Mercy

by Annabel Joseph

  Davis and Matthew had some cursory conversations about current events, household issues, errands he would need to run. I just sat and ate, tasting nothing, wondering what the point was in this breakfast table charade. To show off his new lover to his household staff? The dancer he’d acquired, just like the paintings up in his room? He said nothing to me the entire meal, until the end when our plates were cleared away. Then he turned to me in full hearing of Mrs. Kemp and Davis and said, “Lucy, I’d like to set up a schedule for us.”

  “A schedule?” I choked out.

  “Yes, a schedule of times to see you. For you to come over and play in the basement with me.”

  I blushed, but neither Mrs. Kemp nor Davis batted an eyelash.

  “What is your schedule during the week?”

  “I...I have rehearsals from twelve to four, Tuesday through Friday, and then shows from six to ten forty-five or so, and two shows on Saturday.”

  My voice trailed off. He was thinking.

  “So you’re off Sunday and Monday?”

  “Yes, si—Yes, Matthew.” I couldn’t bring myself to call him sir in front of them.

  He thought some more.

  “I’d like to see you two weeknights, and then perhaps a day on the weekend. All day. How about Tuesday and Thursday nights, and then Saturday night and Sunday, until the afternoon?

  Would that schedule suit you? We could try it, and add more time if we need to.” I ground my teeth listening to him schedule me, schedule visitation time with the little dancer he owned.

  “It sounds okay,” I said unenthusiastically. I was so embarrassed that he would discuss all this in front of them. It was as if he did it precisely to humiliate me, in fact I knew he did. It was so draining being with him, an endless rollercoaster of highs and lows. He would kiss me, speak to me affectionately, and I would melt for him, and then he’d devastate me with heartbreaking ease.

  “So you’ll come here then, next Tuesday after your show. Davis will pick you up by the stage door.”

  “Why won’t you?” I asked rather crossly.

  “I may or may not,” he said with a shrug. As in, I may or may not bother to come get you. I care for you so little, I may just send someone else.

  But Jesus, he was just getting started. While Davis and Mrs. Kemp looked on, he continued to talk.

  “You can leave whatever you want here, toiletries, clothes and personal items. I’ll have Mrs.

  Kemp clear out some drawers. And of course I’ll expect you to be impeccably groomed whenever you’re here.”

  “Of course,” I muttered.

  I could feel his displeasure at my tone, just feel it in waves, but I didn’t look up. I was afraid he’d bend me over the table and beat me right there, in front of the strangers who were so obviously meant to witness all this, whatever this sick thing was going on between us.

  He let it go. “I like your manicure,” he said. “It’s perfect as it is. Don’t change it.” I looked at my hands in confusion, at which point he laughed. Even Davis’s poker face betrayed a snicker. “Not that manicure. Your wax job. I assume you wax?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, hating him. “I have to, for work.” What were we going to do next, start discussing my period again?

  “Your cunt looks nice. I don’t like hairless. Feel like I’m fucking a twelve year old girl.

  You’re little enough as it is.”

  I’m not little, I wanted to yell, you’re big! He was the one here with all the power, and I, the hapless one twisting and turning for his amusement.

  Davis drove me home shortly afterward. I sat in the back seat, embarrassed beyond words. I had loved Matthew so much when he kissed me on my eyes, and then one conversation over breakfast had ruined it all. There was no way I was ever going back there. When Davis came to fetch me on Tuesday, he’d be returning to Matthew alone. I pictured that awkward conversation with injured triumph, imagined how embarrassed Matthew would be when Davis told him I wouldn’t come.

  But yeah, that conversation never happened, because next Tuesday night I climbed into that black car, and Matthew greeted me with a broad smile when I arrived at his house.

  “Hello, Lucy,” he said.

  “Hi, Matthew.” I just couldn’t stay away.

  I had wrestled with my conscience all week. I knew this would end badly, in a world of hurt.

  I knew there was only one way for this to play out. But I longed to be near him, for him to put his hands on me. I craved his handling like a drug.

