Chapter 4: The Tongue Throne
The silence of the penthouse was a heavy blanket, smothering and complete. For days, Fiona moved through the rooms like a ghost, the memory of the playroom seared behind her eyes. The image of Anya, broken and devoted, was a constant companion. Julian was polite, almost distant, leaving her to her thoughts, which was its own form of torture.
Three nights later, he found her staring out the window at the city lights. “Come,” he said, that same simple command. Her stomach clenched, a cold knot of dread tightening, but her feet moved on their own, following him back to the metal door.
This time, the playroom was different. The overhead lights were off, replaced by a deep, crimson glow that emanated from strips along the baseboards. It painted the sterile surfaces in shades of blood and shadow. In the center of the room stood a new piece of furniture: a heavy, modified chair, all polished steel and black leather, with armrests that ended in sturdy cuffs. It looked like a dentist’s chair redesigned by a sadist.
Anya was already there, kneeling beside it, wearing only a collar. Her eyes were downcast, but her body seemed to hum with a nervous energy. Julian sat in the chair, making himself comfortable. He picked up a remote and a large flatscreen on the wall flickered to life, the roar of a soccer crowd filling the room. He took a sip from a glass of whiskey on a small side table.
“The game’s about to start,” he said to no one in particular. Then he looked at Anya. “You know your place.”
She moved with that same practiced efficiency, crawling behind the chair. Julian shifted forward slightly, giving her access. Fiona, once again relegated to her corner, watched as Anya’s head disappeared behind the high back of the chair. Julian let out a soft, contented sigh, his eyes fixed on the screen.
“Deeper,” he murmured, his voice almost lost under the commentators’ chatter.
A moment later, Fiona saw his hand move. He reached down to the floor beside his chair and picked up a flogger, its falls a bundle of soft black leather. He rested it on his thigh, his fingers casually tracing the strands. The game played on. A player took a shot on goal, missing wide. Julian grunted in disapproval.
His hand, holding the flogger, moved between his legs. There was a sharp, casual flick of his wrist.
Anya yelped, a short, choked sound. The rhythm of her hidden work, which had faltered for a second, resumed with renewed vigor. Julian took another sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving the screen.
“That’s it,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Get your fucking tongue right in there. Clean your god.”
Fiona could see the muscles in his forearm flex with each small, precise flick of the flogger. Thwip. A sharp intake of breath from behind the chair. Thwip. A muffled whimper. He wasn’t hitting her hard, not with the force he was capable of. This was different. It was a correction. A reminder. A way to keep time.
“You love this, don’t you?” he asked, his tone conversational as a commercial for beer began to play. “You love having your face buried in my ass while I watch the game. It’s the highest purpose a slut like you could ever have.”
A desperate, affirmative moan was her only reply.
He flicked the flogger again, this time a little harder. The sound it made against her flesh was sharper, wetter. “Use your words, cunt.”
“Yes, Sir!” Anya’s voice was strained, ragged. “I love it! Thank you, Sir!”
He smiled, a small, private curl of his lips. He settled back into the chair, one hand holding his whiskey, the other resting with the flogger on his thigh, ready. The game resumed. Fiona watched, hypnotized by the mundane horror of it. The roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of the flogger, the wet, hungry sounds of Anya’s worship, and Julian’s relaxed posture as if he were alone. He was using one woman’s pain and submission as background noise for his entertainment.
Another flick. Another yelp. His cock, she could see, was fully hard now, jutting out from his open trousers, untouched. That was the most terrifying part. He didn’t need to touch himself. Their suffering was his pleasure. Their desperation was his foreplay.
“Don’t you dare slow down,” he warned, his voice dropping an octave. “I can feel you getting lazy. You think because I’m distracted you can be a lazy little bitch?”
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
The blows came in a quick, stinging sequence. Anya cried out, a real sob this time, but her efforts behind him became frantic, sloppy with a panic to please.
“That’s better,” he purred, taking a long, slow drink. His eyes met Fiona’s across the room. They were dark pits in the crimson light, utterly devoid of warmth. He held her gaze, a silent promise of what was to come. This wasn’t just for Anya. This was another lesson, meticulously designed for the wife kneeling in the corner. This was how he relaxed. This was normal.
He turned back to the game, a faint smile playing on his lips as a goal was scored. The crowd roared its approval. Anya continued her desperate, punished work. And Fiona felt a piece of her innocence, not just break, but dissolve completely, replaced by a cold, heavy understanding of the man she had married.