Mihail abhorred mistakes. He thought they were typically unnecessary and a waste of time and effort for all involved parties. He could not stand watching others fail in their tasks when he thought them so excruciatingly simple: the majority of errors tended to fall in tasks that were easy enough he could have completed them himself had the presence of staff not inclined him otherwise. Thus, to find that they were incompetent even in those uncomplicated matters was nothing short of frustrating. Luckily, there were always manners of dealing with those few who irritated him, although those punishments were typically rather irreversible.

The new slave was not awful. Mihail had noticed him on the off-chance a few months prior, after a return journey from Nethisa, lingering among the others as though he had been there for years — his name was Paris, although remembering such things felt unnecessary. He had possessed the kind of boyish handsomeness that had intrigued the youngest Thanasi for many years now, and the blonde boy had been sent away with a demand to prepare a bath: an initial test that would determine whether or not he would be relied upon in the future. And, oh, what a wise choice that had been. From those first moments, his dedication had been noticeable, and if there was something that Mihail enjoyed seeing in the staff, it was dedication. After all, someone so desiring of attention was surely less likely to commit an error, no?

Since then, he had begun to be a reliable slave, and an entertaining toy. All demands tossed at him were acted upon immediately, even if not always efficiently, he addressed the Thanasi by any preferred femimine titles, and when he was punished, he only seemed to take pleasure in the pain, which suited Mihail’s proclivities well enough. It was rare for him to have a canvas who was so willing to bleed. Any cruelty he wished to inflict could be tossed onto the boy, no matter how harsh, whether it involved knives or forced exhaustion or any number of other games. It was only a shame that such enjoyment meant those things were far from effective punishment, and neglect appeared infinitely more valuable. A different type of pain and, yet, it caused Mihail an equal amount of satisfaction to watch Paris's suffering at the lack of attention he was offered. It was delightful.

Still, such obsession with obedience did not always result in skill, and there were plenty of moments where the boy had committed foolish mistakes that might otherwise easily have been avoided.

Only a few days ago, Mihail had thought to entrust him with a pedicure. As concerned with the state of his nails as he traditionally was, it had felt a dangerous request, and only one given to the newer slave because it felt like a valuable experiment as to his true level of devotion, and allowing him so close without being able to touch the man as he craved felt amusing. But, of course, it had been far too much pressure (as expected) and he had somehow failed to choose the correct shade of red. Or rather, Mihail had changed his mind halfway through on his preferred crimson, and it was far too late to admit that he was no longer keen, so he had lashed out at Paris as he was wont to do, finding it easier to toss the blame elsewhere.

Almost instinctively, his severe words had been accompanied by a kick to the face — for that, Mihail took no fault either, thinking that it was all on his new toy for failing in the first place — which had tossed the slave back where he kneeled. He would have pulled his foot back to examine the damage caused by the kick on the state of those horridly-tinted nails, but, apparently, the blonde had had different thoughts. Stray droplets of sticky red blood from the other tainted his skin and the dark cushioning of his kline, and, although he was far less bothered by the latter with the knowledge that some other could clean it up eventually (and it was hardly the worst that had ended up on his cushions), the first would have to be corrected.

Plenty of insults left his lips in response to the crime, carefully designed to cause the most damage possible, knowing right where it would be the most painful, and not in the way this boy enjoyed. This was an act calling for genuine suffering. As for the punishment itself, well…

Attention, of course, was what Paris craved, and there was no intention of giving him that. Instead, a guard had been called, and the details of the punishment given in hushed words so that he would be left in the dark until he was thrust into it. Three days of isolation, separated from the goddess he wished to serve. One day for the colour choice, one for the bleeding, and one for making such a dramatic scene when he was dragged away, screaming and sobbing as though he had no care for how irritating Mihail might consider the sound. The isolation would be structured as though he were anybody else tossed carelessly into a dungeon, with only a minimal amount of food and drink offered to him on the second day, and little other amenities, for he did not deserve the consideration.

It was all designed to break him.

Once the punishment had ended, Mihail had chosen to leave it almost until the end of the fourth day to make the boy fear that his suffering would be indefinite despite the alleged restrictions of the imprisonment. He had gone about his day without a care, carefully practising his archery and taking a scented bath in his favoured rose, then taken some time for himself and his more intellectual pursuits before he took to his beloved opium pipe. Only when he was suitably relaxed, playfully distracted with Draco curling around his arms, had he summoned a guard and told them to fetch Paris back from the dungeon.

