip and he shrugged. “I don’t know,” he whispered. Jack nodded. After a moment, he added, “I don’t think so.”
He nodded, a smile that didn’t quite stick ghosting across his features. He sat on the bed, placing his book carefully into his bag. “Do you, um… do you want to talk about it?”
Derek held Jack’s gaze, and Jack allowed himself the hope, just for a few seconds, that he would break through. But Jack’s phone buzzed from the table, drawing both of their attention away.
“Doctor at eight,” Derek repeated, methodically. He hesitated and turned back to Jack. “I’ll see you later?”
Jack forced a smile to his lips and inclined his head toward the door, and just like that, Derek was gone.
✥ ✥ ✥
As far as Jack knew, calling back home was still off the table, which limited his options for venting, or screaming, or just talking through what was happening. He didn’t even know who he would call if he were allowed to, but as it stood, it wasn’t like it mattered. He thought about what he might say, what that conversation would even look like. James. Arlo. James. He was desperate to tell James. God, James. He put it out of his mind. He would know soon enough.
The day was spent packing and cleaning, with Derek and his parents in and out of appointments and meetings. During any downtime, there was a conscious decision to keep things light. Derek’s earlier words, and moreover, the haunted expression that crossed his features, were in the back of Jack’s mind at damn near every moment, but the hotel in Adana, twelve hours before boarding a twelve-hour flight to Maine, was not the time to push.
So they watched the news. They put on a movie; Derek’s mom talked about his siblings, and his dog, and various members of their family and church. Derek curled in on himself on the armchair and half-smiled when appropriate, but it didn’t reach his eyes. At dark, they received a call from the Embassy stating their plane would depart in a few hours, and if they had anyone they needed to call before they took off, they should be discerning, but they were free to do so.
Mr. and Mrs. Lewis excused themselves to the bedroom, offering a list of a few key family members they wanted to talk to directly. They asked Derek if he would like to join them. He declined.
“Do you want to call anyone?” Jack offered. He had his cell phone in his hand, his fingers starting to tense in the way they did when he got anxious.
Derek didn’t seem to have an easy answer to that question. He shook his head, pulling his knees a little tighter in.
“Do you… um,” Jack said, his fingers dancing nervously across the screen. “If you’d rather I not, it's no big deal at all. But... Um, James… Ashford… has been… well, you know how he is. He’s been really… really invested, in trying to…just… in your… story, I guess. Do you mind if I email him? Just to let him know that you’re… released. And okay… ish?”
“Oh,” Derek said. “No, that’s… that’s okay.”
From his phone, Jack typed a quick email. He would have liked to have called, or to tell him in person, but it didn’t feel right. Derek was silent, his eyes darting between the door that his parents had gone through to talk about him, and Jack’s fingers dancing across his phone to talk about him. It was… surreal, and… not right. Jack made it brief.
Hey James... it’s Jack. I wanted to tell you before… well, I guess just. I wanted to tell you that I’m in Turkey. Derek’s been released, I came out with the Lewises to bring him home. It’s… hard. Embassy says to keep the news kind of quiet for now, but they said I could tell you. Flying into Portland -- plane leaves in like five hours and it’s a twelve hour flight so whatever time that is… we’ll be there. Can call once i’m in maine, Jack.
Jack offered the phone to Derek. “Do you want to read it before I send it?”
“No,” he said blankly. At Jack's expression, he added, “No, thank you,” and attempted a smile.
Jack wasn’t sure why, but he hated that response. “Alright,” he said, and pushed send.
✥ ✥ ✥
It was past dark when the Embassy consulate knocked on the door, alerting them that their cab was downstairs waiting.
“Is it safe?” Mrs. Lewis asked, her white-knuckled grip on her small luggage giving away her anxiety. He smiled and nodded, ushering her out. Jack followed behind her, his duffle bag over his shoulder, and Derek behind him, with a small backpack that Jack had not noticed until now. Mr. Lewis and the Embassy official were the last to leave.
They walked through the hotel quietly, each lost in their own thoughts; Jack’s mostly eager to get the absolute fuck out of Asia; he imagined no one else’s were wildly different.
The consulate joined them in the cab and issued Derek several documents that he would need once he got back on U.S. soil. Derek held them tightly.
“I’ll take you as far as security,” he said. “There’s an agent waiting at the airport who will get you back to the states.”
At the airport, everything went quickly. They were ushered through security and to a small room, where they waited silently for their plane. The room was abuzz with nervous energy as the new agent came in, introducing himself as the one who would be joining them on the plane.
