[ Truyện Tiếng Anh] Mercy

Mercy
Mercy Page 10



He looked up, and my heart leaped. My heart leaped. So trite, but that’s actually what it did.

My breath caught and I had to choke a little to get it going again. He looked stunning dressed in casual clothes, jeans and a sweater. I’d only ever seen him in business suits and tuxedos, powerful clothes of status and formality. But in jeans and a sweater, you could see he was a man, just a beautiful man, potent and attractive. He looked up at me, and in that second the worry left his face, replaced with something else, something priceless—a broad smile of palpable relief.

He wanted me. He wanted me. It was written clearly all over his face. I walked the rest of the way to the table, propelled by sheer gladness, and I returned his smile with an uncontrolled smile of my own. He stood up to pull my chair out when I was close enough. So formal and old fashioned. I turned to mush. He sat back down and just gazed at me. I waited for him to say something but he just stared.

“Is this for me?” I asked, gesturing to the cup in front of me.

“It’s what you ordered last week. You can get something else if you like.”

“No, it’s perfect. Thanks.” He’d remembered what I ordered and ordered it again for me.

Sigh. I picked it up, warming my hands with it, and my face, which was still cold from outside.

“You should wear a coat,” he chided. “That little sweater wouldn’t keep Satan warm.” I laughed, just breathing in the coffee and letting it warm me, the coffee he’d gotten for me.

“So you came.”

I nodded.

“When did you decide to come?”

I thought of my recent impulse to flee.

“About a minute ago.”

He smiled, and his eyes moved over me slowly. “Are you scared?”

“Yes.”

He fidgeted and rubbed his cheek.

“Drink your coffee,” he said.

I added some sugar to it and stirred. He watched, taking a deep drink of his own.

“I went to the show tonight.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I often do.”

“To see me?”

“Yes. To look at you.” The way he said it made me wet. He watched me. He wants me, that man right there. Oh my God. He smiled, perhaps sensing my anxiety. “Tonight, Lucy, we’ll mostly talk. Nothing too wild.”

I nodded, thankful to hear it.

“Answer me out loud,” he said. “I prefer it.”

“Yes, Matthew,” I amended, blushing.

“You have a lot to learn but I think you’re a pretty smart girl.”

“I hope I’m good enough for you.”

He took a deep breath, a very loud one. From the look on his face I half expected him to stand up and walk out. But instead he reached across the table. “Give me your hand.” I did, and he took it, and we could both feel it shaking in his grip.

“Don’t be afraid.” He spoke so quietly it was hard to hear above the hum around us. He turned my hand over in his palm, studying it like there were secrets there. “Just always tell me the truth. Okay? Always.”

“I will.”

“Are you finished?” he asked, letting go of me. “I’d like to go somewhere more private before we really talk.”

* * *

We went out to his car, and again his driver was missing in action. The first thing he did was roll down the windows.

“Lucy Merritt, if you ever show up to see me again smelling like a French whorehouse, you’ll be sorry you did.”

How embarrassing. I was already a up. He kept the windows down the whole way to his house. When we arrived he pulled me to the sink in his kitchen. “Wash it off. I want to smell you, not some perfumed-up whore.”

I tried to wash all of it off, which wasn’t easy, partly because I was so distracted by his spectacular house. It was difficult too because it was mostly on my clothes, but I did my best. I guess it was all right, because when I came out, he sniffed me and muttered, “Good enough.” Then he took my arm and led me to a door in the hallway. “We’ll always play in the basement,” he explained. We made our way down the carpeted stairwell, and I guess I expected him to take me to a dungeon of sorts. Black and forbidding, tricked out with crosses and beams and chains hanging from hooks in the ceiling. But the room he took me to wasn’t a dungeon at all. It actually looked more like an art salon. Or a really cool and modern funeral home, done in crisp and textured neutrals.

He told me to look around, to look at everything. I walked around but I didn’t dare touch.

The walls were upholstered with fabric, velvety drapes in taupe. There were huge, comfortable sofas that I tried out, sitting down on them, and as it turned out, that was the only chance I’d get.

I didn’t know it yet, but only Matthew ever sat on them, while I knelt or lay supine at his feet, or bent over an ottoman with my in the air. But they were very nice and comfy, the matching ottomans scattered around the room in several heights and sizes. He pointed out the eyebolts near the bottom of each one. “I’ll strap you to these when I beat you or you, sometimes.” I just nodded when he said it, like that was perfectly great. Oh, wow, Matthew, bolting me to an ottoman. That’s a spectacular idea.

When I was done drooling over the cushiony sofas and ottomans, he took me over to a large armoire in the corner. It had drawers full of leather restraints, straps and cuffs, *******s and paraphernalia that made my eyes go wide. The many things he showed me in that armoire both shocked and titillated me. I was so hot by that time, I wanted him to take me then and there. I was really close to begging for it but I managed to keep quiet, the obedient little slave. He showed me paddles and crops and canes, and tooled leather straps just as thick as the paddles. He showed me delicate but painful looking clips and clamps. He put one on my finger to give me an idea how it would feel. It pinched a little, but nothing I couldn’t bear. “It will feel different on your s and your ,” he cautioned me. I swallowed hard. Of course it would.

Then he showed me dildos and butt plugs and other toys that terrified me. They were far too large to ever fit up inside me. “You’ll like these best of all,” he said with a smile. He showed me a shelf full of lubricants, all different types. Scented, flavored, heavy duty, light duty. He showed me one bottle with a gleam in his eye. “This kind will make you itch, for when you’ve really been bad.”

Yes, my eyes must have been like saucers looking into that armoire. He showed me everything proudly, like the curator of some perverse museum. When I’d had a good look at it all he tilted my face to his. He looked into my eyes and I felt shy and exposed. It was very, very hard not to look away.

“Look at me,” he insisted. When my eyes were fixed on his, he spoke to me in a low voice.

“So what do you think, Lucy Merritt? If you’re going to be my lover, you’ll have to endure all these things.”

And the way he said lover made me absolutely thrill, and then that word endure, it sounded ***y as hell to my ears. I searched for my voice, for what to say. He pressed me some more, his voice goading me.

“Are you sure you don’t just want to run home? Climb back into bed with your worn out copy of The Story of O?”

“No. I want to stay here.”

“Okay then. Let’s stay.”

He led me to the center of the room, then walked away from me, talking over his shoulder.

“Face me. Take off your clothes. Everything. Put them over by the door.” I stood still for just a second, and then I did exactly as he said. I took off my sweater, my jeans, my shirt and socks and shoes, until I wore only my thong and bra, and then I looked up at him, my face flaming red.

“Everything but the panties,” he said from the sofa, where he sat watching every move I made. I removed my bra and placed everything by the door, thankful at least for the small scrap of fabric between my legs. As I walked, I had to make an effort to move my limbs. I had been for Pietro so many times, practically in dance costumes which left nothing to the imagination. But never, never had I truly felt as as I did now, and that was even wearing the panties he’d so graciously let me keep on. His intent gaze was terrifying and yet thrilling. I desperately hoped he liked what he saw.

He stood up and beckoned me back to the center of the room where he met me, looking over me long and critically. I burned and blushed. It was so intimate and embarrassing. My hands came up of their own volition to cover my s.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t ever try to hide your body from me. In this room, when we’re together, it’s mine. Understand?”

I nodded and put my hands down, and felt my s grow hard under his gaze. I didn’t know whether to look at him, or look away, or look at the floor, or what. Then his hand touched my buttock, and I flinched.

“Stand still.”

