Chapter 89: The Itch Beneath the Skin
Sean and Pablo tied Milo to the floor, spread-eagled, as he struggled even more.
Then Sean reached into a silver case on a nearby tray and pulled out a container of fine white powder.
It was a concentrated irritant, designed to cause an intense, uncontrollable itch upon contact with the skin.
Milo struggled hard. "Nero, please! Why are you doing this to me?"
Nero smirked and knelt down. "You have the audacity to ask?" He grabbed Milo’s hair hard, making Milo gasp. "You are mine. Forever! How dare you go to another man and humiliate me? You think I can’t take care of you?"
Milo groaned in pain. "You... never take care of me. You only torture me. Why can’t you let me go? I deserve to live!"
Nero laughed. "Look who’s so ungrateful. You stay here, I take care of everything, I feed you, and you still aren’t satisfied with that? I even give you my attention. Milo, Milo..."
Milo held his breath as Nero’s grip on his hair tightened. "P-please... Please let me go..."
Tears streamed down his face.
Nero gently touched Milo’s cheek, a stark contrast to his grip on his hair. "Ssshh... I’ll let you go once this game is over. But you have to know your place, only I can take care of you. Beg me. Beg to stay with me."
Milo shook his head. "Please, I can’t stay with you. Let me go, please..."
Nero felt the anger return. He smiled wickedly. "Seems you’ve forgotten how to be my cute Milo. Let’s see how long you can endure before you beg me."
Nero signaled Sean to move.
Sean began to dust Milo’s body with a large puff.
The reaction wasn’t immediate. It started as a tiny tingle on Milo’s neck, then spread down his arms and across his chest.
Within seconds, it felt as though thousands of invisible insects were crawling over his skin, biting and stinging. The itch settled into the fresh welts from the cane, turning the pain into a maddening, electric irritation.
Milo’s eyes flew open. He began to writhe, his muscles twitching as his nervous system went into shock. He wanted to reach out and tear at his own skin, but his limbs were tied down.
"How beautiful," Nero said, watching Milo’s face contort. "Your body reacts so clearly to every nerve being scraped. It’s like watching a machine work."
Milo felt the itching intensify. He wanted to scratch so badly. He gasped, his hands clenched tight. "Nerooo, ahhh! It’s itchy!"
Milo struggled and tried to pull his hands free. His body arched as high as it could. "Nerooo! Please. It’s itchy!"
Nero looked amused. Then he looked back at the powder puff in Sean’s hand and then at Milo’s head.
"Pablo, hold his head. He’ll hurt himself," Nero commanded.
Pablo nodded. Soon, Milo’s head was held still by Pablo’s grip on his hair.
"Sean," Nero said, his voice dropping to a low, pleased tone. "Pour it directly into his ears."
Sean hesitated for a split second. But Nero looked serious. Then Sean reached for the puff again. Nero shook his head.
"No. The bottle."
Sean understood. He withdrew a small vial of the pure, uncut irritant from the silver case. He moved behind Milo’s head.
Pablo tightened his grip on Milo’s hair, forcing his head to one side and pulling the earlobe taut. The ear canal was exposed and vulnerable.
Milo saw the vial. He knew what was coming. "No... please," he choked out.
Sean tilted the vial. Milo felt the first few grains hit the extremely sensitive skin inside his ear. The sensation was instant and horrific. It wasn’t just an itch, it was a burning, crawling feeling that seemed to vibrate deep inside his skull.
Milo screamed. It wasn’t the guttural sound of physical pain from earlier. This was a high-pitched, panicked shriek. The itch was inside his head, in a place he could never hope to reach or soothe.
He thrashed his body with all his might, his heels pounding against the floor, but he was utterly helpless. He couldn’t move much.
"More," Nero commanded, leaning in to watch Milo’s pupils dilate. "Make sure it gets deep."
Sean poured more. The white dust settled into the ear canal and coated the outer ear. He then turned Milo’s head and repeated the process on the other side.
Milo’s world became a cacophony of internal stinging. He shook his head frantically, trying to dislodge the powder, but it only served to rub the irritant deeper into the skin.
"Thirty-six," Nero announced, his voice cutting through Milo’s panic.
The cane landed across Milo’s spread fingers. Milo tried to clench his hand into a fist to find some other sensation to focus on, but Pablo’s grip on his hair was too strong.
The photographer moved closer, capturing the red marks on Milo’s knuckles. He was too focused on what was happening there, but his job was to capture the art, as Nero had asked.
