Chapter 36: Policy Revision Hell
The polished chrome elevator doors slid shut on Pete’s frantic yell. "Karn! Wait for me!" He hammered the down button, the chime ringing with infuriating slowness. When the doors finally sighed open on the parking level, he burst out, scanning the rows of gleaming vehicles. There! Karn’s sleek black coupe was already backing out of its reserved spot.
Pete sprinted, shoes slapping on concrete, still fumbling with the buttons on his grey tunic. He reached the passenger side just as Karn paused at the exit gate. Pete wrenched the door open and practically fell into the leather seat, chest heaving. The car surged forward the moment the door clicked shut. The silence inside was thick and cold, broken only by the purr of the engine and Pete’s ragged breathing. Karn stared straight ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel, jaw set. He didn’t look at Pete. Not once.
Five minutes later, Karn pulled into the valet lane of La Perle, a restaurant Pete had only ever walked past, intimidated by its marble columns and uniformed doormen. Karn tossed the keys to a valet without a word and strode inside, leaving Pete scrambling to catch up. The opulent interior hit Pete like a wall: vaulted ceilings dripped with crystal chandeliers, warm light glinting off polished marble floors. The air hummed with the discreet clink of fine china, low murmurs, and the faint scent of truffle and expensive perfume. Diners in sharp suits and shimmering dresses glanced up as Pete stumbled after Karn, his crumpled grey uniform and prominent leather collar looking painfully out of place.
A waiter in a crisp tuxedo materialized. "Mr. Thorne, your table is ready." He led them to a secluded booth draped in velvet. Karn slid in smoothly. Pete perched awkwardly on the edge of his seat, the plush upholstery swallowing him. Karn picked up the heavy menu, effectively hiding his face.
"Karn," Pete whispered, leaning forward. "Please. I'm sorry. I didn’t mean—"
"Quiet." Karn's voice was a low whip crack. He didn't lower the menu.
The waiter returned. Karn ordered, his voice clipped and professional. "The sea bass. Sparkling water. He'll have the chicken." He gestured vaguely at Pete without looking. The waiter vanished.
Pete leaned in further, his voice trembling. "Karn, please. Listen. I panicked! After you hugged me, and then the forehead kiss… I didn’t know what it meant! What I was supposed to do! So I called Mom—"
Karn slammed the menu down onto the pristine white tablecloth. The crystal glasses rattled. Several nearby diners flinched. Karn leaned forward, his eyes blazing, voice a furious, hissed whisper. "Why? Why, Pete, did you feel the need to call your mother and detail everything? 'Mom, Karn hugged me from behind! Mom, he kissed my forehead! What does it mean, Mom?'" His mimicry was sharp, cruel. "What possessed you?"
"I— I needed advice!" Pete stammered, cheeks flaming. "I don’t know how to—"
"Advice?" Karn cut him off, the false calm utterly gone. "From your mother? Fine! If it was just your mother, maybe! She’s lovely, she’s kind, she’d probably just giggle and tell you to bake me cookies!" He jabbed a finger across the table. "But she’s not alone! She’s got Tarn!"
Pete blinked. "Tarn? What’s Tarn got to do with—?"
"Everything!" Karn hissed, his voice dropping even lower, vibrating with intensity. "You think Tarn is just some cheerful farm kid? That 'cute' act? It’s camouflage, Pete! He’s not cute. He’s a goddamn strategic genius. Reads people like open books. Twists situations like pretzels. And he lives for this kind of gossip! Did you honestly think he wouldn't be listening in? That he wouldn’t dissect every word?"
Karn leaned so close Pete could see the flecks of gold in his furious green eyes. "I guarantee you, the instant your call ended, Tarn turned to your mom and said something like, ‘Well, Auntie, looks like Karn finally made an overt move, clumsy as it was.’ And believe me he’d call you really soon and say," Karn’s voice shifted to a pitch-perfect, mocking imitation of Tarn’s sharper tones, "'Pete! You absolute turnip! Whatever you do, do NOT tell Karn you called your mom freaking out about the hug and the kiss! If you tell him, he’s going to be mortified and furious, and then he’s going to want to smash your head in!'"
Karn sat back, breathing hard, his glare pinning Pete to the velvet seat. "He saw it coming, Pete. He saw you coming. He knew exactly how monumentally stupid it would be to tell me you ran crying to mommy about a forehead kiss, and he knew you wouldn't have the first clue why it was stupid. He probably found it hilarious."