His attention did not shift when Paris was dragged back into the room with no regard for his well-being, as if any had been given over the past few days. An arm untangled itself from the pretty black viper to leave it resting instead on his chest, extending itself towards the boy with the clear yet unspoken demand that he wanted his slender fingers kissed, still staring apparently thoughtlessly into space as he sucked on his silver pipe.

“Do we have anything to say for ourselves?”

Well, at least Paris was self-aware, if not thoroughly competent. Mihail could fault him for many things, but he had little bad to say about the boy’s self-debasing attitude when it came to pleading for forgiveness. Besides, there was quite a pleasure in listening to another beg for their life — even indirectly — before him, and it only made the corners of his lips curl upwards in mild satisfaction, although he did not shift his gaze back towards the slave, still keeping it firmly elsewhere so that his smile could not be seen, and he remained appearing thoroughly unimpressed.

He pulled his hand back, lightly shaking it off as though he was horrified by the blonde boy’s touch even though he had requested it himself, bringing it back to rest gently on the viper, stroking the back of its head in thought. For a few, long minutes, he said nothing, having not yet decided how exactly he wished to handle the situation, and fully convinced that a little hesitation would only confuse Paris further, increasing his drive to please.

When at last he spoke, his eyes took a moment to shift in the slave’s direction, tongue flicking out to run over his lips. “You have failed in your purpose,” he agreed, heaving out an overly dramatic sigh, “as if you do not care in the slightest for my needs. As if I do not matter, and all that which I desire should go unfulfilled because I am not worth a second of your attention.”

Mihail paused to take another drag from his pipe, turning his head so that the smoke blew out towards Paris rather than his beloved snake, though he suspected the blonde would not care and, instead, would relish the vague semblance of attention it provided. “You hurt me awfully the other day. I only wished to relax a while and yet you forbade me even that simple pleasure because you cannot follow a basic instruction. I imagine you wish for me to suffer.” But words alone were not enough, even regardless of the punishment the younger boy had already received, and the Thanasi did not wish for him to think it was easy to get away with such transgressions and receive no more than the most basic of repercussions.

Slowly, he drew himself up from his half-reclined position, setting his pipe down on a decorative table beside the kline, and crossing the room without paying the slave much attention again. Draco had a pretty enclosure that had been a complicated build and in which he never was anyhow, and here he set the viper down carefully, whispering a gentle apology for the disturbance, almost exaggerating the movements with an aim to frustrate Paris further. He had seen before how much the boy hated his closeness with the reptile, after all, and he loved to exacerbate it.

Once he was done with the long, drawn-out action, not even bothering to have glanced over his shoulder to confirm that the slave was still on the floor as was demanded and expected of him, knowing full well that he would be, Mihail turned back, hands on his hips. “I am certain you will not upset me again, else I can assure you the punishment shall be infinitely worse than what you experienced over these past few days. I might even have to sell you.” He stepped back, pausing directly in front of the boy and reaching out a hand to push his chin upwards, ensuring that Paris was at least facing, if not looking at him. “I am certain you would hate to be sold, hm?”

There was no wait for a response as he jerked his wrist sharply to snap the slave’s head back, then stretching out a foot to push him violently back to the ground in an action reminiscent of his kick three days prior, collapsing back onto the kline as if this movement had taken all spirits out of him, leaning back with eyes half-shut. “Fetch me some wine.” He tilted his head in the direction of a selection of jugs displayed on a side table, unbothered by the awkward juxtaposition of this command amid his rebukes. “And pray that you please me. I have yet to decide what to do with you.”

Through thick eyelashes, Mihail watched as Paris quickly rose from his forced position on the floor and moved to complete his demands, rushing as though he had no purpose in life but to pour the wine as was demanded of him which, in a manner, was the truth. Had he failed, it was likely he would have been thrown back to that dank dungeon for another few days, and there was no telling how he would return from another experience like that: broken certainly seemed a possibility and, however much the Thanasi might have liked to hurt his toys, there was no joy in letting the punishment handle all the fun of the game in his place.

