Saved by the Devil (boyxboy) ✓

Chapter Thirteen

The first person to come I recognized vaguely from the hall, from earlier when I met the Devils... Well... His workers? Honestly everything was confusing to me, from the decor in this room to what the fuck was really going on in the first place.

The blonde came too fast for me to really have any time to think it over and he spoke far too sharply for me to doze off as he spoke. His voice was a little high pitched and he insisted on using a vocabulary that made him sound incredibly stuck up and know-it-all; I quickly decided I did not want to be around him long.

"Your hair needs cutting." He commented as soon as he entered the room.

I glared at him. "I'm not cutting my damn hair, I want to grow it out."

He raised one thin brow. "We'll see, after all if master decides he dislikes the mess on your head he'll be deciding what you do with it." There was an air of confidence and ego surrounding him I just couldn't stand.

"Right," I said, my glare still firm, "you think that."

He stepped further into the room, his white robes billowing a little as he stepped forwards so fast. Without asking or saying anything at all he sat down on the single sofa just beside me. And returned the glare.

"It will be required of you to learn your place as fast as possible." He said. "Whatever culture you may have originated from makes no excuse for any misbehavior here. Master requires absolute submission, you listen to all he says and follow with all the respect one may offer." He stared at me with unblinking eyes. "Is this understood?"

Was this for real? Or was it just the way he put it, cause right now it was sounding a lot like some kinky BDSM shit. Not that I'd never enjoyed watching it in porn, but the idea of me being a part of that myself was just gross.

I've always been awful with pain, there was never anything pleasurable about it to me, as a kid I'd gotten a couple beating from my parents for doing stupid things like breaking a camera, or a window, or drawing on the walls. And sure they weren't exactly meant to be pleasurable, but even being beat with a sandal, or a brush, or a belt or a ruler, freaked me out so much. I hated pain.

One time I'd gotten mad at my mom for telling me I couldn't go to the birthday party of the richest kid in our class. He'd been boasting about it for ages, telling everyone how he had a pool we could play in and movies we could watch; how there was a slide that went into his pool and deck chairs on the side. I was so happy to be invited.

My mom had arranged a dentists appointment for me however on that very day. I was so upset, after an unsuccessful dinner composed of me crying and pleading for her to just move it to another day, my mom sent me to my room.

So on my way to my room I went into hers and tried desperately to find something to break or ruin that wouldn't be too easily noticeable but would serve well to quell my rage. I opened the draws and went through the boxes, I broke an ugly glitter necklace but I'm not sure that was what got me caught. I found her handbag lying by the side of her bed and found inside it a bag of her makeup and such and scratched out all of the little square powered color things, squashed the lipstick against the bag and opened the nail varnish, not actually spilling any but hoping she might spill it herself without noticing.

About an hour later as I sat in my room with the lamp on playing on my gameboy my mom came into my room, and I can't tell you how scared shitless I was at the look on her face, I knew I was about to beat. She was holding my dad's belt and she made me put my hands on the desk and then she belted them four times, then made me turn them over so she could belt my palms about six times.