As if summoned by Karn’s venomous prediction, a shrill, insistent buzzing erupted from Pete’s pocket. His comm unit. Pete fumbled it out, heart sinking. The screen flashed: Mom. He swiped to answer, dread coiling in his stomach. "H-Hello?"
"PETE RIVERTON!" Tarn's voice, loud and laced with theatrical panic, blasted through the speaker, echoing slightly in the hushed restaurant. Several heads turned. "You block of solid oak! Tell me you did NOT just tell Karn you called us freaking out about him hugging you and planting one on your forehead!"
Pete froze, his eyes wide as saucers, darting to Karn. Karn’s expression was pure, icy vindication. He slowly raised his water glass, took a deliberate sip, his gaze never leaving Pete’s.
"T-Tarn… I…" Pete stammered.
"Because if you DID," Tarn barreled on, his voice rising in pitch, "he’s GOT to be furious! He’ll be wanting to— HOLD ON." Tarn’s voice cut off abruptly, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. When it came back, it was pure, unadulterated shock. "IS THAT A COLLAR? Pete! Are you wearing a collar? I can see the edge of it on the video! Is that… does it say… KARN’S NAME ENGRAVED ON IT?!"
Before Pete could splutter a denial or explanation, Karn’s hand shot across the table. He snatched the comm unit from Pete’s limp fingers.
He held it to his ear, his furious expression dissolving instantly into a mask of smooth, chilling charm. His voice, when he spoke, was syrup over ice. "Tarn! Wonderful timing, cousin. Thanks ever so much for the… assist." The word dripped with venomous sarcasm. "Now, be a dear and tell Auntie Riverton her son will be staying late at the office tonight. We've got some… remedial training to attend to. Deeply tedious, I assure you. Ta!"
He didn’t wait for a reply. He thumbed the disconnect button with brutal finality and slammed the device down onto the tablecloth like a gavel. Crystal rattled again. Conversations nearby died completely.
In the deafening silence that followed, Karn leaned across the table once more. His hand shot out, fingers closing like a steel trap around Pete’s wrist, just shy of bruising. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous hiss that promised nothing but pain and humiliation.
"You. Are spending. The entire afternoon. Bent over my desk. Rewriting corporate policy manuals." His eyes blazed, stripping Pete bare even though he was clothed. "Naked. Collared. And sobbing."
Karn’s grip on Pete’s wrist was iron, dragging him back through La Perle’s opulent haze. Crystal clinked, marble gleamed, whispers followed their abrupt exit. Pete stumbled, the warm glow replaced by the sterile chill of the parking garage. "Karn, please—" he choked out, but the car door slammed shut on his plea.
The coupe roared to life, tires squealing on concrete. Karn drove with terrifying precision, eyes fixed ahead, jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. Silence pressed down, thick and suffocating, broken only by the engine’s growl and Pete’s ragged breathing. He stared at Karn’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, the promise of naked humiliation echoing louder than the engine. Sobbing. The word echoed, cold and sharp.
Forty floors ascended in a stomach-lurching blur. Karn strode from the elevator, Pete scrambling behind like a condemned man. The vast, cold office swallowed them. Karn flung his jacket onto the sleek desk, the motion sharp, violent. He pointed, a single, rigid finger aimed at the center of the polished wood surface. "Strip. Now. Collar stays." His voice was ice shards.
Pete flinched. The familiar rule, usually endured with quiet dignity, now felt like a prelude to torture. Fingers trembling, he obeyed. The grey tunic, the trousers, pooled at his feet on the plush carpet. The air conditioning kissed his bare skin, raising goosebumps. He stood, naked except for the engraved leather band locked tight around his throat: Karn Thorne.
Karn didn’t look at him. He yanked open a drawer, retrieving a thick, leather-bound tome titled Titan Industries Corporate Policy & Procedures, Vol. XVII: Resource Management & Red Tag Protocols. He slammed it onto the desk beside Pete with a thud that made the glass walls vibrate. "Page one. Start copying. By hand. Neatly." He tossed a fountain pen beside it, the gold nib gleaming wickedly. "Every deviation, every tear smudge, every hint of an excuse… starts you over."
Pete shuffled forward, the carpet rough under his bare feet. He picked up the heavy pen, its weight foreign and clumsy. The tiny printed text swam before his eyes. He bent slightly, resting his left hand on the cool wood for balance, the posture awkward, exposing. He dipped the pen into the inkwell Karn had silently produced. The first stroke on the pristine paper was shaky, thick, a blotch forming instantly.
