Carrick moved around to face the slave once more, the hand without the knife sliding around the pale body to cup and cares the firm, rounded muscles of Samandriel's backside.
The vampire's erection was obvious, the bulge in his trousers pushing out hard against the fabric. He pressed against Samandriel's hip.
"Then I shall have to give you a different hurt to take your mind off it," he suggested.
He stepped away for a moment over to the bench where the various objects of agonising pleasure were laid out and selected two different paddles. One was smooth, lacquered wood with holes drilled into it at regular intervals. The other was a wicked looking device of stiff leather and metal studs; one rounded and some with tiny points. One was designed to raise blisters when used with enough force. The other would draw blood. He returned to Samandriel, the wooden paddle in hand, the leather paddle hanging by a small leather lace from one of the belt loops of his trousers.
"I haven't forgotten all those insults you've levelled at me, slave. 'Silly little warlord' being the most creative, I believe." His grey eyes were steady and direct as he caught Samandriel's chin in strong fingers. "It's long past time you were punished for that."