Atticus tried not to squirm as Master Ryan let oily fingers glide over his shaft, his hips twitching up only a little, before they moved down to trace the ring of muscle, soon to be breached. It was far from thorough, but Atti didn’t complain, too eager for the act now to care about something so trivial.<br/><br/><em>"What I could or could not do, Louis.. is up to me."</em><br/><br/>Those words made his blood rush. When the oiled hand fisted in his hair and forced his neck to bend just so, Atticus moaned, a desperate demand, the soft wet tongue tracking a stripe up his exposed neck.<br/><br/><em>"Unless you wish to stop me.. I'd advice you to now shut the fuck up.."</em><br/><br/>He caught his breath when Master Ryan cursed again, the sound of it making him throb. He didn’t even have time for a ‘Yes, sir,” when he caught the flash of metal as the Master toyed with his blade. His heart gave a sickly lurch and he felt the leather straps bite his wrists for a half-second before the blade descended, slicing shallowly into his neck. The knife was very sharp, he barely felt it for a heartbeat or so. He was dizzy with terror that his throat had been cut, his body rigid until he felt the blood dribbling around his neck. It didn’t spurt, like Master Bradoon had said a fatal cut would.<br/><br/>The realisation came a moment before Master Ryan set his mouth on the wound. Atticus hissed savagely as the pressure of the suckling made pain bloom bright and vivid. Even through the pain, he relaxed, basking in the hurt. He was not one of the blessed-cured souls who naturally felt pleasure when given pain, but years of conditioning had made him need it just as much as soft caresses. His hips lifted in another blind, urgent thrust, and he moaned for a second time, deep and urging.<br/>