"Thirty-seven."
Nero stepped around and aimed for the soft flesh of Milo’s thighs. The skin there was already raw from the previous caning.
The powder had settled into the creases of his joints, and the impact of the cane drove the irritant into his pores. The itch intensified until it felt like fire.
Milo couldn’t focus on anything. His body was itchy and painful. He couldn’t feel the bruises on his wrists and ankles from his thrashing. It was too much to bear.
He couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t even hear his own voice.
"Thirty-eight."
The cane cracked against Milo’s ribs, striking a thick purple ridge from a previous blow. Milo’s body spasmed.
"Thirty-nine."
Nero brought the cane down across Milo’s lower back, striking the base of his spine. The shock of the blow made Milo’s legs kick out. He was screaming and crying, with a mix of tears and snot running down his face and onto the cold stone.
"Forty."
The final strike landed across Milo’s shoulders, a heavy horizontal blow that connected all the vertical welts.
Nero tossed the cane to Sean. He walked around to Milo’s head and crouched down. Milo’s eyes were glassy and unfocused. He was panting, his chest covered in red lines and white powder.
"Now," Nero said softly, his face inches from Milo’s. "You may scratch."
Nero remained crouched. The guards did not move. They could only imagine how helpless Milo felt. They couldn’t imagine being in his position.
Milo whimpered and cried. He was stretched taut, his muscles vibrating from the effort of holding back his screams. The itch in his ears and wounds was maddening, but he was still a prisoner.
"Go on," Nero whispered. "I gave you permission. You can scratch."
Milo let out a guttural, animal-like sob. He understood the joke. He was being allowed to do something that was physically impossible. The need to scratch was so great that it felt like his brain was melting, but he could do nothing.
"Please," Milo choked out. "Please..."
Nero watched him with a detached, clinical gaze. To Nero, Milo’s blotchy skin and swollen lips were a beautiful display of total control.
"Sean," Nero said, standing up and brushing a speck of dust from his trousers. "Release his right arm. Let him try."
Sean released the rope. Milo’s arm lay free on the floor, numb from the lack of circulation. It took a second for the sensation to return, and then Milo’s hand flew to his head.
He scrabbled at his ear, his fingers digging into the outer cartilage. But the itch was deep inside the canal.
He couldn’t reach it. He began scratching at his own skin frantically, his nails drawing blood on his cheek and neck, but the internal burning did not stop.
"Pablo," Nero added. "Let go of his hair."
Milo’s head dropped, his forehead hitting the marble with a dull thud. He continued pawing at his ear with one hand, while his other arm remained tied and his legs stayed spread wide. He looked pathetic, like a broken animal trying to solve a problem it couldn’t understand.
Nero walked over to a bar cart in the corner. He poured himself another glass of scotch. Behind him, the photographer continued to click his camera, taking photos of Milo’s bloody fingers and desperate, twisting movements.
"Useless, isn’t it?" Nero asked, his back turned to the scene. "You can’t fix this. You can’t escape it."
He turned around, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. He watched Milo writhe on the floor. "That’s the point, Milo. There is no escape from what I want."
Milo’s fingers were bloody now. He had torn his own skin in a desperate attempt to stop the itching, but the powder was still there, deep and unreachable. He didn’t even notice the new pain. The itch was everything.
Nero took a long sip of his drink. "Sean, hold his hand."
Sean grabbed Milo’s wrist, pinning it back to the floor. Milo let out a scream of pure frustration, trying to pull away, trying to get back to his ear.
"Look at me," Nero commanded.
Milo forced his eyes up. His pupils were dilated, his hazel irises almost gone. He looked at Nero through a thick veil of tears.
"Good boy," Nero murmured. He took another sip of his scotch. "Now you’re finally learning what it means to be truly helpless."
Milo lay there, his body pinned and his nerves on fire. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t scratch, and he couldn’t escape the man who watched him with such cold, focused pleasure. The only thing he could do was endure.
Then the door opened. A guard rushed in. His face was pale. "Boss!"
Nero turned around, annoyed, and looked at the new guard. But before the guard could say anything else, a loud gunshot echoed through the room.
Nero’s eyes widened. The guard’s body was riddled with three bullets, causing him to fall to the floor in a pool of blood.
Nero stood up quickly. Sean and Pablo went on high alert.
Alben smirked as he came closer. "Hey, sweetie. It’s so hard to find you."
Then he shouted loudly, "SAL! I found him!"