Again he reached out to touch me, and this time, I was still as a statue for him. He ran his hand slowly all over my bottom, down to the underside of my cheeks and then further down to my upper thigh. Finally, he was putting those beautiful hands on me. He stood close, in my space, and I could smell...

Mercy
Mercy Page 11



His hands moved over me with maddening deliberation. His fingertips traced my shoulders, my belly, the curve of my , while I stood as still as I could manage. He cupped the heft of each of my s, squeezing and caressing them, then closed his fingers on my s until I gasped, pinching them even more brutally before letting them go. My flooded with wetness for the things he was doing to me, and the thoughts he was making me think. He leaned down and breathed right against my neck, his rough cheek pressed to mine.

“Lucy. How do you feel?”

I swallowed. “I don’t know.”

“If you say ‘I don’t know’ to me again I’ll give you twenty with the cane. Think before you speak, and then answer. How do you feel?”

I might have sobbed then, one quick sob. “Exposed.”

“Do you feel like putting your clothes back on?”

I shook my head.

“Answer me, goddamn it.”

“No,” I said quickly.

He walked away from me, went back to the sofa, sat down and looked at me.

“Stand up straight. Unclench your hands. Look at me and listen.” I obeyed, my pulse pounding loud in my ears. I tried to relax, tried not to look scared.

“I want you to feel exposed, so if that’s how you feel, we’re off to a good start. You won’t wear clothes in this room. This is a room where I own you. When we’re in the confines of this room, you belong to me. If that’s not something you can agree with, you’re free to leave at any time. But I have to warn you, and I’m completely serious about this, if you ever leave this room before I’m finished with you, then you and I are done. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“As you see the walls are upholstered, and this is the basement of the house. It’s completely soundproof, so you can be as loud or as quiet as you like. I don’t really care if you scream or grit your teeth in silence. But I don’t use gags.”

I didn’t know what that meant, although he said it like it was important. I just stood silently, taking it all in.

“What you’ll need to remember and think of always, is that in this room, you exist for my use. You won’t have much cause to talk, but if I ask you a question, you’ll answer respectfully, using proper address. Do you know what proper address is?”

“Um...no.”

“Um is not proper address,” he frowned. “Shrugs, grunts, and headshakes are not proper address. Yes, sir or Yes, Matthew will suffice in the vast majority of situations. You will avoid using the word no, of course. You’ll do whatever I ask the moment I ask it of you and you won’t balk. If I don’t tell you what to do, you’ll stand or kneel and wait until I do. Do you understand?”

“Yes...sir.” The word sir felt strange on my lips. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d addressed any man as ‘sir,’ but it felt more appropriate than calling him Matthew at that point.

We were no longer equals, not now. He went on in his cool, authoritative voice.

“If you don’t please me for whatever reason, you’ll be punished and it will hurt very much.

Even if you please me, sometimes you’ll be punished because I’ll enjoy watching you endure it.

But I’ll never injure you and I won’t draw blood. Same thing when I you, the same rules apply. It won’t always feel good, but I won’t injure you and I’ll never draw blood. Do you understand?”

Again, I whispered “Yes, sir.”

“We’ll use a safe word in the beginning, and that word will be ‘mercy.’ ‘Mercy’ makes it end. But I warn you, don’t dare use it unless you’re desperate. If I catch you using it when you don’t really need to, whatever punishment you were getting, I’ll visit it on you ten times worse. I don’t tolerate lying well, as I’ve told you, to include the misuse of safe words. Lying and hiding sends me into a fury. You won’t ever do either. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“After our sessions I’ll expect you to sleep over. If you’re not to sleep over, I’ll have Davis drive you home. When we leave this room, our scenes will be over but your body will still be mine to use. The rules relax, but you’ll remain my submissive, and when I want you to take my , you will. And this will be our agreement, Lucy, until one or the other of us decides to terminate it.”

I took a deep breath. To terminate it. God.

He stood up and crossed to the armoire.

“But punishments will usually only take place down here. I’ve already shown you many of the things I’ll use to discipline you. As I’ve said, I can do whatever I want to you, and I will.

You’re permitted to feel all the pleasure you wish, whenever you wish, but you may only come with my permission. Do you know why?”

He looked at me. I swallowed the um that came to my lips and thought hard. “Because I can only do as I’m told?”

“Yes, that’s part of it. The other part of it is that you belong to me when we play. All of you.

Your body, your feelings. Even your thoughts. Sometimes I’ll ask for your thoughts, Lucy, and you’ll give them to me. I’ll ask for you to do things you don’t want to do and you’ll do them for me. And your pleasure, your ...” He paused for effect. “Mine, not yours. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

I had understood submission on the surface, in the simplest form, but it was becoming clear to me that the submission Matthew expected was a lot more involved than it had been in my erotic dreams.

“The pleasure you feel will come at my hands always. You won’t touch yourself without my permission. Coming without my permission is a serious infraction, a punishable offense. To complicate matters,” he continued with a smile, “if I tell you to come, and you don’t, I’ll punish you for that as well.”

“But—” I clamped my mouth shut.

“Go on. If you have any questions, better to ask them now.”

“What if...what if I just can’t come?” Like most women, it was never a sure thing for me.

“Trust me, if you’re with me— with me, you understand—then you will. If you aren’t with me...if you aren’t giving yourself up to me, that’s your problem, your infraction, not mine.” He looked at me hard. “You see?”

“I think so. Yes, sir.”

As I said this, he lifted some clamps from the armoire.

“Have you worn clamps before, Lucy?”

“Yes, once,” I admitted.

“By yourself, or with a lover?”

“By myself.”

“Did you like how it felt?”

I burned with embarrassment. “Yes. But I didn’t make them very tight,” I added as an afterthought.

That made him laugh. “Adjustable clamps. I don’t use those. Mine hurt. What about toys?

Have you ever worn a plug in your ?”

“Yes, sir.” It was too humiliating.

“By yourself, or with a lover?”

“By myself,” I whispered. “I was curious.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. You’ll wear them all the time here. They’re excellent for keeping subs in the right headspace. Have you ever been spanked?”

“No. Well, just play stuff.”

“A hand?”

“Yes. And a hairbrush one time.”

“Your fiancé? You tried to clue him in, didn’t you?”

“Yes. But it didn’t really take.”

He put down the clamps and picked up one of the canes, a small whippy one, and walked over to me.

“Bend over.”

I hesitated. He looked at me hard. I wanted to obey, but...if I bent over, he would hit me. He would hit me. It would hurt. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to take the pain, and then...

“It’s scary, isn’t it, the first time?”

I nodded, and he nodded too.

“I know. Now, bend over. I don’t like to say things more than once.” I bent forward slightly, and before I even finished, he striped my bottom with the cane, just once. I yelped in pain and reached back to shield myself, frantically rubbing the fiery stripe he’d left. He took my hand hard in his.

“Give me the other one.”

He secured both my wrists in front of me in a firm grip while my mind was still stuck on the throbbing pain of what he’d done.

“You will never put your hands behind you. Never, never, never. You’ll never try to protect yourself. In the beginning, I’ll restrain you for your own safety, until you learn to control yourself on your own. Canes can draw blood pretty quickly on a hand. A paddle can break one.

Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and then I shrieked as he brought the cane down on my again. I tried to pull away from him but found I could go nowhere. He had me held tight. I gasped for breath. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it after all. After all this, I would have to tell him it wouldn’t work, that I couldn’t do what he wanted. But I was doing it, wasn’t I? He’d hit me twice and I’d lived.

Mercy
Mercy Page 12



But how many would I have to take? While I was wondering that, he hit me once more. I yowled and struggled to pull away from him, but again, I was held fast.

