Dillon Hunt: Before the Fall Ch. 03

"Heh, y'get it? Dill-doe? It's, like, a double entendre." Tiffany giggled merrily at her own joke. A joke that Dillon did not appreciate.

"How the hell is calling me a 'dildo' a double entendre?" His voice was a shrill snarl, fueled by more than just resentment for his current position and the ease with which he was put into it. "That doesn't make any fucking sense, you stupid bimbo!"

Tiffany let out a long, tired sigh. "You are definitely going to regret those words before the day is out. Hell, knowing how much of a little bitch you are, you're probably going to regret them before we leave the room." She kicked up her legs, arcing them around to the side of the bed. "I guess that answers my question, though." She brought a hand down sharply onto Dillon's upturned ass. The sound stung his ears, but not nearly as much as the impact stung his skin.

He cried out in a way that he tried to pretend was more dignified than it really was.

"Awww, poor baby." Tiffany's nails could be felt through the latex, tracing up and down the impact site. "No wonder Mistress thinks you'll make a pretty girl. You already act like a whiny little princess whenever you don't get your way."

"The fuck are you talking abOUT!" Dillon's voice rose to an uncomfortable shrill as his right cheek was given a throbbing heat to match its counterpart. For the first time ever, Dylan didn't entirely hate the thought of wearing latex.

"You want another one, Princess?" Tiffany pressed her hand against the impact site. Her nails tickled on his skin as they picked at the edge of the rubbery briefs. "Because I'm pretty sure I can keep this up longer than you can. And I don't think Mistress is gonna blame me if we're late." Her hand slid up and down the curve of Dillon's rear cheek. "So, if you want another few little swats, just let me know. Any word or sound will do. I'll know what you mean."

'You'd like that, wouldn't you? Bitch. Just any excuse to give me more shit.' Dillon seethed, trying to take his mind off the aching heat of his spanking. He shuddered. Just thinking the word "spanking", conceptualizing it, while he was in his current state felt...

"No?" Tiffany's incredulous voice grated against the senses. "You're actually going to behave for once?" So condescending, so dismissive. Dillon felt every muscle in his body tense up. He wanted to scream at her, tell her exactly what kind of a bitch she was being.

But he also didn't want to face the consequences that he had to assume would inevitably follow. His jaw tightened. A feeling began to creep upon him, but he quelled it, cauterizing that line of thought with a searing, blinding anger.

He tugged again on his restraints, certain that, this time, they'd come loose and he'd be able to properly assert himself.

They didn't.

So he tugged some more, and tugging soon turned into petulant, impotent thrashing.

"Hey, knock it off over there." Tiffany's voice was further away, less of an immediate threat, but that didn't stop it from freezing Dillon on the spot. "That's better. You do not want to find out what I'll do if you mess up my bed. I worked really hard to earn that thing, and I don't need you ruining it."

That was it! A sliver of leverage! A way to hurt her as much as she hurt him. Dillon redoubled his efforts, focusing now on doing as much structural damage as he could with the chains that held him fast. He couldn't get much leverage with his legs, but he could leverage the two points of his bondage against each other. He pulled himself inward, tried to curl into a ball, then released. He repeated the motion, the movement growing faster as it became more familiar. Unlike the aimless thrashing from before, this was a rhythmic, concentrated effort. He had a goal now, a way to exert contr-

He didn't hear whatever it was that created the blossom of overwhelming sensation across his thigh. One last spasm followed, compelled by an animal desire to escape whatever had just caused such an intense pain. Dillon didn't scream. At least he was pretty sure he didn't. But he could feel the warm trail of a tear flowing down his face.

He definitely screamed after the second impact. His left thigh exploded with something too complex and too intense to process or describe. Pain, shock, and the inability to process it all blended together into a slurry that blurred all of his other senses.

"I hope you're paying attention, Princess!" Tiffany's voice roared over the tumult of stimuli. "The next time I have to do this, I'm going to make you count them out and thank me!"

The next impact, this one somewhere between his knees and tailbone, was less intense, but the waning of his shock at the first two made it stand out all the more. It stung and burned and tingled all at once. The sensations rolled across his ass and thighs in waves, like a ebbing and flowing tide of perfect agony.

Dillon retained just enough of himself to brace for another of the terrible swats. His entire being was focused entirely on his ass and thighs, trying to guess where the next one would hit. The anticipation was a torture in itself, as he couldn't even turn his head enough to see what was happening. All he could do was feel for it. But doing so only further focused his mind on the paralyzing, throbbing torment that consumed his lower half.

"That's much better." Tiffany's tone was steady again. Calm and measured. "Now, Princess, if you don't want any more of that, then I suggest you actually behave. No thrashing, no complaining. Just lay there and relax. If you can do that while I finish getting your outfit ready, I'll give you a little bit of balm for your tender little heinie. Deal?"

