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| THE LIGHT ENTHRALLED BY THE DARKNESS | | | | | | | | |
| The Master and The Boy - The Green Hell | | | | Disclaimler: This series contain mostly smut (only two first parts are a little more delicate), a lot of kink, bdsm, fetishes, dirty talk, and dom x sub relationship between a teacher and his student, so if you don't like things like that, don't read.
We wrote it in our native language and then translated it into English ourselves, so if there are any language issues, we want to apologize for them in advance.
Ariel & Gobuss
1. The Green Hell
Green eyes... those damned green eyes were looking at him again. Oh, it would be such a pleasure for him to pluck them out so that the boy could no longer look at him like that and so that he wouldn't feel so... agitated.
Those green eyes... resembled hell. Filled with emerald flames, reflecting off the bottom of the green glass bottle he had smashed on the floor yesterday. He remembered staring at the shards of glass and the flames dancing within them, and wondered if the boy lay at his feet now, as broken and shattered as the glass was... would his cracked eyes burn the same way? Would the tongues of fire reflecting in them be as jagged and restless? Would they gnaw at his insides with the same relentless ferocity? Would they pierce him with the same force as the sharp fragments that lodged in his hand when he'd reached out for the green pieces, wanting to crush them, and he'd clenched his fingers on the glass, feeling it pierce his skin, dripping down it with a thick syrup of sweet pain?
Merlin, if only he could wrap his hands around that thin neck, squeezing it tighter and tighter and staring at that green hell as it bubbles and sizzles, trying to draw in the life-giving oxygen, but he will tighten his fingers even more until the damned greenness finally fades away. Then he would finally get his life back. His freedom. And never again will those damned eyes look at him with that disgusting contempt, that suffocating, seething hatred as he sits in the corner of the school kitchen, scrubbing burnt pots that he has to scrub as punishment for what an insolent, arrogant boy he is, what a self-righteous, infantile--
Enough. No term is derogatory enough. None of them can even half describe what this brat is to him. A pathetic 'younker' who can do nothing except create commotion around himself. He can't even do such a simple task as scrubbing a pot. He squeezes it between her skinny knees, as if it would help keep it from sliding. It's no use though. The man watches his irritation with amusement when the boy once again has to spread his legs to push the pot even deeper between his knees and place it more comfortably between them. He would love to grab him by his thick black hair, push his head into that pot and make him lick it all off. Oh, how well he could imagine the boy's resistance, his thin hands gripping the edges of the pot as the boy struggled to free himself, his slim body stiffening, all his muscles tensing like a pitifully weak and helpless animal ready to flee, his legs start kicking... but he will be pushing his head further and further, harder and harder, until the boy licks everything, until the last drop...
Damn, it got unbearably hot...
The man loosens a few buttons on his shirt and leans back in his chair.
The boy wipes the sweat from his forehead and catches his gaze.
There's that hit again. Like the strike of a whip that cuts through a man's body, filling it with lava.
He should definitely submit an application to the principal to reinstate the punishment of flogging at school. For some people, nothing else can work. And he would make sure to be the first to try this punishment on this little brat. Personally.
He could imagine it so perfectly. Green eyes and hell breaking loose in them when he ordered him: "Take off your jacket and your shirt."
Lips pursing defiantly so that the man couldn't see how much they were trembling. But he would have seen it anyway.
And with even greater satisfaction he would put the nastiest smile on his face and say: "Have you lost your hearing? Or should I help you?"
He would watch with fascination as the boy shook his head, then slowly took off his school jacket and unbuttoned his shirt with trembling fingers, revealing his tanned, smooth skin.
He is young. The man knew it, but only now would it be so obvious. A thin hairless chest, smooth arms with slightly defined muscles. Cracking green mirrors, cut by gaps filled with embarrassment and shame.
But he wouldn't pay attention to it. He would only reach out and take the cool leather whip from the wall, watching as these mirrors became even larger, even wider, as fear, doubt, and a wild desire to escape seeped from the cracks.
"Turn around," he would say haughtily, sliding a long leather thong between his spidery fingers and watching the boy's eyes follow the movement of his hand and his tongue involuntarily moisturize his dry lips. "What are you waiting for?!" he would raise his voice, but only a little, just to see his bare shoulders flinch and another crack cut through the green glass.
Pursing his lips tightly to keep them from shaking at all costs, the boy would slowly turn around and place his hands on the stone wall in front of him, exposing his bare, tanned back directly to the ruthless mercy of his Master.
Oh yes, he will be ruthless. Ruthless and unyielding. He'll give him hell. The same hell he must live in himself. Day by day. Every time he looks into those green, devilish mirrors, seeing his reflection in them, distorted by hatred, disgust and aversion.
With wild pleasure, he would raise the whip to his mouth, moisturizing it with his tongue to inflict even more pain, and slowly, unhurriedly, absorbing every moment with his senses, he would raise it up and in one lightning-fast movement... flogged him.
The scream of pain that would come from the boy's mouth would tear the air as suddenly and sharply as a leather thong would tear apart his smooth skin. And he would watch with fascination as the boy's skin opened under the impact of the blows, and the bloody streaks blooming on it would fuel the fire burning inside him. Harder and harder, with each lashing the hot hell inside him would feed on his screams and sobs, pushing this arrogant child deeper and deeper into the same hell he has to be, every time, every damn time, when he look at him...
And when he finally finished, that would be the best moment... The boy would turn to him and look at him with those shattered panes of glass, filled with sharp, cutting shards of pain and a seething and sizzling hatred that would hit him like a sandstorm causing not even a single expression on his face. Despite the earth-shattering explosion deep within him. Despite the hell raging inside him.
Oh, it would be such a delight to do all this... Such a delight to show him his place. Writhing at his feet and licking them like green tongues of fire licking his loins. How much he would love to push him into that hell and watch him struggle and try to break free... until he burned to the ashes inside it.
And then he would create him again from these ashes.
Only for himself.
Only for his Master.
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