“Okay,” he said. “Take some deep breaths. You survived some of the worst pain I’ll visit on you. You did survive, didn’t you?”

He looked at me and I blinked back through tears.

“It hurts, I know. I told you. This isn’t a game. Have you had enough, little girl? Do you want to leave?”

“No, sir,” I whispered. “I don’t.” I wanted him to hold me, I wanted him to soothe me, but no, I didn’t want to leave. He pulled me close and looked down at my , smoothed his rough hand over the aching sting. “You have three beautiful welts now, Lucy. Look.” I did, and the welts looked angry and red. Beautiful? I wasn’t sure about that yet, although I felt a strong, unexpected ache between my thighs. Surely that hadn’t turned me on, had it? I watched with relief as he put away the cane and didn’t pull out any other toys. Instead, he cupped and fondled my s, holding them in his hands while my bottom burned and the throb between my legs ratcheted up. “These are lovely. Real. The perfect size.” He pinched my s again, even harder than before, and I moaned. Then I blushed.

“It’s okay,” he said with a smile. “It’s good that you enjoy it. But you may not come, not unless I say.”

I bit my lip as he continued to toy with my s.

“You like this,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “You have sensitive s.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you ever had a clip on your ? Between your legs?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I bet you’ll like that too. Very much. Spread your legs.” I did, but not enough, because he nudged my feet impatiently.

“Wider.”

He pulled the panties down and off and pushed my feet apart until I was spread wide open, and then he put one hand on the front of my waist to hold me still, and with the other hand, thrust two fingers up inside me. I was mortifyingly wet, but he didn’t say anything about that. Instead, he asked, “how many partners have you had?”

“Four.” And not one of them ever touched me like this.

He sighed, wiggling his fingers around inside me. “I believe you. You’re small. Tight.” He pulled out his now sopping fingers and without any warning at all, thrust one of them deep into my . He slid it right in to the hilt, lubricated as it was with my juices. I held my breath as he pressed it into me, hard. I fidgeted a little as he tried to put in another finger. It wouldn’t go. He didn’t force it, but he did tsk at me.

“Have you ever had anal ***?”

“No, sir.”

“Never? Not once?”

“No.” My voice sounded strained. He didn’t try any more to insert the other finger.

“Well, you will,” he said. “Are you on the pill?”

“No, I can’t take it. It makes my periods go on forever.”

“We don’t want that, do we? Where are you in your cycle?” he asked, pulling his fingers out of me and walking away.

Oh, Jesus Christ. “I had my period last week.”

“Okay. You’ll let me know when you have your period and we’ll do other things. Are you clean? No ***ually transmitted diseases?” While we discussed this, he washed his hands at a sink in the corner. The fully equipped playroom.

“God, I hope not,” I think I said.

“I’ll use a condom every time, although I’m clean. You’ve never had unprotected *** with your partners?”

“No, I never have.”

“Even your fiancé?”

“No. I was saving that for my wedding night.”

For some reason that made him chuckle. I suppose he thought it funny, that I’d almost married some vanilla boy, as he said. I wondered what Joe would think of me now if he could see me. He’d probably think, God, I almost married a freak.

“Well,” he said, “for now, anyway, we’ll use condoms. Maybe, eventually, we’ll get some blood work done. But if you can’t take the pill...” His voice trailed off, and I stood thinking how bizarre it was, to be discussing these things in such a businesslike way with him, and then I stopped thinking altogether, because he was walking towards me, starting to strip. The animal way he moved took on a whole new meaning as he revealed his body to me. Each limb, each muscle seemed perfectly formed and proportional, superbly male. His broad chest tapered to muscular and thighs and his organ seemed to me the most beautiful I’d ever seen. The natural, easy way he walked, even the way his arms swung at his side as he approached resonated in some unconscious part of me.

“Get down on your knees,” he ordered as he came to stand in front of me, fisting his . It was huge and purplish red. “Kneel up straight and keep your eyes on my while I speak to you.”

Not a problem, I thought to myself as I stared. It would be very damn hard to ignore, especially jammed right up by my face as it was.

“Have you sucked a lot of s, Lucy Merritt?”

“Not very many.”

“You’ll suck mine a lot, and you’ll swallow my cum. You’ll suck mine like there’s nothing you enjoy more on earth, and you’ll savor my cum like it’s the nectar of the gods. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Open, and keep your hands in your lap. Open wider,” he said as he guided his to my mouth, so I did, and without preamble, he shoved it in. I choked and gagged from the shock.

“Relax.” His fingers held my head steady. “Get your mouth wet, open your throat for me.” I tried, I desperately tried to fellate him, but I was clumsy and hopelessly inept. Tears came to my eyes from all the gagging, but he didn’t withdraw, he just stroked my hair. “It’s okay, don’t give up. It takes practice. You’ll get plenty of it. Just relax and try your best.” And actually, it did get a little easier. My mouth filled with saliva, which helped him slide more easily in and out. My throat became used to the steady thrusts, or perhaps numb to them, and I only gagged from his thrusting every few times. He drove me on, firm and encouraging.

“It’s okay, you’ll get better. Pay attention. Try.”

He sighed then, and I felt a bolt of pleasure, that I was somehow moving him with my clumsy attempts. “Be open,” he breathed. “Accept me. You have to learn to be open to me.” He picked up the pace, ing my mouth, holding my head in his hands. By now, tears of strain were streaming down my face.

“Now,” he said, “lick my balls. Put your hands on my thighs, put your face right up in there.” I tried my best to do what he asked. I lapped at his balls carefully, lost in new sensations, velvet skin and rough hair tickling my nose. The masculine scent of him permeated my senses, made me feel wild and wanton. “Harder,” he coached, “broad strokes with your tongue. Oh Jesus,” he said, his fingers twining in my hair. “Yes, just like that.” Soon afterward, he thrust back into my mouth and came in the back of my throat with a growl. Just as he’d told me to, I swallowed every drop of his cum as if it was the most delicious nectar on earth.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered when he finally pulled away from me, whether in frustration or appreciation, I had no idea. He yanked me to my feet and looked down at my wide eyes, my damp cheeks.

“Are you turned on?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said breathlessly, and I was.

“Lie down on your back. Part your legs, put your fingers on your .” I did, and he knelt down next to me. “Masturbate,” he said. “Don’t be self-conscious. When I tell you, you’re going to come.”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, played with myself nervously.

“Look at me. Open your eyes,” he snapped. “You’re coming for me, not for yourself.” And I remembered then what he’d told me. If I tell you to come and you don’t, I’ll punish you.

I was going to disappoint him already because I couldn’t do it. I knew that I couldn’t.

“Do it. Play with yourself,” he said. “I want to watch. Make yourself come.”

“I don’t know if I can,” I whimpered.

He stood up and crossed to the armoire, which made me panic. He didn’t bring anything too scary though, just some small silver clips. I watched him, going still.

“Don’t stop.” He put his fingers over mine, making them move. Then, while I watched him, he tugged and flicked my s, making them taut and hard as stones. I held my breath as he opened the clips, attaching first one, and then the other to my sensitive peaks. My pelvis came up off the floor and I moaned like a wild thing. I’d never felt anything so erotically painful in my life.

Mercy
Mercy Page 13



He looked at me, bemused, and whispered, “Do you like that?” Then he put his hand over mine, over my , and thrust his fingers in and out of me, and put his lips to mine and whispered to me, “Come.” And with a helpless cry of relief, that’s exactly what I did. I came like crazy, came like I’d never come in my life. I bucked against his fingers, completely gone. My vision blurred, my blood sang in my veins and my whole pelvis seemed to contract and release in excruciating pleasure.