As forgotten as the youngest Thanasi could often be in court or other public gatherings, he had learned that there was a pleasure to be found in hiding in the shadows and watching others as they went about their business, and he thus thought himself to be a reasonable judge of character. There were certain traits that became startlingly evident in others once one knew how to identify them, and that, in turn, often made it easier to estimate how a specified target might react to different situations. Paris was one of those individuals whom he had observed long enough now to understand most of his reactions (although they were so typically based around his adoration for Mihail that it would not have been difficult for an outsider to determine half of them).

Still, he liked to test the boy now and then, and directly after a punishment was the ideal time to put some of his ideas to the test.

His hand stuck out to receive the goblet of wine, barely opening his eyes to look at the slave as he took a long and slow sip from the drink, savouring the taste of the sweet liquid and running his tongue over his lips to accentuate that point. Mihail shifted his gaze back to the blonde once he had taken his fill of the drink, nodding at the floor before him. “Get down.” He waited for the boy to comply, then stretched out his legs to rest them carefully on the other’s back, utterly certain that even this degrading act would be something the slave would regard as a great honour.

It was not until he had made himself comfortable and taken another long sip of his drink that he spoke again. “I have — rather kindly — decided to consider offering you a chance to redeem yourself. I do hope you will not disappoint.” Again, he let out another of those overly dramatic sighs with which Paris was no doubt excessively familiar, as though the mere thought of offering him the opportunity was an intense inconvenience. “Tonight, you will sleep here in case I have need of you and, tomorrow, I shall have you spend the day with me.” That was the exact sort of thing that would likely send Paris over the edge, but Mihail wished to see how long he could manage to hold his position on all-fours even if he was practically quaking with excitement. “You will wake me, you will serve my morning meal, you will attend to my archery practise and my bath and, if you are good, then...mm. If you are especially good, perhaps I will allow you the privilege of a massage. You know, my muscles grow so tense after archery, I do need a little relaxation. But I suppose you would not understand.”

He crossed one ankle over the other then, stretching his arms along the back length of the couch to improve his position. “But as I said, this is only a consideration. I want you to beg for it. If you want any opportunity, beg.”

There it was. The trembling. It was not the first time Mihail had experienced the habit his slave appeared to have of reacting strongly enough to his emotions that they were evident even in his outer movements, and he doubted it would be the last, despite the copious chastisements the boy had received. For whatever reason, despite the multiple demands to the contrary and the several months in Thanasi service by now, Paris had yet to grasp the concept that his mistress preferred silence and unobtrusive behaviour.

“Furniture does not shake,” he corrected firmly, the tone and words reminiscent of the same ones he had originally used when training Paris into the position. If the blonde continued to shake as dramatically as he did now, then the Thanasi could not relax, and then there was no purpose to the practice. It was almost as though Paris didn’t want to be used as such, and that seemed an impossibility. “Stop now or I shall take away everything I offer and force you to serve my next lover while he fucks me senseless.”

Assuming his command would be heeded to the best of Paris’s ability (the threat had been chosen as exactly what he assumed frightened the boy most), he barely paused before returning to the subject of possible opportunities, taking another long and slow sip from his wine.

The shaking might have been annoying, but the begging was exactly as he desired. So desperate and filled with desire that it was almost as pathetic as a plea for mercy in the face of death, and almost as delightful. Almost because Mihail would ordinarily have preferred to look the boy in the face and watch the fear spread across his features first-hand as he made his case. Still, the despair in that voice was enough for him to curl his lips upwards into an amused expression, letting out a low hum as he considered the request. In truth, there had been no intention of withholding the opportunity, if solely because there was more satisfaction in having a reliable servant by one’s side throughout the day than not, but understanding how dearly Paris desired it fuelled him.

He nodded, although it could not be seen, reaching over the side of the kline to set his goblet down a moment and drum his long nails on the armrest, the light tapping as impatient as his attitude. “Very well. I suppose you have done enough to convince me that you are worthy of the chance, but I want no more of this sobbing nor this worthless quivering. If you make a single error tomorrow, then I shall have you locked away as you were these past few days, and there will be no promise of tending to me any longer.” Then, he would have looked Paris in the eye to ensure he understood the severity of the threat but, given the impossibility of such a thing, leaned his head back to stare up at the patterned ceiling instead. “Nonetheless, I suppose I can appreciate that you are aware of your own faults. That should serve you finely in my service.”