“Once we’re back in the U.S., there are a few final things we need to do for your release,” he said, looking at Derek. Derek nodded. “We’ll get you through customs, and then we’ve been asked to get you a physical.” Again, Derek nodded. “We’ve set you up with a doctor in Portland to do that, but will need done before you’re formally cleared.” Nod. “I should also mention, at the airport, there will probably be some reporters, they may try to ask you some questions. I’m sure you’re aware that your… situation, has garnered some media attention over the years. The press will likely be alerted of your release once you’re in the air, so you can expect there to be people who want to talk to you.” Nod. “You don’t have to speak with them, but I wanted you to know they’d be there.”
“Okay,” Derek said softly, offering a perfunctory smile. He clutched his backpack to his chest.
“The plane is boarded and ready for take-off, are you ready to go home?” the agent asked with an encouraging smile.
Derek swallowed, his eyes glistening and his body tensing in the way that felt too familiar, but Jack didn’t dare touch him. Not to hold his hand, or to offer support, or to remind him he wasn’t alone. He kept his eyes on the floor.
Derek nodded, as Mrs. Lewis stood and approached him. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice low but with enough fake cheer to give away her position. “We’re almost there, baby.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed it; he looked up at her, a few tears spilling from his eyes. He was frozen, his knuckles white from his iron-grip on his backpack, and his stack of papers. His fingers shook.
Mr. Lewis went to the door. “Time to go, Derek,” he said, a little louder, but evenly. “We’ve got you, alright? Once we’re home, you’ll be safe, and we can work out whatever we need to work out.” He glanced at the agent who smiled back, nodding in agreement.
When it was clear that wasn’t getting Derek into motion, she stood, joining Mr. Lewis at the door. Jack lifted his eyes slowly, and could practically see Derek’s heart pounding in his chest, the little beads of sweat forming on his temples. And still, he could do nothing. Because anything he did, in this airport, in this country, would put Derek in jeopardy.
The agent approached, kneeling slowly in front of Derek. He had kind eyes, Jack decided, but stayed glued in place. “Derek,” he said, his voice gentle. “It’s time to go, okay?” Derek nodded, but it was the same kind of automatic, panicked response that made Jack question if Derek even heard him. “Do you want me to give you something to calm your nerves? For the flight?”
Jack was taken aback, but watched with a kind of helplessness. Knowing his hands were tied, and that the priority right then was to get Derek onto the plane.
And for Derek’s part, he nodded. With a swallow and a shaky breath, he pulled his bag closer to his chest and he nodded again. “Will it hurt?” he asked, the words more a gasp than anything.
The agent opened his briefcase and removed a small pouch; he pulled out a syringe, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “It’ll just calm you down for the flight, make life a little easier on you, okay? Keep your eyes on me,” he said calmly, gentle as he maneuvered Derek’s arm away from his backpack. Derek didn't completely obey that request, his eyes instead frantically seeking out Jack’s. Clear and scared and desperate for... something.
It’s okay, Jack mouthed, reaching out cautiously, minding the way he presented himself. He covered Derek’s free forearm and squeezed it, in a move that he was pretty sure looked like a friend supporting a friend. “We’ve got you,” he whispered, as the man slid the needle into Derek’s arm.
Derek blinked back the tears, but nodded.
“All done.” The man discarded the syringe into a little plastic container and put it back into his bag. After a moment, he put his hand on the back of Derek’s shoulder, guiding him up. Derek followed his parents through the door, with the agent’s hand not breaking contact with his shoulder, and Jack walking behind them.
✥ ✥ ✥
The plane ride home was no better or worse. Derek watched silently out the window, occasionally wiping his hands on his pants. Derek’s parents boarded first, and, gratefully, took the second row of seats next to each other, leaving Derek and Jack to take the first. Derek sat in the window seat. For the first several hours, he didn’t speak. He didn’t listen to music or read. He watched silently out the window and, if Jack was taking a guess, internally panicked.
He teared up occasionally. His hands shook as he took small sips of water. Jack still didn’t touch him. While it was safe(er) now that they were officially out of the country, he didn't think it was worth it to tempt fate. And when Derek finally slipped into an uneasy sleep, his backpack was still wrapped tightly in his fingers.
Jack didn’t sleep; he reluctantly turned down the flight attendant when she came by with drink orders the first, second, and even third time. He tried to read, but his attention was diverted to Derek every few minutes time. He thought about the last time he had taken this flight. He hadn't turn down any drink offers on that flight. He was the one who they had to drag out of the airport and onto the plane.