When I came back to earth from the place I’d gone to, I saw him watching me, his lips curved in a satisfied smile. Then slowly, with his free hand, he undid first one clip and then the other, lowering his mouth to each afterward, sucking away the sting. Then, only after that was accomplished, did he withdraw his fingers from inside me, and then held them to my lips and whispered, “Lick, until they’re clean.”

I savored his powerful, thick fingers, marveled at how big they felt in my mouth. I licked my scent, my juices from him with earnest appreciation. I licked eagerly and thoroughly and delicately until he was satisfied, and then I waited to be told what he wanted from me next.

But finally, for the first time all night, he had no words. All the guidelines had been laid down and he’d given me my tests. Now all he did for many long minutes was look down at me, stroking my thigh.

“Little Lucy,” he said finally. “Beautiful girl. What do you think about this? Did you find it too difficult? Too scary?”

“It was difficult and scary,” I answered. “But I liked it very much.”

“So did I,” he said with a frown. And the frown, I wasn’t sure where that came from, but I didn’t care a second later, because he lowered his lips to mine and kissed me long and hard. His fingers, still damp from my lips and tongue, buried themselves in the hair at my nape and pressed into my scalp. I felt his chest against mine, his rock hard stomach against the arm at my side. I hadn’t been sure if he would kiss me, non-girlfriend that I was, but he kissed me as if he treasured and loved me, and for those long moments he kissed me, I let myself pretend he did.

He kissed and nuzzled me for what seemed like ages, and then pressed his cheek against mine.

Rough stubble across my jaw, soft breath against my ear.

“Beautiful, beautiful Lucy,” he murmured, and I thought, here then, here is the joy.

Chapter Five: Hands

Finally he helped me up, and I gathered my clothes near the door. “Don’t bother to put them on,” he said. “You’ll sleep in the nude when you’re here.” He left his own clothes lying on the floor. I followed him up the two flights of stairs to his bedroom, both of us silent. What was there to say? I just stared the entire time at his awe-inspiring and thought that something like that was probably a punishable offense.

He guided me into his bedroom. It contained a huge wrought iron bed and two nightstands and not much else. It was stark white and gunmetal grey, modern and formal and fastidiously clean. The bed was just as massive as I’d imagined it, and I looked at that bed for a long lascivious moment, pictured him ing me on it. Then I turned and I froze stark still.

On his wall were two large canvases. In the first, a girl stood casually, one hip turned out, her eyes downcast. In the second, she looked backwards over her shoulder, her hair falling down her curved back and heart shaped bottom. You could barely see her face, but I didn’t need to.

Because the girl was me.

It frightened me to death. I suppose it was the knowledge of what he’d paid to have them.

The fact that they were in his bedroom where he slept. The fact that he had bought these paintings nearly a year ago. Everything, every word and action between us suddenly took on a twisted, stalkerish slant.

He stood still and let me look, although he seemed less at ease. He stood between me and the door as if he feared I might bolt. He watched my face closely but didn’t say a word in explanation, as much as I suddenly felt I deserved an explanation of some kind.

“So it was you who bought them.”

“Yes, it was me.”

“Did you...did you know they were me? All along?” I asked stupidly. As if this was all some great coincidence.

He tilted his head, a patient smile. “Of course I did. You don’t pay that much for paintings and not get a tip about the model.”

“Pietro told you who I was?” I asked incredulously.

“And where to find you.”

“So you...so you donated to the company...”

“Because of you? I suppose. In a way. Does that bother you?”

“It creeps me out a little bit, yes. He sold these paintings to you months ago. Last year.”

“Yes, I know. I thought about taking them down so you wouldn’t know I had them. But I didn’t. Do you know why?”

My voice trembled. “Because it wouldn’t have been truthful.”

“Yes, Lucy, it wouldn’t have been the truth. The truth is that first I procured the paintings, and then, I decided to procure you. I’m a collector of beautiful things, and I find you so beautiful that I have to have you. I need you to be mine. I thought it might be enough to own paintings of you, but it wasn’t. And so here we are.”

Yes, here we were, indeed. He watched me while I tried to still my beating heart, quiet the adrenaline roaring through my veins. Fight or flight? Why do either? He had already hurt me, and I’d liked it, and I knew he would do it again. So he had Pietro’s paintings...it was actually kind of flattering.

“I’ve never seen them up close. The finished ones.”

“Look all you like,” he said, nodding towards them. “Beautiful art is for looking at.” I sidled closer, looked up at the curves and lines of my body.

“I wish I had a camera,” he said.

I laughed softly. I was standing exactly as I was in the first painting, looking up at myself on canvas as if into a mirror. But then my eyes moved to the second painting, and I thought to myself, I don’t look like that anymore. Because in the painting my was white and unmarked, and now it had three vivid stripes across it that I could feel whenever I moved.

“I’m glad they went to someone who appreciated them. Who wanted them,” I said when I finally looked away.

His eyes flicked from the paintings back to me. “They’re certainly worth what I paid. And I’m grateful for what they resulted in.”

“You mean...me?”

He laughed, but the way he spoke kept me always off kilter. His compliments were delivered in the same cool, impersonal tone as his threats.

“Yes, you, Lucy Merritt with two t’s. I’m grateful you’re finally here with me, and that you’re as submissive in real life as you are in those works.” My eyes flew back to the paintings. Submissive?

“Don’t you see it?” he murmured. “Ah, well. I did. And I was right. Things went well for us the first time. You still feel they went well?”

He wanted truth from me. He was checking one more time. My answer hadn’t changed.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what about you, Lucy?” he asked. “What exactly do you get out of all this?”

“Good ***,” I lied to him, even though he’d cautioned me so many times already to never, ever lie.

His eyes roved over me, silent and appraising, looked at me standing in front of his paintings of me. All his valuable acquisitions in one place.

“You know, they’re beautiful, Lucy, but nowhere near as beautiful as you. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, that you’d be so much more beautiful in real life. The first time I saw you by the stage door, I was too shocked to speak. Do you remember?”

“You demand truth, but you’re feeding me lines.”

“Not lines, believe me. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.” I looked at him then, looked at him watching me, and I remembered how he’d run his fingers over me downstairs when I’d first undressed.

“So that’s what matters most to you? Truth, and owning beautiful things?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

I suddenly had a ghost of a memory, a high school lit class, a Greek picture on the cover of a report. “I think there’s some kind of poem about that. Beauty is truth, truth beauty, and that is all you need to know. Something like that. I studied it once.” I tried to remember the exact words of the poem, remember more about it, but he was staring at me with a look I didn’t understand.

“Keats,” he said after a moment. “Lucy, it’s time for bed.”

* * *

I followed him into his bathroom, which was just as grey and stark as his chamber of a room. The surfaces and fixtures were all spotless, and the towels hung from the towel racks folded perfectly as sculptures. I felt like I was in a museum, and I might have been. He certainly looked like a Greek god of a statue standing there beside me, and I stared at his reflection in the mirror as we brushed our teeth. He went through all the motions of a normal human, tooth brushing, flossing, taking a noisy piss with the door open wide. Then he pulled me into the shower with...

Mercy
Mercy Page 14



When we got out, he handed me a towel and I dried myself, wondering at his sudden change of mood. He had gone from being warm and complimentary to being brusquely and puzzlingly cold. He took my towel away and pulled me into the bedroom, leading me straight to the bed. He had a condom in his hand that I hadn’t even seen him pick up, and he put it on with practiced finesse, using only one hand. With the other, he pushed me onto my stomach and held me there, bent over the bed. He used one of his legs to part my thighs, then placed his at my entrance and forced his way inside. I gasped, shocked, because it hurt, and I thought then that he wasn’t cold, he was angry.

