Waif and Stray - 8. Self Discipline

The girl gritted her teeth as hard as she could, painfully so, glaring into the corner in self disgust as she sat bare bottomed on a small wooden stool. A folded belt still lay on the bed behind her as her young mind embraced the sting left by its' lashes. She was currently entirely alone in the house, had been for a while; this particular whipping was entirely self inflicted, having been delivered as she lay over the pile of pillows still stacked next to the leather implement. For once, this had nothing to do with any erotic fantasy; she was not going to end up with those pillows between her legs this time. Not only was she going to resist giving in to being the vile, disgusting creature she knew herself to surely be, she certainly deserved nothing in the way of orgasmic release. Folding her knees up, she reached back to grab her ankles, leaning forward to put every ounce of her weight on her sit spots and trying her damnedest to get tears to spring forth, but it was predictably fruitless. Even the most cursory disciplinary attention from another could make her cry, but she'd never managed to get the same from a self-spanking. She'd considered provoking a foster sister, but either of those currently resident would refer her straight to her father or Michael (Jeremy steadfastly refused to punish any of his younger siblings), thinking that being bared in front of a member of the opposite sex would increase the embarrassment factor. It didn't; they had no idea what the thought of punishment at the hands of an older male, no matter how harsh, did to her freakish, nauseatingly depraved and degenerate imagination. Perhaps if she bounced up and down on the hard surface a bit, that would hurt more. She did so, but stopped almost immediately. The sting had indeed increased, to be sure, but in this position her young sex lightly hit the stool, sending little impulses of pleasure up her spine. For perdition's sake! What was WRONG with her!?

Deciding instead that a little mental torture was probably going to be more effective, Chloë returned her hands to the top of her head and ran through the highlights of her many and varied sins. She selected the worst, the billboard attraction, greatest black mark marring her perverted, twisted soul. Finn. Poor bloody Finn. They'd been so, so close before the crash. They'd had their own damned language, birthed long before they'd even learned to speak the common tongue according to her late, wonderful father. And yet, from the moment they'd arrived here she'd tortured him, unleashed every bitter ounce of her anger upon him. Their reactions to the horrific, devastating loss had been polar opposites; she'd found herself in a house of seven, her foster parents run ragged to keep up with their needs. And oh, she had needs. She had demanded to be the very centre of attention; her photo may as well be in the dictionary as the definition of 'brat'. And a brat she still bloody was, without even having the excuse of being spoiled to explain it. Finn though... Finn had just gone so quiet. He'd kept it all inside, never even giving a hint of it twisting him like it had her, still staying the innocent, sweet creature he always had been. She shifted on the stool. The bad bit. Admit the bad bit, even if just to yourself. You wanted to cry and the key is right here. Open that little door and gaze upon just how corrupt you are.

Everyone, all of them, thought he'd gone to Charlotte first, that the ten year old who lost her parents just nine months before they had arrived and had been just as silent about her pain had bonded with the boy, that their shared reaction helped both find a way out of the mental void they'd been lost in. That much was true, she supposed; but he hadn't gone to Charlotte first.

He'd come to her.

He'd come to his beloved twin, who would surely never hurt him, never consider in it her wildest dreams.

He'd come to her and she'd thrown it in his face.

Oh, the things she had said! She had only been six but the memory was so fundamental, so painful, that it was indelibly burned into her consciousness like a white hot brand, a wound she'd surely carry until her dying day. She'd unleashed such bile at her poor twin, such a torrent of abuse and hate that he'd never, ever opened up to her again. She'd taken her every weapon to the bridge between their binary souls, watched it blaze down to ash with glee as she practically danced in the glow. His face, she could still remember his face...

So it seemed that when he had needed to talk, when he had something to share that she may have been able to help with when Char wasn't an option, he hadn't. He couldn't come to his twin sister to tell her he was gay. It should have been the easiest thing in the world, the first person he could trust, his first thought, but she'd betrayed him as utterly as the fallen god had betrayed mankind. He would have thought she'd use it to torture him, just another knife to slowly twist into his back. And the worst of it? He was probably right. Now he was gone, had fled to someone he actually could trust...

Chloë burst into inconsolable tears, stool skittering across the floor as she stood and dived towards the bed to grab the belt.