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Exeinil smiles. “Ah, yes, I do see how this thrall is yours. You would even beat it yourself. It’s so erotic when a Master is possessive of his thrall. Don’t you agree, Vanel?”

“It’s a delight,” Vane says tightly.

Perl takes a breath. He turns to face the platform, Perl makes a bold gesture to change the stool into a whipping post. More expansive than is really necessary to create such a piece of magic, but this is about the performance now. If he can distract the court with showmanship he will be able to get away with doing as little to punish Kerik as possible.

The whipping post is almost too elaborate. Perl is still getting used to the strength of the magical power in the air of Vylenor.

It is silver. A vertical bar with a high cross piece that glitters with gemstones, pale blue like Perl’s eyes. Elaborate swirls of filigree cover the vertical pole, catching the ice light. From each of the cross pieces, short glittering chains dangle.

He hears a few gasps. But it is not surprising that the fae court appreciates a beautiful device meant to torment a mortal thrall.

Perl takes Kerik by the arm and drags him roughly from his knees, marching him up onto the platform. He directs him with sharp movements of his hands to stand facing the post, then takes each of Kerik’s arms, lifts it and attaches the cuff on his wrist to one of the dangling chains. When this is done, Kerik is stretched, up, arms chained above his head and pulled wide. He has to raise himself a little on his toes. Kerik’s bare chest spread and vulnerable. Perl swallows. But he knows that it's good that Kerik looks so attractive in this moment. It will add to the thrill of the thing. And that is the point.

To give the fae something so compelling that all they remember of the first test is how beautiful and arousing Kerik looked under Perl’s whip.

With a small, steadying breath, Perl flicks his wrist and pulls a whip from the air. It’s a delicate thing, with a glittering silver handle and a fall of slender tails that shimmer. Again, a little too elaborate. But the parlour is rapt. Watching him.

He walks around Kerik. He feels cold when he sees his face. But he steps forward, holds the whip to Kerik’s mouth and has him kiss it. Kerik lifts his eyes to Perl’s as he makes a soft pout and presses it to the whip’s handle, so close to Perl’s fingers.

Perl’s heart is beating like a war drum.

This close he can murmur to Kerik, unheard. “Are you sure?” he says. With no idea what he could possibly do if Kerik says no — if the reality of being chained like this for punishment and seeing the whip, have made him rethink his demand that Perl should whip him.

But all Kerik says, lips moving subtly and voice soft, is, “Make it look good.”

Sanctioned, Perl walks behind Kerik. He moves fast, gives himself no more time to think. He raises the whip and brings it down on Kerik’s back. Its fronds splay out as it flies and they smack into flesh. Kerik grunts, shifting his weight forward and when Perl draws the whip back, delicate red lines decorate his skin. The fae crowd laughs and cheers. Perl takes a breath and throws the whip again.

He must have hit Kerik a little harder for the second blow, because Kerik is jolted forward, almost losing his balance for a moment as the chains holding his wrists take his weight. Perl’s heart skips. A gasp slips from his lips. But Kerik is steady again in a moment and he looks over his shoulder at Perl and gives him a tiny nod, willing him on.

So, he does not falter, does not pause. He beats Kerik three more times and with the last blow, the whip fronds break his skin; a little red blood flies into the air, which gains even louder cheers.

How much of this is required? Perl has seen savage beatings for minor things given to thralls in Vylenor.

Once, Perl had Seridil beat him with a whip. A whip a lot like this one. Chained to the bed in his chambers. But it had been sweet. The savagery of the pain becoming a strange pleasure. Sharp and real, but mixed with a soft dreamy feeling that he had loved.

He wishes he had done it more often. But he had been so concerned about being found out. And he was right to be. He should not have done it at all. But he had ached for it. As he aches now, wishing he could be the one chained on the platform and Kerik the one wielding the whip, deciding how many strokes he deserved. Kerik controlling him, deciding how much he ought to suffer.

Perl swallows hard and hits Kerik once more. He makes this one the hardest yet, causing Kerik to cry out in pain. And that is six strokes of the whip. Enough to make him bloody. That will have to be enough. Perl drops the whip and it vanishes into the air before it hits the ground.

He walks forward and murmurs, “Thank you,” into Kerik’s neck as he releases the cuffs from the post’s chains with a touch of his fingers. The whipping post fades into the air, becoming a silver mist and then nothing at all.

As soon as he is free, Kerik falls to his knees, as if so exhausted by his punishment he can no longer stand. Perl walks around in front of Kerik and snaps, “Kiss my boots in contrition, thrall.”

Kerik shuffles forward and plants a kiss on the toes of each of Perl’s boots.

Perl looks down at Kerik on his knees. His back is a mess of marks. Angry red and some of them weeping a little blood. He feels slightly sick. He did that. He did it with his own hands. He swallows hard. He would like to touch that damaged flesh. Soothe it. Lick at those trickles of blood with his tongue.

It would likely serve his cause well if he did. If he fell upon Kerik, crazed with lust, everyone in this hall would think him overwhelmed with the thrill of causing pain in his thrall. A true Master.

They would never guess his thoughts are far more forbidden.

He does not touch Kerik. He does not trust himself not to fall to his knees before him and beg for his own taste of the lash.

Instead he murmurs quietly to Kerik, “Are you hurt, badly?”

Kerik looks up at Perl and winks. His mouth moves silently but the words are clear. “Worth it.”

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