Was it my reaction to the paintings? That I’d accused him of feeding me lines? The poem I’d recited to him? He ed me roughly, pounding me hard. My ached, and I felt strangely detached from what had been for me, previously, a romantic act. Lovemaking. This wasn’t lovemaking, this was ing, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it or not. I’d never been with a man as large as Matthew, and I felt battered rather than sensuous. I lay still and pliant and I didn’t think of coming, not even once. No, the whole time he ed me, I just stared at the paintings, and I thought, those paintings are beautiful, but this, what he’s doing to me, is not.

I heard him grunt, felt the last thrust, felt him hold himself tense against my back. He pulled away as soon as his orgasm was over.

“Up. Into bed,” he ordered, slapping me once on the . I crawled quickly onto the bed and moved to the side where he nudged me. He went to discard the condom and then got in on the other side. He pulled the covers up over us, turned his back to me and turned out the light, settling down with a sigh. The silence was deafening. I would have given anything just to hear him mutter goodnight. So that was the first time we had intercourse together. To say he’d to me would be a laughable deceit. He had used me, exactly as he’d told me he wanted to, and while I knew this was what I’d signed up for, I started to cry.

After a moment, he turned the light back on. “What? What is it?”

“I don’t know,” I sniffled through tears.

“I’m going to hang you from a hook and flay you alive next time you say ‘I don’t know’ to me.”

“I’m confused!”

“Why?”

“I don’t—” I stopped myself just in time.

“You didn’t like what we did tonight?”

“My hurts,” I finally said, and the welts did hurt a little, but that wasn’t really why I cried.

He just watched for a long time in silence, just watched me cry as he had that night in his car, as if I was some kind of museum exhibit. What do we have here? This is fascinating.

Intense.

“Are you really hurt, Lucy? Or are you just ashamed? I thought you said you liked it.”

“I did like it.”

“So you cry then, when you like things?”

“I’ve just never...felt anything like this. I don’t know how to feel about this. And I do feel a little ashamed about it all.”

He was quiet for a long time, and then he sighed again.

“Listen to me, Lucy, I’m not a big fan of shame. I know I’m kinky. I know I’m crass. But I’m not ashamed, and I don’t want you to be.”

He lifted my chin, made me meet his eyes. One broad thumb swept the tears from one cheek and then the other as he spoke.

“So you like to get roughed up, get ed, get ordered around. So what? I like doing those things to you. So you being ashamed around me is both annoying and ridiculous. Just go to sleep, instead of lying there crying like an idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot.” I tried to say it respectfully, but I guess I failed from the look on his face.

“Listen to me,” he said, his fingers digging into my chin. “You’re whatever the I say you are when you’re with me.” He turned away from me again. “You’ll learn,” he muttered, and turned off the light with a snap of his wrist.

* * *

When I woke the next morning, it was because his hand was jammed between my legs. His fingers spread me deftly to find my , and began to trace slow circles there. I was still groggy and achy from the night before. I pressed back against his front, half expecting him to shove me away. He didn’t though. He pulled me closer, molding his body to mine and nibbling on my neck.

“Good morning, Lucy.”

“Good morning.”

“Do you want to ?”

It was a rhetorical question since he was already sheathed and nudging his into my wet slit from behind. He drove in, holding my still, pulling me back against him. The whole time he never stopped the slow circles on my , slow rhythmic circles that made my thighs clench. I leaned my head back and he nuzzled me with his rough morning stubble. The sensation was overwhelming, and I feared he would stop what he was doing before I could come. I put my hand back on his thigh, and the other over his hand on my , but he made a disapproving sound and I took them away. He caught both my hands hard in one of his and held them trapped between my s, and the whole time, the slow circles never stopped. I felt like I was melting right into him, the delicious heat of him. The pleasure he was giving me crowded everything else from my mind.

I moved back against him restlessly, never wanting the sensation to end. I could feel the sparks and tension building inside me. I wanted him to make me come, but knew very well he might choose not to. He kept on driving me, driving me to the very edge of that cliff. Finally I whimpered, a sound of entreaty, begging for release.

“Yes, okay,” he said, driving deeper. “You can come.” The moment he breathed his words in my ear, his fingers found the very part of my center to trigger it, and so, that instant, I did. My walls contracted and I shuddered, pushing back against him, riding out the molten waves of pleasure. He grunted and bucked jerkily through his own orgasm just after mine. Our soft feral noises blended together in the silence of the morning, and his hot, strong hands didn’t let go of either part of me. He still kept my hands captured tightly in his left hand, and his right remained between my legs, possessively stroking my mound.

“Little girl,” he said, “who taught you to come like that?”

“I thought—you said—”

“Yes, I said you could come. And you did. Jesus Christ.”

“I’ve never come like I have...last night...and now...” I stammered, totally at a loss for words. Or more accurately, I was afraid to spill out words I shouldn’t say.

“Well, I like it,” he said. He stretched beside me, warm and masculine. Hard muscles, soft, ticklish chest hair. I lay still in his arms shivering from aftershocks. I looked over at the paintings and unexpected tears came to my eyes. I’d actually had no intention of crying again. I was terribly embarrassed that I was, and steeled myself for another lecture. Where the tears came from now, I had no clue. I thought of all those nights before I’d met Matthew, when the tears wouldn’t come. But I couldn’t talk to him about that, I couldn’t explain that to him no matter how hard I tried.

He turned me back to face him. Again, that look of detached curiosity.

“I’m sorry. For crying again. I…I don’t know why. I can’t help it.”

“You’re allowed to cry. It’s pretty common in relationships like this.” I brushed at the tears. “I guess it’s because I don’t know how to feel.”

“What do you mean, how to feel?”

“I don’t know what I’m allowed to enjoy.”

“You’re allowed to enjoy it all. I told you that yesterday.” I could barely meet his eyes. What I really wanted to ask was, am I allowed to fall for you?

But I didn’t ask that, of course. I tried to turn off those feelings that I suspected were leaking out from my eyes in those undisciplined tears.

“It’s always an adjustment in the beginning,” he said to me. “It will get less confusing. At least I hope so.” He kissed my forehead and, slowly, both of my eyes. “You can leave after breakfast,” he said, and got up and dressed and went downstairs.

* * *

My muscles protested as I climbed down from his Mount Everest of a bed. I took a quick shower, even though I wasn’t sure if it was allowed. I really felt the need to wash myself off. I needed to wash off all the depravity of the night and that morning if I would be expected to face him over breakfast.

I was shocked at how my muscles ached, muscles I didn’t know I had. It had been so long since I’d felt aches like that, being a dancer. I maintained a relatively standard level of fitness.

Matthew had somehow exercised muscles my body didn’t use in dance, or perhaps, exercised them beyond what they were accustomed to.

As quickly as I could, I got ready and went down the stairs to the modern kitchen where Matthew was eating. Not just Matthew, but the driver too, whom he introduced as Davis.

Mercy
Mercy Page 15



Another woman, Mrs. Kemp, bustled around serving everyone. I soon learned that Mrs. Kemp cooked for Matthew and kept his house, while Davis ran his errands and was his “jack of all trades.” I also discovered later that these two people knew everything about his proclivities, but that morning, I only wondered, and felt humiliated as I took a seat at the table. Mrs. Kemp brought me piles of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. Matthew looked at my plate over his paper and snorted.

“Mrs. Kemp,” he said. “Lucy is a dancer, not a farmhand,” to which she laughed. And yes, I could eat probably a fourth of what was on the plate, although Davis and Matthew ate twice my serving and more. I guess it took a lot of energy to the way he did. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, so I guess he burned it all.