  So on Tuesday, after the show, I had washed and dressed and put on no perfume, and got into that car, just as I’d sworn I would not do. Now I was in his darkened house trailing behind him through the kitchen. He looked back over his shoulder at me. Intent eyes, ice blue and possessive.

  “Are you ready to go downstairs with me?”

  “Yes.” Of course I am.

  * * *

  He took me downstairs and again led me to the center of the room.

  “Take your clothes off.”

  I fumbled with the buttons on my blouse, then jumped when he barked, “Yes, sir!”

  “Yes, sir!” I parroted frantically. Had he asked a question? Was I supposed to respond to everything he said? He stalked back to me and ripped off my shirt. The buttons I hadn’t gotten to yet went skittering across the floor. He unbuttoned my jeans roughly and pulled them off me, berating me the whole time.

  “Yes, sir! You’ll answer me respectfully! It’s not hard! Two words, you little slut!”

  “I’m sorry!” I cried over his tirade.

  “I’m sorry, sir!” He took my face roughly between his hands. “You will never interrupt me again. Never.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m just—I’m trying—”

  “I’m sure you are, but you’ll be punished just the same.” He pulled me over to the nearest ottoman and pushed me down until my knees buckled and I fell over it with a gasp. My mind was racing. What was I doing here? Why was I letting this happen? I looked up at his determined face as he cuffed each wrist and buckled them to the bolts.

  He stood and unbuckled his belt, pulled it from his pants, doubled it over.

  “You’ll get fifteen, five for each offense. You’ll count each one out loud.”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, already tearful.

  “You may cry as you wish, Lucy. And yes, this will hurt.” With no more warning than that, he landed the first blow. And yes, it hurt, it hurt like hell. It hurt so much that all I did was cry, and I forgot to count.

  “One!” he reminded me.

  “One!” I sobbed.

  “You just added five more.”

  He whacked me again, and I managed a “Two!”

  “You know, it really isn’t that difficult, Lucy.”

  “Three!”

  “You just need to pay attention, you little whore.”

  And this little whore counted every blow up to twenty. I didn’t miss one, even when the pain was so great that I screamed.

  When he was finished, he dropped the belt, tore his clothes off and knelt behind me. For a moment, he caressed the welts on my bruised ass while I tried to stop sobbing. I was terrified, and yet burning with need for him at the same time. He thrust his fingers between my legs to find me sopping wet.

  “Lucy,” he breathed, his voice thick with lust. What was happening? Was this sex?

  Punishment? Or something else entirely? He spread my legs with his knees and fumbled with a condom. Again, I had no idea where it had come from. I felt his hard cock at the back of my thighs. I strained back against him. He made a soft sibilant sound and stroked my neck, as if to soothe me, calm me. I was shaking.

  “Breathe,” he said. His fingers threaded up into my hair, then closed and pulled hard as he thrust deep inside.

  He had me so completely under his power at that moment. I was so completely his, lustful and broken and hurting and hot. When he pushed inside me, started to fuck me, it was unbearable. It hurt but I never wanted it to end. My
wrists were still fixed to the ottoman, and my hands clenched and unclenched as he drove into me. While he fucked me, his hands caressed my ass cheeks, making the ache smart and burn hotter. He squeezed them and traced the welts there, and then he thrust one of his fingers into my ass.

  “Oh God!” I cried out at the wicked sensation of it. Mercy. Mercy. Mercy. God, if he didn’t let me come… I bucked and strained under him, desperate for release.

  “No, you may not come. You’re still being punished.”

  I tensed all over. I held my breath. I writhed back against him in entreaty.

  “Do not, Lucy. I’ll tear you up if you do.”

  I cried, tensing every muscle in my body, and by some miracle, I managed not to come.

  But oh, I cried. I sobbed and I shuddered that he wouldn’t let me have my release. He pulled away from me after he finished and went to sit on the couch. I suppose he looked at me, but I was facing away from him, so all he got was an eyeful of my sore, red ass.

