Carrick did not need the psychic gift of his Fae slave in order to tell how much Samandriel hated humbling himself like this. The vampire could feel hatred emanating from every inch of Samandriel's body.
No matter. They all hated him at first, the beautiful conquered boys of a hundred civilisations. Before long they all wept and begged and writhed beneath him, smooth bodies alight with agony and lust, screaming for mercy and to to be allowed to pleasure him.
The leather of the riding crop stroked a long, slow path over the smooth back over the slim biceps then back down to the firm curve of the boy's rear once more. Carrick raised the whip a fraction and flicked his wrist downwards in a series of light but mildly stinging taps on Samandriel's flank before repeating it on his ass and then his shoulder blades. They were the experimental touches of blade against blade through which a master swordsman feels for his enemy's grip on the blade.
Finally , he brought the riding crop under Samandriel's chin, indicating for the slave to get up onto is knees once more.