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 ume 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 **** looks nice. I don’t like hairless. Feel like I’m ing 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 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 ***?

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 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 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 ed me, his hands caressed my 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 .

Mercy
Mercy Page 16



“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 .

“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 . 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 ,” he prompted.

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

“I love your . I can’t wait to it. I’m seriously going to love ing your , 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 hole to take my .”

“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 , but when he lubed it up and began to work it into my , 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 hole 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 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 s. 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 me without a condom, and to mark any part of me but my .

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 ing 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 ing, 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 *******s and dildos, the more invasive and threatening the better. Paddles, whips and crops, canes, he collected those too. He collected ***y 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 *******s 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 . As in, you little , 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.

Mercy
Mercy Page 17



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 ed in the . 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 me there already. He would feign impatience. Go to sleep, Lucy.

But I know he loved how horny he made me feel, loved the fact that I was, surprisingly, quite the anal-craving slut.

It was on one of those torturous nights I lay fidgeting, that he turned me to face him and looked at me hard.

“Lucy, please. Is it that uncomfortable?”

“It’s just...invasive.”

“Yes, it’s meant to be. In the morning, I’m ing your and I don’t want to have to fight my way in.” Then he’d turned his back on me with a great sigh. Tomorrow, tomorrow... tomorrow!

I squeezed my legs together. I was so horny for his and morning was still hours away.

Soon, I heard his breathing get slow and regular, and I shifted ever so slightly and put my hand between my legs.

My was wet and swollen. My fingers caressed it furtively, sliding over the slickness. I barely moved, tensing my body. I only tapped at it lightly, but I knew I would come. I almost did, I was so close, when I heard Matthew shift and felt his big hand close hard over mine.

“So against the rules. Did I tell you to touch yourself?”

“No, sir.” ****.

“Did I say you could come?”

“No, sir,” I almost sobbed, my near orgasm of relief ebbing away. He pulled me close against the front of him and whispered against my ear.

“I put that little toy in your bottom to remind you all night that you belong to me. To remind you that you’re going to take my in your soon—and often, little one. If you have an orgasm, it’s because I gave it to you and I want to enjoy watching it. I’m sorry you’re a little anal-erotic slut, but you’ve been naughty. What happens to naughty girls?”

“Punishment,” I whispered.

“Tomorrow you’ll take twenty before I your . I’m sorry, but that was a very poor choice in judgment.”

“I know, sir. I’m so sorry. I...I was...horny.”

“Yes, clearly. Even so, I’m surprised you’d try it lying right next to me. You know the rules.”

“I thought you were sleeping.” I could be sassy now. I was already getting punished in the morning.

“You just added five,” he snapped. “Now go to sleep, and keep your filthy hands out of your crotch, you horny little slut.”

I almost laughed, but I’d already pushed him pretty far, so I smothered my snort of laughter with a fake burst of coughing.

“You’re really pushing it now,” he said, and pinched my so hard that I started to cough for real.

As promised, the next morning, he shook me abruptly.

“Wake up, Lucy. You have five minutes to meet me downstairs and I wouldn’t be late if I was you.”

I scampered off to pee and brush my teeth. I tried to fluff up my hair but I still looked a mess. I ran down the stairs stark , blushing as always when I ran past Mrs. Kemp. I burst into the basement room to find Matthew waiting, completely nude as well. Each time I was confronted with his strength, his masculine power, it started hot drumbeats in my veins. I stared a moment, transfixed.

“Come on,” he called to me at the door. He already had the leather paddle in his hand. He pointed to one of the sturdier ottomans. “This one.”

I walked over with as much dignity as I could manage. I knelt over the ottoman he indicated like the graceful dancer I was. “Hands.” I offered them obediently and watched him snap the cuffs onto my wrists, already shivering inwardly with lust.

He was in a good mood because he gave me a few warm-ups before he started to land the ones that really hurt. He snapped at me not to tense, but it was hard not to. The pain was so sharp, so stinging, it was hard not to clench and try to evade the blows. Halfway through, he started to lecture me.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You, Matthew. Eleven!” Ouch!

“Who does your belong to?”

Ouch! “Twelve! You, Matthew! Thirteen!”

“And who does your ty belong to?”

“Fourteen! You, Matthew! Fifteen!” I started to cry as he laid them on harder. My toes curled and my legs tensed as my eyes flooded over with tears. The broad, thick leather paddle was one of the worst things he used on me.

“And you’ll find out shortly—”

“Sixteen!”

“—who your hole belongs to.”

I sobbed from seventeen to twenty, choking on the words while I creamed on myself at the same time, thinking of him ing my . Afterward while I composed myself, he stood over me, tapping the paddle against his muscled thigh.

“You are never to touch yourself without me. Even when you go home, you’re still mine.

Here...” He prodded my soaked with the side of the implement. “This is mine and only mine. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, fidgeting at the crass caress of the paddle. I felt so horny and shamed.

“And if you slip up, Lucy, if you wank yourself at home, you’ll tell me as soon as we’re together and you’ll be punished. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if you ever, ever give yourself to another man without my permission, I’ll invite over 50 of my most horny friends to use you like a whore and you in every hole, one after the other. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I know you’re a horny little bitch, but you’ll ing control yourself or you’ll ing know pain. Do you understand me, Lucy?”

“Yes, sir.” The endless mantra. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir to everything you say, forever and ever and ever, Amen.

He went to the armoire to throw down the paddle and sheathe himself. He looked at the various types of lube, noisily trying to decide which one would best help me accommodate his

“****ing massive .” Then he pulled the toy out of my and jammed copious amounts of lube up inside me, slick and hot. I was excited, but absolutely terrified. I moaned and he slapped my sore bottom.

“Control yourself, you horny little tramp.”

I buried my face in the upholstery as he parted my cheeks, then I felt him against me, pressing against me with the thick head of his . Slowly he rocked at my entrance, but he couldn’t get in.

“Open, Lucy!”

I drew a deep breath, clutching at the bottom of the ottoman, my hands still tightly restrained. It hurt like hell, but I wanted it. I desperately wanted him to slide up inside my .

Open, open...

“Open,” he coaxed me. “Open. Open. Open. That’s right.” I could feel myself finally relaxing as he thrust just the head of his inside. He stopped, waiting for me to adjust. It was so tight, the pain so sharp. He was still so much bigger than any toy I’d endured.

“Jesus, Lucy,” he breathed. He pulled out and slathered more lube on his . He squeezed my sore cheeks. “Just settle down and relax. You’ve wanted this for a very long time.” He rubbed my lower back and held my . Again he breathed, “Open...” and again pushed the head in. I tried with every fiber of my being to be open, and with a sigh, he carefully slid deeper into me. Centimeter by centimeter, inch by inch, he slid into me. It felt horrible and yet wonderful at the same time. My entire body tensed and shuddered from the unfamiliar pressure.

“Fuuuuccckkkk...” he groaned. He pulled out a little and then went deeper still.

“Ahhh...good...that’s right, Lucy,” and he drove almost to the hilt. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“It hurts!”

“Tell me if it really hurts,” he said sternly. “If I’m hurting you.” I knew what he meant, because between us, there was hurt, and then there was hurt, and while he gave me hurt with the focus of a zealot, the other kind of hurt was not his thing. He went on ing me slowly, ascertaining that the hurt he was giving me was the okay kind.

