Nicodemus in Immortalis Writes a Daily Nicolas Observation on Control

Day 47. Nicolas trembles tonight, as he always does when I approach with the leather in hand. His eyes, those wide, fractured pools of submission, fix on the floor, but I see the pulse in his throat quicken, the subtle arch of his back that betrays his anticipation. Control is not a gift I bestow, Nicolas. It is the chain I forge from your own desires, link by unyielding link.

He kneels precisely as instructed, knees spread to the width I demand, hands clasped behind his back. The room is dim, lit only by the single bulb that casts his shadow long and broken across the stone. I circle him slowly, the leather creaking in my grip, and he does not flinch. Not yet. That is progress. Last week, he broke form at the first whisper of the strap. Tonight, he holds.

“Look at me,” I command, and his head lifts, gaze locking onto mine. There is fear there, yes, but threaded with something darker, a hunger that mirrors my own. Control, for him, is surrender. He believes I take it from him, but I merely draw it forth, expose the raw nerve beneath his pretence of autonomy. His breath hitches as I trail the leather along his spine, pressing just enough to remind him of its weight. “You exist for this,” I murmur, and he nods, a single, desperate jerk of his chin.

The first strike lands across his shoulders, a clean line of red blooming beneath the pale. He gasps, body jerking forward, but he corrects himself, returns to position. Good boy. Pain is the teacher, control the lesson. I watch the welts rise, deliberate patterns I etch with precision, each one a reinforcement of the boundary between us. He whimpers now, soft and broken, but his eyes never leave mine. That is the crux of it: his gaze held captive, his will dismantled stroke by stroke.

By the tenth, sweat slicks his skin, and his muscles quiver under the strain. I pause, lean close, my breath against his ear. “Beg for more.” The words spill from him then, ragged and fervent, a litany of pleas that affirm his place. Control is not mine alone, Nicolas. It is the space between your breaking and my command, the void you fill with obedience.

He collapses when I permit it, spent and marked, curling at my feet. I stroke his hair once, a rare mercy, before leaving him to the silence. Tomorrow, we refine further. Control endures.

Immortalis Book One August 2026