Dillon continued his protest of silence. He wasn't about to give her any amount satisfaction. 'You can stuff your balm up your haughty little-'

"Good girl!" Tiffany cheered. "You can be taught!" She favored his ass with a light pat, almost a caress. "Just keep that up and I'm sure we can still be friends. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

'I'd like to bend you over this bed and show you how the other side feels. Maybe fuck you in the process.' Dillon, wisely, didn't express this opinion, but neither would he ever acknowledge her authority.

"Perfect! That's exactly right. You're doing great, Princess."

She was goading him. Daring him to speak. But Dillon refused to rise to her bait. He wasn't about to give her a reason to abuse him further. He would speak on his terms, not hers.

He jolted in his bonds, his body reacting before his mind could register the latest impact against his rear. It was only in the aftermath that he could realize that the "impact" that jolted him was just a light slap. He was also all too aware that, compared to the recent abuses, this latest violation of his person was almost pleasant.

This was followed by the sound of rummaging. Opening and closing drawers, clinking hangars, and considerable mumbling. As the heat cooled on Dillon's ass, he was finally "himself" enough to remember that he had a way out of this. He had a safe word. The thought of using it was enticing. He could be done with this lunatic and be on a plane home by nightfall. 'Sure' he mused, 'She would be disappointed. But since when do I care about that?'

Only two things stopped him from calling it quits there and then. The surety that he'd seen and felt the worst of what could be done to him, and the fact that he'd have to actually say the safe word. The only way to escape further emasculation and shame was to engage in the very same. Wasn't that against the rules, though? Had he caught them on a technicality?

"Okay, cutie-butt," Tiffany's cloyingly playful voice intruded on Dillon's thoughts, "I am going to release your legs. Do you promise to be a compliant little dolly and let me dress you up?"

Dillon once again refused to answer. He was done playing along with her bullshit. If she wanted to assume that his silence signaled consent, she was more than welcome t-

"Dill-doe!" Tiffany's voice lost its merriment, replacing it with pure, impatient scorn. "I asked you a question! If you want to avoid another five across the ass, I suggest you speak up!"

Dillon's entire body tensed. He had three options. Refuse to speak and-

"Five!"

'Yeah,' Dillon snarked internally, 'you already said how man-'

"Four!"

'Shit,' his eyes widened. The internal monologue immediately changed tone from dismissal back to threat assessment. She was going to force the issue, force hi-

"Three!"

Dillon's muscles somehow found a way to tighten further. His ankles and wrists tried to pull in. The movement he had just recently used as a tool of subversion and destruction now became a desperate bid to escape the pain. The very same chains that once enabled his violence now also enabled the violence against him.

"Two!"

The realization of absolute vulnerability mixed with the rising tension. It coalesced into an abject terror that coaxed sweat from his brow. His skin prickled, every inch of his body felt like it was just waking up from a long time being numb. The air felt cold, the bed hot, his hair wet, his mouth dry.

"One!"

"YES!" Dillon's voice capitulated before his brain could decide on a course of action.

"Yes, what?" Tiffany's hand once again rested on Dillon's upturned ass, gently massaging the supple flesh beneath the latex. "What is it that you're agreeing to, Princess?"

"Um-" His brain struggled to cash the check that his overeager mouth had written."I promise to behave!"

"Could you be more specific?" Tiffany's voice had relaxed. It was almost soothing in its confidence and poise. "What, exactly, will you do?" Her hand continued to explore its bent-over prize, carefully surveying its every inch and crevasse.

Dillon's throat clenched as a bubble of air tried to force its way into his stomach. What was it that she had said earlier? An entirely new panic rose in him. One that was far less viscerally intense, but somehow even more anxious. The more immediate panic shoved that other one aside and reminded the frightened, vulnerable boy that he had more important things to worry about. Also, that his tormentress had said something about a "doll".

"I'll be a good doll, and, uh, let you dress me!" The panic was the perfect compliment to the abject shame that emerged as he recognized a pleading, desperate tone in his own voice as he promised to be a good doll". He could feel the rising pressure in his face as his eyes began to well up with tears.

"Good girl, Princess! I knew you could do..." Tiffany's voice trailed off as the first shuddering sob forced its way from Dillon's mouth. "Hey, are you okay?"

Dillon was very much not okay. His sinuses were clogged with wet, heavy phlegm. His eyes refused to stop leaking. His lips contorted as his jaw clenched and released of its own volition. His arms and legs were sore from constant tension. His stomach felt heavy and cold.

The worst, though, was the intense blur of thoughts and feelings that dashed across his mind all at once. He couldn't hold on to any one of them long enough to fully understand it, but that didn't stop each and every one from leaving an impact on his less conscious self.

Anger, as usual, was the first to rise. Anger at this woman for making him feel so small. Anger at himself for letting her do it.

The anger flowed into guilt. He should be stronger than this. He knew that she wasn't going to actually hurt him. Was he really that afraid of a few spankings?'