“Just relax...” He massaged my , pulling me back onto his . Again and again he withdrew, then drove deep again. Each time, I felt invaded anew. “Feel me you. I know it feels different. Try to get used to how I feel in your .” He ran his hand up my back, twining his fingers in my hair. “Your feels so ing good to me, Lucy. I’ll be ing it all the time.”

Mercy
Mercy Page 18



He rode me slowly and thoroughly up the for what seemed an eternity. I think he truly did it to fixate me to it, to burn the sensation on my brain. Then, with that accomplished, he decided, being my first time ing, that I should definitely come. He instructed me clearly that I would come soon, and he pinched my s, ing me hard. I made a desperate sound, moaning and bucking back against him.

“Yes, you like that. I know.” Then he told me, “Now. Now, Lucy, you little whore. You delicious little slut. Come on, come for me. I want to feel your clamp down on my .” And my milked his exactly like he wanted it to, and I came hard and fast. The orgasm seized my entire body, and I gave myself up to it, all of it, burning and rocking and crying out like a harlot on fire.

* * *

I sort of liked that he forbade me to touch myself without him, because it was hard. It was really hard, because I always wanted to. Since meeting Matthew and being introduced to his particular brand of power exchange, I drifted through life on a high of carnal lust. I danced and I ate and I slept and I thought of him and the nasty things he did to me, the nasty things he made me do. It was really really hard.

Honestly, I didn’t always manage it. The nights I didn’t see him, I thought of him and dreamed, and sometimes it just seemed worth it to jack myself even if it meant some pain later on. Maybe you wonder why I told him at all, since he had no way of knowing if I touched myself or not. But I was a terrible liar, and he asked me every time, and I was terrified of getting caught in a lie. Truth, beauty. Beauty, truth. We had made our pact, after all. Aside from the one big lie we lived, I tried to be as honest as possible with him.

And we lived a gargantuan lie, at least I did, because he didn’t want a girlfriend, and I was utterly, completely in love with him. I would never have said so to him because I think if I had, he would have ended us at once. So I was truthful as I could be with him within that restrictive framework of deceit.

Yes, I adored Matthew completely, and grasped at all the small, caring things he did for me.

I treasured those fleeting moments of affection like jewels, beautiful sparkling jewels among the many harsh rocks he threw at me. Rocks and stones and boulders, I got it all from him. I never knew exactly what I would get each time I showed up. Sometimes he was easy-going, others he was harsh. Sometimes the rules seemed to relax into comfortable play time, and sometimes the rules brought nothing but pain.

One night Matthew picked me up at the stage door instead of Davis. He told me he’d been at the show. “I love to watch you dance,” he’d said with true admiration. The way it made me feel, I thought I would float away. Then he said, “I’m feeling really nasty tonight. I hope you’re ready.”

“Yes, Matthew, I’m ready.” By that point I was ready for anything, and the idea of him feeling nasty...well, what else was new?

As soon as we got to the basement, he started to strip. “Wait and let me undress you,” he said. When he was in all his tall, strong beauty, he crossed to me and undressed me, taking his time.

“You look cute tonight.”

“Thank you, Matthew.”

“Do you know what rimming is?”

“Yes, Matthew.”

“Have you done it before?”

“No, sir.”

While he talked to me, his hands roved over me. He ran his fingers along the marks that still lingered from our last session. He slid his fingers between my legs, gathering the moisture there, then drew them up to finger my hole.

“Did you touch yourself while you were away from me?”

“No, sir.” He looked at me to ascertain that I gave him truth. He nodded, convinced.

“Good girl. Come on then. I’ve been hard for you since you left. And I have been touching myself,” he added with a smirk. “Come here and kneel between my legs. Kneel up straight and listen to me.”

I knelt in front of him and he scooted to the edge of the sofa, his thighs spread wide on either side of me.

“Look at my while I talk to you, Lucy.”

Obediently, I did as he asked, and then he schooled me in the finer arts of fellatio while I explored his and more. I learned the precise and ticklish way he liked me to lick his perineum, and practiced some more at licking and sucking his balls. Then he fed instructions to me as I lapped at his hole, and all the instructions were gratefully appreciated because I would never have figured out how to do it on my own. These were all things that I never would have done, that I never would have even considered or even known about, if I’d been married to Joe.

Or maybe he would have eventually asked for them, but I didn’t think so. For Matthew, they were just more of what he liked.

I was rewarded after his very instructive session by his shoved down my throat, a couple of thrusts, and loads and loads of cum. As usual, I savored it with a moan.

“Thank me,” he gasped when he was able to.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You like to swallow my cum?”

“I love to.”

“You liked to jam your tongue in my ?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Come here. Lay across my lap.”

I did, and at once, he started to spank me. He’d never spanked me like this, not over his knee. His hand hurt like crazy. I was shocked it could hurt so much, just as much as the harder implements. I kicked my legs a little just to work through the unrelenting stinging pain. It was so hard not being restrained. He put up with my fidgeting for a while, but then ordered me to be still. It was too difficult. I flinched and tensed from the fiery slaps to my . He pulled my arm back hard.

“Stop it. Don’t tense, it makes my hand hurt. Let me spank you.” He pulled at my , making me arch to him. “There. Now behave.”

But it was hard to behave, really hard. I still tensed under the blows, and finally, with a frustrated exhalation, he pushed me off him.

“Stand up. Look at me.” I did, apologetic and ashamed. “Go to the armoire and bring me the toy you wore Tuesday night, the cinnamon lube, and the hairbrush.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hurry.”

So I hurried to get them, and returned. He pulled me back over his lap. Again he forced my up so my was thrust out in front of him. He lubed up the toy and tried to shove it in, but I tensed again. I couldn’t help it.

“Open, open up,” he ordered, slapping my .

He thrust some lube inside me and tried again. This time, with steady pressure, the toy entered me. It was one of the bigger ones, though still not as big as him. Right around the time he got it inside me, I realized that the cinnamon lube stung. I started to squirm with rising panic as he whacked away at me with the hair brush.

“Matthew!”

“Hush.” Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

“Matthew, it stings!”

“Yes, it’s meant to. You need to learn not to tense and clench when I spank your .” I moaned plaintively, squirming away from the blows, begging for respite.

“Enough!” he snapped, and paddled me harder, lecturing in a stern voice. “When you clench, it not only hurts my hand, but you bruise more. You’re the one that always complains about the marks with your dancing. You’ll do better if you learn to relax and accept the pain.

That goes for ing too, while we’re on the subject.” I just whimpered, kicking my legs like a naughty little whore. He continued paddling my to molten fire with the hairbrush while my hole stung horribly from the sensation of the lube.

Finally he put the brush down next to him.

“Now you lie still. I have some reading to do.”

I lay there across his lap for fifteen minutes while he read some developer’s report. My was throbbing and so hot with pain it felt like it radiated heat. If I tensed or fidgeted against his thighs, he picked up the brush and cracked me again. I tried to be good, I lay as still as I could, but I ended up getting quite a few swats, each one more excruciating than the last on my tender cheeks.

Finally he pushed me off his lap and had me kneel in front of him, and then he reviewed everything I’d learned earlier by having me rim and lick and suck him all over again. I was still distracted by the sting in my hole, so he pinched my s hard and held them that way to make me concentrate.

“For ’s sake, Lucy. Some enthusiasm. Open your throat. Get your tongue wet for me.

Poke that wet little tongue of yours right into my hole.” The orders came hard and fast, just like him. When I’d swallowed his cum, and he’d finally released my aching s, he looked down at me with an approving smile.

“Good girl. You’re a quick learner. I told you I felt nasty tonight.” I felt nasty too, with the toy in my , stinging and throbbing, making me feel so full. “Stand up,” he said, looking me over. “Don’t move.” He got a scary gleam in his eye. He went to the armoire and returned with a massive dildo. I watched warily. It would never fit.