Mihail ceased the tap-tap-tap of his nails, staring down at the slave on the floor, deciding what he wished to do with the boy next, though not entirely willing to demand he shift from his current position just yet, comfortable as it was even despite the trembling. “Tonight, you may sleep on the floor here. I have not yet decided if you deserve the carpet.” Likely, he did not, but there was no anticipation in being predictable, and surprises were always worth the response.

There was a brief silence, then he shifted a leg, sharply moving it to hit the blonde in the face once again before tucking them underneath himself. “Thank me for the opportunity, ingrate. You do not deserve all the pleasures I offer you.”

There were not many opportunities for Mihail to feel appreciated. So commonly overshadowed by his sisters, his father or his cousins, not many turned to the youngest of the infamous clan to thank him for his mercy or kindness. Paris was a breath of fresh air in that regard, for he gave the man every chance he did not usually have, and his genuine desire to please was nothing short of delightful. When he desired forgiveness, he begged for it incessantly, and when he wanted a reward, he worked his hardest to gain the privilege, no matter how degrading. He might not have understood every detail of his Mistress’s erratic whims, but he wanted her to love him, and that was what made them an ideal pairing.

“That will do,” Mihail replied after a long moment, having waited only because he enjoyed listening to the other’s cries, relishing the way his words caught in his throat and he stammered through the display of gratitude. The stuttering would almost have been frustrating had it not been reminiscent of his own past, so used to once having stumbled his way through his words that it was not strange to hear the same error in another’s. He lived for those notes of craving that were so difficult to hide, but, most of all, he enjoyed watching the way the other remained loyal despite another kick to the face. Sure, there had been a light whimper, but the boy had caught himself quickly enough, and there was no excessive sobbing, which was what the dark-haired man had always loathed most of all.

He might have said nothing else, abandoning Paris to the horror of being ignored once more, had his gaze not coincidentally drifted downwards and caught the slight hardness that had begun growing underneath the boy’s tunic. In a way, it was expected, for acts of degradation always seemed to have an arousing effect on him, but that did not stop the Thanasi from smirking in amusement. He did so love to watch the boy humiliate himself, and this outward admission of his desire was almost the ideal version of such. Besides, it gave him something else to play with in this meeting of theirs, and finding further ways to break the blonde slave had rather quickly become one of his favoured pastimes.

“Are you excited?” he queried, resting his chin on curled knuckles and staring down at the boy’s obvious erection. “Do my promises arouse you that much? Perhaps I should rescind them. I do not intend to be some target for your nighttime fantasies.” There was something uncomfortable in the thought that Paris might fantasize about the youngest Thanasi if he were given the privilege of sleeping in the same room, although he did not reverse the offer just yet.

Still on all fours, Paris was hardly in the ideal position to provoke, but Mihail uncurled his legs again, reaching one out with pointed toes to slip under his torso and find the bulk of the arousal. It was not difficult, for the cheapness of the tunic did not offer much protection against his probing, and he found it in a second, unable to hold back a low chuckle. “Is that it?” His toe poked at the erection, not bothering to be gentle, still half-laughing at the whole situation.

“You are pathetic.” He leaned across to his goblet of wine, attempting to quell his laughter somewhat as he took a sip, almost spluttering. “Strip. I want to see the extent of your pitifulness.”

It was not the first time another man had dropped his tunic before Mihail. Many men had passed through his chambers before in outfits of all varieties, and plenty of them had dropped their clothes to the floor and shared his bed. It was, additionally, not the first time another man had dropped his tunic before Mihail and not managed to enter his bed. There were plenty who had not lived up to his expectations when they entered the room, and many occasions when he had turned them away on a sudden change of mind. The slave was nowhere near the same calibre as those men (although some of them were questionable decisions made with drink), and yet here he was, allowing his tunic to fall onto the carpet.

The Thanasi observed the boy’s naked form for a while, slowly sipping from his goblet of wine as though it was a matter requiring all of his thought. There was no doubt that Paris was good-looking. He had the strong body that so many of the slaves possessed as a result of the hard work they endured each day, and soft muscles along the lengths of his arms. His curls were angelic and reminiscent of some lost god fallen to earth, and his eyes were Mihail’s favoured shade of green. Had he been another, then it was likely he would have been dragged to bed in a moment, but he was only a slave, and Mihail found that he derived far more joy from ceaselessly humiliating the boy than from the idea of fucking him.