A low sound escaped Karn, part sigh, part snarl. He leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, watching. The intensity of his gaze felt like a physical pressure on Pete’s bare back, his hips, the vulnerable backs of his knees. "Begin again," Karn commanded, his voice devoid of warmth. The humiliation was immediate, visceral. Pete swallowed hard, the collar pressing against his Adam's apple. He reached for a fresh sheet. Tears pricked, hot and treacherous, at the corners of his eyes. Sobbing. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He pressed the pen to the paper, hand trembling violently.
Hundreds of miles away, sunlight drenched the Riverton farmhouse kitchen. Tarn burst through the screen door, boots tracking dirt, face alight with manic glee. "Auntie! Auntie Riverton! You are NOT gonna believe this!" He skidded to a halt, brandishing his comm unit like a trophy. "Brother-in-law! He’s collared! Like, properly collared!"
Mrs. Riverton paused, potato peeler in hand, a mound of earthy spuds on the counter. "Collared? Pete? What on earth are you on about, Tarn?"
"Look! Look!" Tarn jabbed at the screen, enlarging the blurry image he’d screen-captured during the disastrous call – Pete, flushed and anxious in the restaurant booth, the unmistakable edge of thick leather stark against his neck, the engraved Karn just visible. "Saw it clear as day when Karn snatched the comm! It’s got Karn’s name on it! Engraved!"
Understanding, bright and joyful, washed over Mrs. Riverton’s face. She dropped the peeler and potato with a clatter. "Oh! Oh, Tarn!" She seized his free hand, her calloused fingers gripping his tightly. "Finally! My boy! He knows! He knows!" She pulled Tarn into an impromptu, spinning dance right there in the kitchen, laughing, her apron swirling. "He knows who anchors him! Who steers his heart!"
Tarn grinned, swept up in her infectious delight, though his own interpretation was decidedly less romantic. "Told you Karn takes the lead!" he crowed, breaking the dance to point emphatically at the screen again. "See? Proof! Collar says it all! Karn’s got him well and truly claimed!"
Mrs. Riverton beamed, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron, her eyes sparkling with maternal triumph and a touch of tender concern. She chuckled, shaking her head. "Well, I just hope young Karn remembers to be merciful with my poor son. Pete’s always been a bit… slow on the uptake with these matters. Bless his heart." She picked up her potato, humming happily, already picturing wedding cakes amidst the potato peelings. Tarn stared at the collar image again, snickering quietly. Merciful? Yeah, right. Karn looked ready to skin him alive.
The pen tip trembled, hovering over the stark white page. ‘Resource Management Allocation Procedures: Subsection 7.3(a): Utilization Metrics for Tier-Classified Personnel…’ Pete’s vision blurred. The cold air pricked his naked skin. He pressed down, ink bleeding into a clumsy blotch.
SMACK!
The sharp crack echoed off the glass walls. White-hot pain exploded across Pete’s bare backside. He gasped, arching instinctively, the pen clattering onto the desk. Karn’s hand, flat and punishingly quick, had landed with shocking force. The sting was immediate, intense, radiating heat.
"Again," Karn commanded, his voice devoid of inflection. He hadn't moved from his lean against the desk. "That was illegible. Start fresh. Neatly."
Tears welled, hot and humiliating. Pete blinked them back, grabbing a new sheet. His hand shook violently. He concentrated, forming each letter with excruciating care. ‘U-t-i-l-i-z-a-tion…’ He skipped the ‘a’ in ‘Metrics.’
SMACK!
Another sharp impact, lower this time, the sound like a snapped towel. Pete yelped, a small, wounded sound. The pain was sharper, deeper, a burning brand. He squeezed his eyes shut. Tarn’s voice echoed in his head: ‘Don't let Karn take the lead… you’ll be crying for all eternity.’ Oh, gods. This. This was what Tarn meant. Not some romantic dance step. This utter, powerless humiliation. Karn was leading, all right. Leading him straight into a world of pain.
"Karn, please!" Pete choked out, tears finally spilling over, tracing hot paths down his cheeks. He didn’t dare turn, couldn’t bear to see the cold fury he knew was in Karn’s eyes. "I’m trying! I swear! It’s hard… the pen… the cold… please, mercy!"
"Mercy?" Karn’s voice was a low, dangerous rasp. "Mercy is finishing the manual correctly. Bend over the desk. Rewrite every word. Now." The command left no room for argument, only obedience and the threat of another searing slap.