Seven years ago, Derek had been sentenced to twenty-two years in prison. Jack had been actively fighting thinking about it, but the memories flooded in. The trial hadn’t been like trials on television in the U.S. It had been something he was wholly unprepared for. Derek had had amazing lawyers, his family was there, and all along, there was this implied promise of release. The trial was for show, they had been told. They want to make an example of him. If he pleads guilty, he’ll be out within six months, a year max. It’ll be a cake-walk.
It had been a hard pill to swallow, but they made a plan. Jack would go back to the United States and start school. They would write to each other weekly. They would not give up on one another, and in a year, Derek would be released, and they would backpack all across the U.S. They were in agreement that they were staying the fuck out of Asia. And maybe never leaving the country again.
When the sentence was issued, and the air had been sucked out of the courtroom, Mrs. Lewis was hysterical. Derek was stunned into silence. Mr. Lewis was furious, and Jack. Jack was numb. Twenty-two years. The formal charge was theft, but, the lawyer explained, they were likely punishing him based on the other witness accounts. It had little to do with theft. Derek hadn’t even stolen anything. It was all a farce, but it didn’t matter, because travelers are bound to the laws of the countries they are traveling to, Jack was reminded. After the trial, there was screaming. Jack wasn't allowed in the small conference room, but he could hear it from the spot on the floor that he had collapsed onto. The fight wasn't over, the lawyer had said calmly. They weren't going to give up on him.
He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and leaned forward so he could see the ocean. The darker thoughts crept in. The ones about Derek, and what his time had been like. Why he had stopped writing, and eventually all contact had ceased. Why he couldn’t sleep. Why he had lost so much weight. Why he couldn’t smile, and why he could barely speak. Why he was covered in bruises. Why he was covered in scars.
On the twelve-hour flight back to Maine, seven years overdue, Jack could not stop thinking about how much they had hurt him. About the things he could see, and even scarier, the things he could not see, that had been done to him.
tw: captivity, implied whipping, implied violence, pet (?) sorta, conditioning
No more than three weeks later, Hero broke.
Villain had come through with their vicious promises, the beatings, lashings, stripping Hero down to nothing but a broken sobbing mess. They’d fought back, as best as they could, but Villain’s might was unmatched.
They lay relaxed in their chair, cigarette clamped between their lip. The end singed a bright orange. They exhaled sharply, eyes drifting towards the window in what could be seen as boredom. Although it was hard to read any expression in their cold eyes, Hero had become adept in sensing their mood.
The hero sat complacently on the floor by Villain’s feet, their back pressed up against the chair. Their lidded eyes focused intently on a blank spot on the floor, making no effort to defy them like they used to. When Villain’s hand rested upon their head, and began ruffling their hair, Hero didn’t flinch, nor did they speak.
“Come up here.”
Hero didn’t wait on those orders. The deep lashes on their back was warning enough. They clambered silently onto Villain’s lap, just like they’d been taught, and kept their eyes low. Villain’s finger pressed against their chin, and lifted their head up.
“Your friends are on their way to get you,” came their sharp, firm voice, sliding their hand to the back of their throat. “Do you know who they are?”
Hero’s eyes glinted slightly, a spark in a pitch black room. The moment their brows began to furrow, wracking their brain for an answer, Villain cut in:
“You don’t, do you?”
The moment they answered for them, Hero abandoned all thoughts. That glint vanished, and they shook their head. Villain chuckled lightly, corner of their lip curling up into a smug smirk. Triumphant.
Hello! If you're still taking requests can I have this like all in one story? (I hope that made sense) Whumpee:48/6 Whumper:32/9 no caretaker/ whumper is also caretaker. Thank you i love your writing
I am always taking requests! So so sorry I'm taking so long to get to them (I say that every time) but they always make me very happy! I'm glad you enjoy my writing, hope you'll enjoy this too!
Whumpee 6 & 48: “It's- it's fine.” & “I'll do better, I promise.”
Whumper 9 & 32: “Oh dear, look at you. So beautiful. I made you the way you are.” & “You know I hate punishing you.”
Ask game here
With a clank, the bloodied whip fell to the floor in a heap. That made the heaps two, with Whumpee on his knees just a few feet away, whimpering when every tremor that wracked his body pulled at his torn back.
He felt a touch in his hair and he almost pulled away, until he looked up, realizing who it was. A choked sob escaped his cracked lips and he leaned into the touch as the other's thump wiped away a stray tear.