Mercy
Mercy Page 19



“Come here. Come on.” He put the dildo down, pointing up, on one of the smaller ottomans.

“Sit down on it,” he said. “Straddle the ottoman and work your hot little **** down on this. I know you’ll like having both your holes stuffed. Won’t you, Lucy?”

“Yes, sir,” I said obediently.

He held my hand to help me balance as I did what he asked. “All the way,” he said. I slowly took it in, my legs trembling. I took my time, and he waited patiently, but once it was fully seated, he pushed me down on it even more. He parted my legs wider, pulling my yet again to arch my bottom out. Then he fastened my hands together with cuffs at the small of my back and left me, returning to the sofa to pick up his report. I looked back at him for a moment, my eyes pleading.

“Keep your back straight. Turn around,” he said, not even looking up from the page.

So I sat there while he did his work. My **** burned from the dildo and my burned from the plug. I could feel that I was soaking the ottoman too, absolutely soaking it with the lust between my legs. I was facing away from him so I couldn’t tell if he watched me, but even so, I kept my bottom thrust out the way he liked. I’m sure it was fiery red from the spanking, I could feel it throb, the endlessly erotic sting. I had no idea how long I sat there. It felt like forever as I tried not to come.

“Lucy,” he said finally.

I turned to look back at him. I can’t imagine what my expression was. Desire. Desperation.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes, Matthew.”

“Don’t you dare come.”

“No, sir.”

He got up, the bottle of lube in his hand. He squirted a generous dollop of it onto his fingers.

Then, holding my eyes with a knowing look, he reached down and parted my lips, and deposited that stinging lube right onto my engorged .

“This should make things interesting for you.”

All I could do was look at him and let out a soft sob. He ambled back to the sofa.

“Don’t come, Lucy.”

I clenched my hands into fists, dangerously aroused. My began to move an infinitesimal amount, against my will, just carnal, irresistible drive. I looked back at him, my eyes wide and begging as my caught fire.

“Don’t. Dare. Come. Don’t do it, Lucy. You know it means twenty. I’ll use the crop on you this time.”

I sighed and turned away from him. I would have given anything to touch my burning hot, wet , to rub myself into oblivion. It would have taken me seconds to come. I was almost to the point where I would have taken twenty with the crop just to have that release.

But he wasn’t finished with me yet. No, not Matthew. After five minutes or so of that torture, he crossed to the armoire again. He returned with some tiny silver clips in his hand. I shook my head in denial.

“You are not to come from these clips on your titties. Do you understand?” I gave a quick sob at the same time I whispered, “Yes, sir.” Then I begged. “Please, Matthew—”

“No. Control yourself. I said no.”

He caressed my taut s, then took the first between his fingers and put the clip on. I gasped, short frantic breaths. He caressed the other, then squeezed it and clipped it too. I tried, I really did try, but a moment later, I came. I came like a volcano, utterly out of control, my eyes squeezed shut, my jerking on the ottoman, pure mindless physical reaction. The orgasm went on and on as my walls clenched around the toys inside me, my s aching from the bite of the clips. When I finally came to my senses, I looked up at him, tearful and ashamed.

He looked back at me, shaking his head and tsking. “You naughty, naughty girl.” He took my chin in his hand and squeezed it, his thumb caressing my cheek. “Naughty little slut, always coming without permission.”

I sobbed guiltily because I knew that was what he wanted me to do, just as I knew that he’d actually expected me to come. Wanted me to come, because then he could punish me, exactly the way I liked.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I moaned. He ignored me and went to the armoire for the crop. He held it in front of my face and tapped my cheek lightly with it.

“Twenty. You’ll count.”

Then he started to crop me, hot, merciless slaps of pain, and I counted, helpless, still stuffed in both holes. My hands made fists and I was glad that I was cuffed because it would have been impossible not to shield myself. Halfway through, he grabbed my hands and pulled them up so my back was even more arched, my bottom even more exposed. Each stroke of the crop was a lick of white fire. I counted, half gasps, half shrieks.

After he finished he released my hands and slathered more of that devilish lube on his .

He pulled out the toy in my , and then he straddled the ottoman behind me and shoved his in. I sobbed the whole time he ed me, pressing back against him to take him deeper. He held my hard and controlled every movement I made, reaching around every so often to press on my stinging, aching .

Finally he growled in my ear, “Okay. You have thirty seconds to come before I finish.

Otherwise, you’re out of luck.”

With a grateful sob of relief, I bucked back against him, coming hugely before the words were even out of his mouth. He may have chuckled at my uncontrolled howling and shaking, but I was too far gone to know for sure. After that, he put his arms around me, pulled me close, and shuddered against me as he drove deep with his own release. He lay limp across my back for a long time, licking my shoulder, kissing and nibbling my neck. Finally, he released my hands from the cuffs, rubbed my wrists gently in the places they were red. He pulled out of me, helped me up off the dildo, and turned me around to face him.

I was wobbly and drained. Mindless. He kissed me and hugged me close.

“You are such a lovely girl. You’re such a good girl, Lucy. And I really love it, the way you come.”

I shone from the praise, even though my eyes were tired and ***-glazed.

“Now, kneel down here. Look at this.” He pointed at the surface of the ottoman. “You’ll need to clean this up before we head up to bed.”

I looked up at him from my knees, and he gestured again to the upholstery. “Hurry, girl.” So I crawled closer and lowered my mouth to the slick surface and licked that ottoman clean of all my juices, cinnamon flavored juices, like the good girl I was.

Chapter Seven: Used

That night I dreamed I lost my legs, not in an accident or anything like that...my legs just started to disappear. I watched in disbelief as my ankles, my shins, my knees, my thighs each vanished gradually into thin air. I cried bitterly at the injustice of this. I was a dancer, after all.

Then my vision started to go black around the edges, again, so gradually that the horror of it was prolonged. My crying turned to pleading, and then to screams of panic, because my breath was cut off as if a hand was clamped over my mouth. I screamed, but nothing came out, because I had nothing, no legs, no vision, and no breath to give my horror voice.

Well, in my dream, nothing came out, but there in Matthew’s bed, I must have really screamed because next thing I knew he was shaking me awake with a look of consternation on his face.

“Lucy! What the hell are you yelling about?”

“What? I don’t know!” I gasped, pushing at him. “Stop!” He stopped shaking me, but he didn’t let me go. “Are you okay? What the hell!”

“What happened? I was yelling?”

“Yes, you were. Very loudly. Screaming actually.”

“I’m sorry.” My eyes were already closing again. It was so cozy, being cradled in his arms.

“Lucy!” He shook me again and my eyes opened reluctantly. “What were you dreaming about?”

“Matthew... Nothing. It was nothing.”

“You were screaming, ‘ No, no, stop.’ Were you dreaming about me? About us? What I do to you?”

“No.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“I am telling you the truth. I wasn’t dreaming of you. If I was dreaming of you, I would have screamed, ‘ Don’t stop! Harder! ’” I smiled at him. I thought that was really funny, but he didn’t smile back.

“I was dreaming about dancing,” I said. “I dreamed that my legs disappeared.” He looked down at me with a frown. “Why did you dream that?”

“I don’t know. I really can’t control my dreams.”

“Don’t be a smartass. If you’re having nightmares about me, I want to know.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare about you. Can I sleep now? I’m sleepy.”

“I don’t want you to sleep. I want you to talk to me. Do you like what we do?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What we do. What I do to you. What we do in the basement.”

“Of course I do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”