Pete sobbed, a ragged, miserable sound. He wiped his nose on his forearm, smearing ink. He bent further, presenting the already stinging curve of his ass as he painstakingly rewrote the line. ‘M-e-t-r-i-c-s…’ He spelled it right this time. He moved to the next word. ‘f-o-r…’ Simple. Safe. Then ‘T-i-e-r-‘… he wrote ‘T-i-r-e’.
SMACK!
This one landed squarely on the crest of his left buttock, the impact jolting him forward against the desk edge. "Accuracy, Pete," Karn hissed. "Every detail. Every letter."
The cycle became a grinding rhythm of intense concentration, the scratch of the pen, the suffocating dread of a mistake, and the inevitable, sharp crack of Karn’s hand meeting bare skin. Over. And over. And over. Pete’s ass burned, a fire spreading with each new strike. He cried openly now, tears dripping onto the paper, smudging ink, earning him yet another slap and a growled command to restart the page.
"P-please, Karn," he begged hoarsely after the tenth, or twentieth, restart. His voice was raw. "I can't... it hurts so much... please stop..."
"No," Karn said, the single word colder than the office air. "Rewrite it." His hand rose again, poised. Pete flinched violently even before the blow landed. SMACK! "Focus."
Hours crawled by, measured in aching muscles, stinging skin, tear-stained paper, and the relentless drone of policy jargon. Pete’s world narrowed to the desk, the pen, the blinding pain in his rear, and Karn’s icy presence. He transcribed clauses on expense reports, protocols for inter-departmental communication, grievance procedures he knew were never used for Red Tags. His hand cramped. His back ached from the bent position. His ass felt like raw meat.
Finally, the pen scratched out the final period of the last subsection. ‘Appendix G: Revision History (Current as of Q3 FY-476).’ Pete froze. He checked it once, twice, terrified of a typo, a skipped line. It looked… complete.
He straightened slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at the inflamed skin. He placed the pen down with shaking fingers, the final stack of papers neatly aligned. He turned slightly, just enough to see Karn out of the corner of his watering eye, a silent plea for it to be over.
Karn pushed off the desk. He didn’t look at the papers. He looked at Pete’s ass, glowing a furious, mottled red, the distinct outline of his handprint visible on the left cheek like a brand. His expression was unreadable, sharp, assessing. Predatory.
Pete’s legs buckled. Not from the pain, though that was immense. From sheer, bone-deep exhaustion and the sudden release of tension. He slammed down onto the cold marble floor beside the desk, knees drawn up, forehead resting on them. A low, shuddering moan escaped him. He was spent. Utterly broken. The cool floor was a small mercy against his burning skin.
Karn stepped closer, his polished shoes stopping inches from Pete’s curled form. He looked down, his gaze sweeping over the crumpled figure, the tear-streaked face hidden against knees, the violently reddened ass exposed. Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, two words, delivered with chilling finality, devoid of warmth, devoid of the affection Pete craved, yet carrying the weight of absolute, hard-won compliance.
"Good boy."
The cold marble bit into Pete's bare hip as he curled tighter, every sob a raw scrape in his throat. Karn's "Good boy," delivered like a verdict, hung in the air, chilling the already frigid office. He flinched, anticipating another blow, another command, bracing for the next wave of pain or humiliation. Instead, the expensive leather of Karn’s shoes whispered into the plush carpet right beside him.
Karn didn’t stand over him. He dropped. Smoothly, deliberately, he lowered himself to kneel on the floor beside Pete’s naked, trembling form. The sudden proximity, the shift from looming authority to intimate closeness, was more terrifying than the spanking. Pete froze, breath hitching, tears blurring the polished toes of Karn’s shoes inches from his face.
Karn’s hand, cool and precise, didn’t strike. His fingers lifted, tracing the thick, engraved leather circling Pete’s throat. He tapped the collar gently, directly over the bold script: Karn Thorne. His voice, when it came, was low, devoid of its earlier fury, yet carrying an unnerving intensity. "Whom do you belong to, Pete?" The question vibrated in the sudden silence.
Pete’s gaze snapped up, wide with residual fear, meeting Karn’s piercing green eyes. The command was absolute. "M-Master Karn," he stammered, the title thick on his tongue, sticky with tears and shame.
A small, unsettling smile touched Karn’s lips. It wasn’t warm. It was assessing. Calculating. "What about Tarn?" he asked, his tone deceptively light, his fingers still resting on the collar.
Pete swallowed hard, confusion warring with fear. "Master Karn’s cousin," he managed, his voice barely a whisper. He flinched again, half-expecting a reprimand for stating the obvious.