"Oh dear, look at you." Whumper cooed, his glowing eyes taking in all the features of Whumpee's messed up face. He looked so proud, like an artist admiring his finished painting. "So beautiful. I made you the way you are."
Holding back a sob, Whumpee gave a shaky nod, practically throwing himself into Whumper's waiting arms. "Thank you, Sir, thank you..." he mumbled into Whumper's shirt.
"Shhh... It's over now, dear..." Whumper held him, his fingers stroking his silky hair. Whumpee melted into it. "Does it hurt?" Whumper asked, and one would think there was actual concern in his tone.
"It's-" Whumpee's voice cracked. He cursed himself, taking in a shuddering breath before continuing, "It's fine. I-I was bad, you, you had to."
At that, Whumper cracked a smile Whumpee did not see. "You know I hate punishing you, dear." He replied somberly, "Please, don't make me do this ever again."
Whumpee kicked himself. He had forced Whumper to do things he didn't want to, he had made Whumper sad, yet Whumper was being so gentle.
He could not hold back the tears that wet his cheeks anymore. "I'm sorry, Sir..." he cried, "I'm so sorry, please forgive me. I, I'll do better, I promise."
Whumper's grip tightened around Whumpee, with little acknowledgment to the wounds on his back. "I know you will, dear. If not, well, we'll have to do this all over again."
Gimme some carn whump, especially early in his time with the Jewler (maybe with saph still figuring out his feelings?). Thanks, love ur writing!
CW: multiple whumpees, implied whipping, forced to watch
"Hey, let go of me!" Carnelian snapped, trying futilely to free himself from the Jeweler's grasp. "Don't you dare touch me!"
A slap to the face stunned him for a moment, enough for the Jeweler to get his hands cuffed behind him.
As he was dragged out of his cell, he could see the blue eyed boy staring at him, with something eerily similar to concern etched on his face. "Hey, bastard," he called, voice nearly nonchalant. "What are you doing with the newbie?"
The Jeweler glanced over his shoulder with a smile, as he began to string Carnelian up from the ceiling. "Oh, nothing you need to concern yourself with, sweetheart," he replied. "Just working on his training. You know how that goes, don't you?"
The boy flinched back nearly imperceptibly and took a step back from the glass wall of his cell, still watching cautiously.
Carnelian thrashed around in his restraints, struggling to keep his feet under him. His toes barely touched the ground with how high he was. "Don't you dare touch me, you asshole!" he threatened, but the Jeweler just laughed.
"Oh, sugar," he said condescendingly. "You're going to have to do a lot better than that to phase me. You should've heard my sweetheart when he first came."
The boy glared from his cell, and when Carnelian caught his eye, he couldn't help but show the glimmer of panic that was dancing on his features.
'Just watch me,' the boy mouthed and Carnelian barely had time to nod before the first lash of the whip came down on his back.
Everyone was gathered around Whumpee. They were chattering among themselves.
Whumpee smiled at all of them, trying their best to seem like a good, obedient pet. They knew they would be punished if they didn’t.
They felt someone trace the scars on their back. They winced, sucking air through their teeth. The guest chuckled and poured their drink on their back.
Fresh tears ran down Whumpee’s face. They bit their lip, trying not to scream.
They hoped the guest would leave them alone, but they seemed determined to make Whumpee scream.
There was a swift kick to their back.
“P-Please stop...” they begged.
The guest smirked.
“Did you just tell me to stop, pet?”
Whumpee looked up at them, silently begging them not to tell anyone.
“I’ll have to tell your master about this.”
“No, no, please, no...”
“Don’t make this worse for yourself.”
Whumpee nodded .
They could do nothing but wait for what would surely be a painful punishment.
Vincent, can you demonstrate for your fans how kind you can be to Jonah? Also, any spoilers for your next book?
Vincent’s expression grows a little irritated.
‘A demonstration of how kind I can be? Jonah my love, did I ever give the impression that I haven’t been kind to you?’
‘You’ve always been very kind,’ Jonah responds sarcastically, ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to feel your kindness whenever I sit down during the next few days…’
‘You may kneel as well if that’s what you prefer.’
‘No, but thanks a lot for that kind offer.’
Jonah limps over to the living room and curls up on the sofa while Vincent puts his belt back on.
‘See? He agrees with me. Oh, and you were asking about forthcoming book releases… well, I can’t talk about those things just yet, but let me tell you this much: I’ve discovered a promising new author who’s just about to write his first book and I’m sure that with the right people supporting him it might become a bestseller…’