  “Do you think you can remember the rules now?”

  “I...I’ll try.“

  “No trying. Yes or no?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll remember the rules.”

  “I’m very proud of you for not coming, for not breaking that rule. I know it wasn’t easy, especially when I played with your ass. You loved that, didn’t you, you little slut?” I whimpered softly.

  “Answer me. Whining is not an answer.”

  “Yes, sir,” I admitted, blushing red.

  “Yes, Matthew, I loved when you played with my ass,” he prompted.

  “Yes, Matthew, I loved when you played with my ass.” Always truth with him. My clit was teeming. I was absolutely aching with unsatisfied lust.

  “I love your ass. I can’t wait to fuck it. I’m seriously going to love fucking your ass, but you’re way too small. I can hardly get one finger in there as it is now. I’m going to have to train your little asshole to take my cock.”

  “Thank you, Matthew,” I said. I don’t know why. It seemed like an appropriate response.

  He laughed in appreciation. “Good answer. Don’t move.” He got up and got a plug from the armoire. Not too big, nowhere near as big as his cock, but when he lubed it up and began to work it into my ass, I moaned, afraid.

  “Open. Open,” he breathed, pushing it in slowly, forward and back. “It’s going in one way or another. This is how we begin. This is how we train your tiny little asshole for bigger and better things.”

  I pressed my face to the ottoman, clenched my helpless fists where they were cuffed near the floor, tried to be open as he said. The encouraging sounds he made barely registered over the moans he wrenched from me, the strange feeling of being pried open there for the first time. I writhed and shivered while he seated it inside me, slowly, inexorably to the hilt. My clit felt huge, distended with excitement and pleasure, oozing with lust. I ground it against the ottoman, feeling every bit the whore he’d accused me of being. Then he leaned forward over me and reached around to pinch my nipples. He pulled and teased until they ached, until my entire body was one huge, shuddering throb of need and tension. Then he pressed against me and whispered,

  “Lucy, come.”

  Thank God. I came like a lost, crazed maniac, struggling under him. He firmly held me down. I was his creature, his whore. I was at his mercy, remade by him into something completely new and shameless. As I lay gasping, turned inside out by his power to transform me, he leaned down and bit me on the neck hard and whispered, “Good girl. You’re such a beautiful good girl.”

  Chapter Six: Good Girl

  Yes, I was his good girl, at least I tried to be. From that first nasty session, it got nastier fast.

  Every time I visited he was more depraved, more inventive, kinkier. And me, I looked forward to our times together with a lust that threatened to overpower my mind. I let him do anything he wanted, anything he could come up with, and that simple, informal arrangement defined our relationship. There were only two things I didn’t allow him: to fuck me without a condom, and to mark any part of me but my ass.

  He couldn’t mark my legs or back because of dancing. “Oh my God,” Grégoire had hissed the first time he’d seen the marks. It was the day after a particularly brutal session. “Oh my fucking God,” was all he could spit out. He didn’t do any lecturing, didn’t even ask for details.

  He’d just said, “I don’t want to know,” and that was probably for the best.

  I had to wear flesh colored dance panties under my tights and leotards, thick enough not to be seen through. But an allover body stocking would have raised some eyebrows, so I begged Matthew the very first week we played not to mark my legs or back. “Of course I won’t, Lucy,” he’d said, “if it will interfere with your work.” So while he owned me, it was a fluid ownership, one where he did not always make all the rules.

  And there were so many rules on his side, rules that changed all the time. New rules that were made, old rules he got tired of and discarded, that I was then punished for continuing to follow. But he followed my two rules without complaint and I was thankful for that, because I didn’t get fired, and I didn’t get pregnant.

  It turned out to be true, what he’d said about not being interested in most aspects of BDSM.

  He didn’t do collars or gags or leashes, or any S/M rituals or verbiage. His only agenda was using my body as he wanted to, as his vessel, his object, his tool. His tool for fucking, inflicting pain, caressing, his tool for holding beauty always within reach of his hands.