Karn’s smile widened, transforming into something sharp, predatory. A devilish amusement lit his eyes. "Again. Please," he prompted, the polite word laced with steel. His gaze pinned Pete like a butterfly.
Fresh tears welled, spilling over Pete’s lashes. He understood the demand. It wasn’t about kinship. It was about place. Position. Possession. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, humiliation burning hotter than his bruised backside. "A... a naughty and cunning brat," he choked out, the words tasting like ash. "He shouldn’t... I shouldn't tell him anything." He felt utterly wretched betraying Tarn’s chaotic energy like this, even if it was true.
"Good answer," Karn murmured, the approval sending an unexpected, confusing shiver down Pete’s spine that had nothing to do with fear. Karn’s fingers didn’t leave the collar. They trailed upwards, a feather-light caress against Pete’s sweat-dampened skin, tracing the line of his throat until they rested beneath his chin, tilting his face up. Pete’s breath hitched. Karn’s eyes held his, unblinking, demanding absolute focus. "Once more. Whom do you belong to?"
Pete trembled violently under that gaze. The interrogation stripped him bare, far beyond the physical. He felt Karn peeling back layers of his clumsy, earnest self, demanding a core truth he hadn't fully articulated even to himself. The collar felt impossibly heavy. "Master Karn," he breathed, the tremor in his voice intensifying. The words spilled out, raw and unbidden. "My whole heart. My body. My soul. They belong solely... only... to Master Karn." The declaration hung in the air, terrifyingly final.
Karn’s expression shifted. The sharp edges softened infinitesimally, replaced by a look of deep, unsettling satisfaction. "Good answers," he stated, the words resonating with finality. Then, leaning forward, he pressed his lips to Pete’s forehead again, the kiss lingering longer this time. It wasn't gentle. It was a brand, sealing the words spoken. He pulled back slightly, his gaze sharp once more. "Do you know what you should do next, Pete?"
Panic flared. The memory of the disastrous call, the spanking, the collar interrogation, crashed over him. "Call Mom?" The question was pure, reflexive terror.
Karn’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing. "Call and ask Mom?" he echoed, his voice dropping to a silken, icy whisper. The threat was palpable.
Pete recoiled as if physically struck. "NO!" he blurted, the word harsh, desperate. "No, Master Karn! I wouldn’t! I swear! Never again! Not over... this kind of thing. Never!" The intensity of his own denial surprised him, fueled by the vivid memory of Karn’s cold, monumental rage.
Karn watched him, the ghost of that earlier fury still chilling the air. Then, slowly, the icy veneer cracked. A smile, chillingly pleasant, spread across his face. It held no warmth, only amused expectation. "So," he purred, the single word hanging like a guillotine blade, "what should you do?"
Pete’s mind raced, scrabbling through the chaos of fear, pain, and Karn’s intense scrutiny. The kiss. The collar. The declaration. The terrifying weight of Karn’s anger. A flicker of understanding, desperate and instinctive, sparked. His face flushed a deep, mortified crimson. "Perhaps..." he stammered, the words almost sticking in his dry throat, "...kiss... back?" He couldn't look at Karn, staring instead at the plush carpet fibers inches from his nose.
Karn’s smile transformed instantly. The chilling pleasantness vanished, replaced by pure, unfiltered delight. It lit up his face, genuine and triumphant. "Perfect score for that answer," he declared, the approval washing over Pete like a warm wave after an ice bath. Then, with deliberate grace, Karn raised his right hand, holding it steady in the space between them, palm down, fingers relaxed. The heavy signet ring gleamed dully in the office light.
Pete understood. Instantly. The unspoken command was clearer than any shouted order. Now. Kiss it now. Right now. Or the pleasant mask would vanish, and the terrifying Master Karn would return. The memory of the leather-bound manual, the stinging cracks against his bare skin, the icy fury in the restaurant – it all crystallized into one undeniable truth: he must never make Karn angry again. The cost was too high. Too humiliating. Too painful.
Driven by pure, visceral self-preservation and the dawning, terrifying realization of Karn’s absolute expectations, Pete lurched forward. He pressed his lips urgently against the smooth metal of Karn’s ring. It was clumsy, desperate, fueled by fear and the desperate need to appease. The cool metal tasted faintly of salt and power. He held the kiss for a heartbeat, a silent plea, before pulling back, trembling, awaiting judgment. He kept his gaze lowered, fixed on Karn’s expensive shoes, his own breath coming in shaky gasps.