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The Les Mis Anon Kink Meme, Round 8
and I am winterborn
10littlebullets wrote in makinghugospin
Since LJ seems to have finally capitulated to the Russian government and is now subject to Russian anti-obscenity laws, I'm not going to take a chance on sudden deletions. The Les Mis kinkmeme now lives at https://lesmiskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/. (Round 8 here.) Everything has been backed up there. The LJ kinkmeme will stay up, but is now closed to new comments.

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Re: I'm so sorry.

(Anonymous)
The next object out of the bag was his discipline. He had knotted each of the cords himself, and in times of trouble ran his fingers over the knots like the beads of a rosary, thinking or speaking the virtues he had sworn to uphold. Now, with each knot he touched and he thought of his sins. He thought of his doubt against Monsieur Madeline, his obsession, and his desire to turn an upstanding citizen in without any sort of questioning. The man was strong, but how many strong men must makeup the population of France?
Javert slipped off the cot, kneeling on the rough wooden floor, scooting forward so he was well out of the way of the furniture. He was thirty four this year.
Thirty four was a good number.
Holding the cattail whip in both hands, Javert slowly brought it to his right, stilling once he had reached as far back as he could. In an explosion of motion, he brought the whip around to the other side, the cords curling around his upper arm and slapping at his back with all the speed their length allowed.
“One.” Javert smiled.
By four, he was gritting his teeth, but still smiling.
By nine, his erection was straining against its vicious restraint.
By twelve the smile was forgotten and his back was completely red.
At sixteen, he broke the skin, but he did not notice, because the drops of blood mingled with the sweat that had already beaded up on his skin despite the cold air.
By twenty-four he was barely able to speak real words, because opening is mouth led only to sobs escaping. He whispered twenty-five and twenty-six, switching sides so his back would be equally bruised.
The tension in his arms by thirty was causing his whole body to tremble violent. But he could not stop. He would have bruises on his arms from the knots hitting them again and again, as intended.
At thirty-four he could not drop the discipline in relief, because his hands had frozen into claws around the handle. He tried to unclench his fingers, but couldn’t, so he focused on breathing in through his nose, swallowing the snot mixed with tears that had to be cleared out to make room for stale air.
Instead of dropping the whip, Javert dropped his head to the floor in a kind of prayer. His mind was clear of all the unwanted images of his sins, floating free at last.
His tears on the floors were tiny confessions. Tomorrow, his conscious would be clear, and he could continue his pursuit of justice.
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

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