No matter how he craves it, needs it, there is always a moment when Ryan wants to run. There is some small, vestigial human instinct that tells him to fight or flee, to do anything but let the pain and horror come.

Somewhere between stripping, kneeling, and Miles restraining him beyond all hope of escape, there is a moment of panic at what is about to happen. Miles sees it, every time, and Ryan is sure the demon relishes that moment more than any other.

‘Your hands were shaking this time, Vagabond,’ Miles says silkily, circling Ryan’s helpless body, brushing the sharp end of a bamboo switch teasingly over his skin.

Ryan shudders. He is hanging by his wrists in thick leather cuffs, his toes barely reaching the floor, but the growing strain in his shoulders is nothing compared to the promise of pain from the switch.

‘One of these days, you should try to run. I’d love to show you just how useless it would be. As soon as you step through my door, it’s over,’ Miles reminds him. ‘You’re already dead, Vagabond. It’s entirely up to me to decide when you stop breathing.’

Ryan sucks in a sharp breath, dizzy with lust, and loses it in a cry as Miles brings the switch down savagely across his ass.

The bamboo cuts cruelly, leaving a bloody welt across his skin, and heat roars through Ryan’s core.

Miles lets him pant for a minute, relishing the moans that slip past his lips. They are only just beginning their session, still in the realm of the tame and survivable, but Ryan in pain is a treat to be savoured.

‘I’m thinking of buying us a little place in the country,’ Miles informs him, returning to his maddening circling. Ryan isn’t blindfolded this time, but even so he can’t keep track of Miles, can’t predict his next strike.

‘Somewhere so far from the city that we could play outside and no one would hear your screams,’ Miles says, whispering close to his ear, and Ryan is groaning with want when the cut of the switch on his back turns the sound to a gasp.

‘Nature, red in tooth and claw,’ Miles recites, as the blood rushes in Ryan’s ears. ‘And oh, there are so many ways she could hurt you. If I stake you down tight enough, slit you open nice and wide, the vultures and the crows will pull your guts out before they even realise their carrion isn’t quite dead. The coyotes won’t care if you struggle, Vagabond. They’ll tear chunks from your living flesh and relish the hot blood in their mouths. There’s nothing better than fresh meat, even if it begs for mercy. Especially if it begs for mercy.’

Ryan shudders again, tensing, expecting a blow at that poetic pause, but Miles is too clever for him. The blow doesn’t come, and the tension only ratchets higher.

Ryan has begged before, for more pain, to be touched, for a swift death when the horror is too much, but outside those moments of desperation it grates to remember it. There is shame in begging, even when he has endured more than any man could, even if the shame is tangled with lust. Miles knows exactly how to break him in the sweetest way, and there is more to it than brute violence.

‘I think you like the idea, don’t you?’ Miles purrs. ‘My dungeon is familiar, predictable, but nature is cruel without forethought. You would never know how or when you were about to die.’

Ryan thinks there is very little that is predictable here, in Miles’ personal chamber of anguish, even if the racks of sharp tools and electric wires and unbreakable restraints are all things Ryan has suffered under before. Miles himself cannot be predicted.

‘It may take time to find the right place, but in the meantime, I could bring some new friends here,’ Miles muses, pausing in his circling to rake his nails down Ryan’s chest. They’re sharp, scraping red trails across his muscles, digging into the soft belly that even a life of active crime hasn’t melted away.

Ryan drops his head and pants, skin crawling with tendrils of pain, watching the scratched lines on his chest bloom with pinpricks of blood. Miles stopped above his dick, but god how Ryan wishes he hadn’t. He’s so hard that even the promise of a rough touch seems sweet.

‘Nothing predatory, nothing that would need much care, but oh, the things I could do to you with a few dozen fire ants,’ Miles promises. He leans close and pinches repeatedly at Ryan’s skin, leaving tiny, burning marks all over his up-stretched arms. ‘A hundred crawling, biting, stinging creatures, sinking their poison into your flesh, heedless of your screams. The more you struggle, the more they hurt you.’

Ryan shakes his head, squirming instinctively at the very thought.

Miles chuckles. ‘Oh, but they would only be the beginning, dear Vagabond. You have never known pain until you’ve felt carrion beetles crawling under your skin, burrowing into your muscles. I could sit here for days and watch you die by inches, push my fingers against the crawling lumps under your skin and incite them to tunnel deeper.’

‘Please…’ Ryan gasps, and even he isn’t sure what he’s asking for. Miles has a boundless imagination for torture, and hearing his ideas while bound and helpless to his whims seems almost as bad as actually enduring the agony. Until, of course, the pain truly begins.

‘So impatient today,’ Miles chides, fisting a hand in his hair and pulling his head back. ‘You’re nothing but tension, aren’t you? Too much work, not enough play.’

He presses close, grinding the rough denim of his jeans against Ryan’s cock, making him gasp, and bites savagely at Ryan’s pale throat, worrying at the skin like a dog trying to tear out his jugular. Ryan whines, high and desperate, the only sound he can make with Miles constricting his airway.

Miles’ mouth is bloody when he pulls away, and he sighs, licking his lips with obvious enjoyment.

‘Don’t worry, dear Vagabond, I can give you what you need,’ Miles promises. He steps back, circles behind Ryan, and there’s only a second for Ryan to be grateful that this will be a quick session before the savage strike of the switch cuts open his thigh.

Ryan has spent entire days down here, dying and returning over and over. Miles has nothing but patience when it comes to breaking him. It hardly seems possible to kill someone with nothing but a soft, pathetically vanilla sex-shop flogger, but Miles has done it, slowly stripping Ryan down to bare muscle and fat with thousands of blows, watching him sob and writhe and die from dehydration and exposure. The bamboo switch is merciful in comparison, its sharp edge promising instant, hot pain and swift bleeding.

Ryan probably won’t last more than an hour, but in the moment, screaming as Miles cuts him open over and over, it feels eternal. Ryan comes, at some point in the immeasurable pain, Miles’ hand curled roughly around his dick, coaxing an orgasm from his battered body before the shock and blood loss make it impossible. The rush of endorphins only heightens the agony, every inch of his skin stinging and tingling as blood pours from a hundred bruising welts. Sometimes, Miles likes to leave him hanging for a while, letting the bruises turn purple and black, admiring his own terrible artwork, but there won’t be time today.

‘Please, please, please,’ Ryan sobs, trembling, his head spinning as the blood loss begins to take its toll. His shoulders are on fire, the strength in his legs long since gone, leaving him dangling, and his mind is white with pain.

‘Shh, shh,’ Miles says, caressing his face. The long line of a savage welt disfigures his cheek, and Miles can’t resist digging his nails into it. Ryan only groans, trying weakly to move his head away, but Miles hold him firm.

‘It’s alright, it’s almost over,’ Miles promises, lifting Ryan’s chin to look him in the eye.

Ryan struggles to focus, to see the care and the savage enjoyment in Miles’ eyes, but he’s already slipping. Even if Miles stops now, he’ll die eventually.

‘You’ve been so good for me, screamed so beautifully,’ Miles praises. ‘Let me take care of you.’

He shifts his grip, bringing both hands down to Ryan’s throat, and slowly, lovingly, he begins to squeeze.

Ryan’s breath rasps, catches, then cuts off entirely. His lungs begin to burn, and he thrashes weakly against Miles’ strangling grip, keeping his eyes fixed on Miles, his anchor, as everything else slips away.

‘Let it happen, dear Vagabond,’ Miles purrs, over the roar of blood in his head. ‘Give in, give your life to me. Let me see those beautiful blue eyes go dim.’