He let his eyes drift down the front of the slave’s torso to rest, at last, on the moment’s matter of interest, his giggles having died down by now so that he could look upon it seriously. In truth, there would ordinarily have been little to chuckle at, for he was not small by any meaning of the word, but there was no fun in kindness or lack of provocation. He lifted slowly from his seat, taking his time to highlight further his taunting intention, and closed the small gap between them.

Now, they were almost face-to-face, separated only by the mild difference in their heights. Mihail moved his dark eyes to meet Paris’s green ones, an eyebrow raised to test for any defiance in the boy’s demeanour. He leaned in further, leaving only a fraction of space between them so his skin almost touched the other’s, breathing in his ear. “If you touch yourself or try to relieve yourself of your desire in any manner — if you do it while thinking of me — then you shall not be mine any longer. Do you understand me?” The dark-haired lord pulled away, pressing a cold finger against the boy’s torso, slowly trailing it down his front and pausing mere inches above his trembling hardness. “I am not a toy designed for your pleasure. Do you know what I am?”

His eyes met Paris’s once more, sardonic smile on his face as his tongue flickered out to run over his lower lips, head almost tilted so that his gaze almost caught him from below. “I am your very reason for living. I am the only thing that keeps you waking up in the morning and lets you fall back to sleep in the night. I am the only person who decides if you have the right to live another day. I am your god, and none control your fate as do I. If I forbid you from touching yourself, then you shall do as I demand. Now, kneel, and show me that you understand.”

“I am your goddess,” Mihail repeated once again in agreement, dropping both hands to his hips as he stared down at the boy, adoring the moment for all the importance it gave him. For all that he punished Paris and teased his adoration, he could not help but admire how reliably he referred to his mistress by the feminine titles that the youngest Thanasi preferred at times. There were very few who did so — in truth, there were very few who were aware that he felt as such, for aside from his style of dress, he was not entirely open about his proclivities — and even the staff who were aware of his choices did not always use them when appropriate, more often than not calling the boy ‘lord’ rather than the softer and desired ‘lady’. Paris, on the other hand, made such a constant and conscious effort to please Mihail that he never failed to use the female when Mihail so preferred it, and it only delighted the Thanasi more each day. Even now that Paris was only repeating the words he had used, it brought him great joy, and he spent a long moment relishing the assurance that he was a goddess before doing anything else.

Dear, if Nethis had walked in at that moment she would surely have had words for her little brother.

In an obvious move to stress the boy further (part of him wished to see if he could trick the boy into relieving his tension despite commands to the otherwise), he reached down a hand to entangle fingers in those blonde curls, partially wanting to feel their bounce though he would rarely have cared to touch Paris likewise. They twisted their way through the tendrils as they might have if he had been caught in the throes of ecstasy with the boy, tugging harshly because he could not resist seeing the flashes of light pain that might cross the other’s features. “I think you will find that I can be a rather kind goddess, if you satisfy me enough. On that note…”

With another teasing glance towards the slave’s exposed member and another amused smirk, he pulled his fingers out and stepped back again. All this chastisement was truly overtaking his day, and Mihail was starting to grow tired. As was blindingly clear to most who knew him, he tended to spend his days doing very little of great consequence, and after the uncharacteristically athletic two to three hours he spent on his archery each morning, he did prefer to spend time with the twin virtues of rest and relaxation. He had already taken a bath that morning, but there was nothing wrong with enjoying a second when he knew he could. Where was the fun in being a member of a noble house if one could not take advantage of their natural-born privilege?

“Prepare me a bath. Something nice with milk and scented, if you can. It does such good things to my complexion, you know, and I do like to stay pretty.” He ran a hand along his cheek, feeling the softness with a light smile, as though making a point to show Paris what he could never have. “And perhaps, if you do it well, you will have yet another chance to redeem your error from the other day. There is no need to dress again.” The slave’s struggle to rush about the house without clothing when he was so close to desire might provide a further idea of amusement, after all. Mihail pressed a finger to his lips in mock thought, then added: “You know, I think that is the closest you might ever get to spending time in bed with me. How funny. Now, hurry, I really do not like to have my time wasted, as you well know.”