  He did eventually develop some very specific demands about my appearance. I had to wear dresses or skirts with stockings, and no panties to get in his way. I was permitted to wear only one shade of expensive lipstick, a shade called Nutmeg. It was darkish purplish red, and I felt like a naughty little slut when I wore it. I felt like a vamp, a harlot, but he liked it because it made my lips stand out against my pale skin. I think he strove always for the china doll look for me. He was a collector, after all.

  But not a doll collector, no, he had no dolls except me. He collected many other things, though, like sex toys and dildos, the more invasive and threatening the better. Paddles, whips and crops, canes, he collected those too. He collected sexy panties and lingerie, which always fit me perfectly. I suspected he had them custom made, the fit was so true. He bought me stockings of all types and colors, plain or back-seamed, and embellished with all manner of things. Bows or rhinestones, fur and lace, soft French stockings that felt like a caress on my leg.

  Of course, whatever he collected for me, it was classy, of the utmost quality and beautiful design. He never put me in degrading or slutty lingerie, and forbid me to wear anything like that even when we were apart. The sex toys he bought for me were top class also. They were never cheap latex or rubber. They were always artisan pieces, sleek metal or glass. One day when he revealed a new and shiny plug to me, I asked jokingly when he’d buy me a solid gold one. Or platinum, I’d snickered, even better. I couldn’t help it, the irony of it made me laugh. He laughed a little too, before he thrust it up inside me and punished me for disrespect.

  But it was patently clear from the beginning that he needed his base and vile desires to be somehow made into something elegant and fine. I thought sometimes of his dirt poor beginnings.

  His deep obsession with elegance and beauty made me think he must have come from a very ugly place indeed.

  I was taught exactly how to address him, and in a way it colored the way I related to him all the time. Always deferentially, always formally, the same quiet way that he spoke to me. It didn’t come naturally. I was not a mannerly person. I hung out all day with a bunch of rude, egotistical dancers. Sometimes I spoke to him in ways he didn’t like and he quickly let me know.

  My inflection, my accent, all of it was criticized and improved. If I spoke in a way that annoyed him, he would slap me sharply or give me a shake and I’d have to speak again, better, more politely, more deferentially, just as he liked. And although we
practiced BDSM together, I was cautioned to never call him master or daddy, nor, for that matter, any vanilla endearments like honey or dear. I was only permitted to call him sir or Matthew. Mr. Norris was strictly off limits.

  He said it made him feel old, although he was only ten or so years older than me.

  As for me, he usually called me Lucy, but he had his own favorite terms for me which he used whenever it pleased him. Slut, whore, and tramp were the favored ones. Dirty little whore, slutty dirty tramp, there were endless permutations. Occasionally he’d call me my favorite pet name, little fuck. As in, you little fuck, that’s not nearly good enough. Kneel up straighter and try it again. Perhaps you don’t see these as endearments, but I did, because when he said these words to me, his voice resonated with lust.

  I became less skittish with each subsequent session, and more open to the pain which I actually came to enjoy. I guess once I realized he wasn’t going to hurt me, really hurt me, it made it easier to bear. With Matthew, the pain was always equally tempered with pleasure, so the two things for me began to seem one and the same, two facets of one thrilling experience, two sides of the same coin.

  For his part, he moved me very carefully along a continuum. As demanding as he was, I could see a painstaking and wonderfully protective method to everything he did. That made me adore him more than anything, the mindful way he trained me to do the things he asked.

  And he asked for things I never would have considered doing before I met him. Usually, I ended up liking them very much. My favorite activity with Matthew, despite my inexperience with it, was getting fucked in the ass. I took to it like a fish takes to water, which was a good thing because he used me there a lot. He trained me to it slowly, teased me for three whole weeks with ever-widening dildos and butt plugs. By the third week, he’d progressed to making me sleep with one all night. I would writhe and fidget beside him, burning with lust, desperate for him to take out the plug and just fuck me there already. He would feign impatience. Go to sleep, Lucy.