That guilt slid down to a deep and abusive shame. What must she think of him now? Who would she tell? Was his mother about to learn what a pantywaist little 'bitch' her son was?

The bottom of the spiral was a cold, dark depression. Everyone was going to find out just how quickly and easily he had been brought so low. He'd never be taken seriously again. This was it. It was over. Who could ever respect a man brought so easily to tears?

"Hey, Dillon, look at me." Tiffany's voice was near yet so distant as. It was calm and slow and soft and sweet, beautiful in its breadth and depth "Can you look at me, Dillon?"

Dillon's eyes slowly came into focus, fluttering lashes flicking away residual droplets. His hands were free, as were his ankles. He was lying on his back. His head was resting on something soft and warm-a pillow, perfumed with a floral scent that he couldn't quite place.

"Hey there, buddy." Above him was the face of his torturer. He knew he should be angry with her, but he just felt so drained. There was nothing left inside. "You had me pretty scared there." Her voice was kind, quavering with a tension all its own. Was she actually worried for him? Was the concern in her words genuine? Her wide, expressive aqua eyes said "yes". The tightness of her lips said the same. The color in her cheeks further confirmed it.

"Sorry," she continued, "I went too far, huh?" A light chuckle pressed its way out of her throat. "Guess that answers that question, huh?" Her own lashes fluttered gently, seeming to push away tears of their own.

"What question?" Dillon was surprised at how level and calm his own voice was. It barely even frayed. At the same time, it made complete sense. Of course his tone would be flat and disaffected. He'd burned out his every emotion.

She coughed out another grim laugh as the first tears began to fall from her face. One landed on Dillon's forehead. It's warmth was comforting in a way he couldn't explain. "I'm still-" a loud snort of phlegm and air interrupted. "I'm still learning how to do, y'know," her hands gestured to everything and nothing all at once, "all this. Miss Ruelle wanted to see how I could handle you on my own." Her eyes closed solemnly, another tear plunged from her cheek to his. "Pretty sure I just fucked that up."

Dillon felt like he was supposed to say something. Or was he supposed to do something? But the ringing of a telephone severed that line of thought before it could find any kind of conclusion.

Tiffany's eyes drifted open as the phone rang again. "And that's her now." she announced mournfully as she leaned over to her right. A light click was all that Dillon heard before Tiffany's face returned, her delicate hand holding an equally delicate phone receiver up to her ear. "Yes, Mistress?" If she was still attempting to keep her voice calm, then she had utterly failed.

"No, Mistress. I think it was just a panic attack." They were talking about him. Dillon attempted to make out what was being said on the other side of the conversation, but all he could hear were tinny little blurbs of sound.

"Yes, Mistress. Of course." There was a tinge of hope in Tiffany's voice. Good news for her. Dillon was sure that it was not nearly as good for him.

"Right away, Mistress. Thank you, and, uh, I'm sorry." There was a final dribble of sound from the earpiece, followed by the barest hint of a *click*. Tiffany's hand, shuddering with nerves, clattered the antiquated receiver back into its cradle.

"What's the verdict?" Dillon felt a little bit of life coming back to his voice. Just enough to remember how to erect a sarcastic facade.

"Well," Tiffany began, then inhaled, releasing the sudden breath with a prolonged exhalation through pursed lips. "Mistress has decided to not punish me too harshly for my mistake. She said that she was impressed with how quickly I determined the problem and moved to correct it, and that I followed protocol to the letter."

"What about me?" Dillon's eyes met hers. They really were quite lovely when they weren't filled with malice.

"Well, that's mostly up to you. Do you want to leave? I won't even make you do the whole song and dance." She rolled her hand in the air as she described the 'safe word' ritual that he had been given as a way out. "Just give me the word right now and I'll make sure you're taken care of tonight and on the first flight back to London in the morning."

"What are my other options?" Dillon, himself, was more than a little surprised with how quickly he sought an alternative to going home.

"Well," Dillon noticed just how much Tiffany relied on that particular verbal tic when she was flustered. It was kind of cute, in a way. "You can choose to work with someone else. Mistress might even take care of you directly, since you're, y'know, her 'best friend's' kid." Her overt emphasis on "best friend" piqued Dillon's curiosity. So there was something more going on there.

"Or, finally," Tiffany's hand came down and began to gently stroke Dillon's hair. "You can stick it out with me. I won't blame you if you don't want to, but I can promise that I will do whatever I can to make sure that this won't happen again. We could set up a 'just between us' sort of safeword. That way, if I am going too far, you can make me back off a bit. That will give you some option between 'Smile and think of England' and 'give up entirely.'"

Her hand felt heavenly as it gently massaged his scalp. The nails on the tips of her fingers tickled his skin as her fingers flowed through his hair. That sensation, alone, was almost enough to convince him to give Tiffany another chance. But he'd already seen how cruel and demanding she could be. Did he really want to deal with that Tiffany again?