by Hall, Denise
Judgment II:
Mercy
Denise Hall
Judgment II: Mercy
Denise Hall
A Newsite Web Services Book
Published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright 2007 © by Denise Hall
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission of the author or Newsite Web Services, LLC
Published by Newsite Web Services, LLC
P.O. Box 1286, Loganville, Georgia 30052 USA
[email protected]
disciplineanddesire.com
This book is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to actual persons, places,
and events are purely coincidental.
E-book Edition ISBN 978-1-60850-179-3
Cover image credit:
Iconogenic/www.istockphotos.com
Judgment II: Mercy 131
Other books by Denise Hall
Judgment
The Companion
A Brief Education
Judgment II: Mercy 131
Chapter One
Preparing a tray of refreshments in the kitchen, Mary barely looked up when she heard the first scream. The Interlopers always screamed on Punishment Night; Richard made certain of that. He was in love with the sound, and with the sound of Mahogany’s in particular—the long, high-pitched wail, slightly warbled, with an end that dissolved into a sobbed out groan. One would think, knowing Richard and his penchant for screams, that Mahogany would simply howl and be done with it, like China so often did right at the start of her ordeal. But she never did. She held onto her suffering like a miser held onto gold, agonizing in silence, forcing Richard to perform with ever increasing viciousness, until the pain became overwhelming and there simply was no biting back the cries, not one lash more.
When the second scream—even more desperate than the first—sounded, Mary’s hands paused over the silver serving tray for the span of a heartbeat or two. She quickly swallowed a fleeting sense of sympathy. The last thing she wanted to feel was pity, not for the Interlopers, who had so thoroughly replaced her in her husband’s affections.
And so Mary closed her ears to the wails, and the barely audible ‘whoosh-crack’ of the cane as it thrashed into bare flesh at the other end of the house. She finished pouring Richard’s tea into the blue china teapot instead. And if her hands shook just a little bit...well, it wasn’t because she felt sorry for Mahogany.
She spooned a dab of fresh strawberry jam into a small, silver jelly pot, then arranged an assortment of cookies and scones—all of Richard’s favorites still warm from the oven—on a plate. With the creamer and sugar pot in place, she then lifted the tray and sedately carried it to her husband’s study.
It was almost a ritual now, serving Richard his favorite refreshments on Punishment Night. There was even comfort to be had in the task, a small measure of solace gleaned from the loving, doting role she enacted. Maybe she was only second best. Maybe he no longer required her to sate the demon within him. But she was still his wife, and it felt good to know he still needed her for some things.
As she crossed the Grand Hall, her floral skirt swishing around her legs, the heels of her shoes clicking crisply against the white marble floor, she passed China. The little Asian woman sat on a wooden bench just outside Richard’s study. As was required each Friday, she awaited Richard’s attentions fully nude, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her mouth compressed. She was not as hardy as Mahogany and she cringed at every sound that came from the study.
Again, a brittle thread of sympathy wound its way through Mary. She remembered what it was like having to sit on this bench, awaiting Richard’s leisure on Punishment Nights, pain the inevitable tool through which she would find absolution for her weekly sins. That had been such a long time ago, before the Interlopers, when Richard still cultivated an interest in her.
Mary forced her eyes away from the slumped and forlorn visage of her replacement. But as she passed the bench, she couldn’t help but say, “You know you’ve nothing to worry about. When Mahogany goes first, he always wears himself out. You’re perfectly safe until tomorrow.”
China dropped her dark eyes to the floor. “Yes, mistress.”
It wasn’t fair to hate her, Mary told herself. They were Product. Product went to the purchaser. Product didn’t have a choice. But they were also the reason Richard had become a husband in name alone.
Young and beautiful, while they pranced through the house in their skimpy black corsets and their impossibly high heeled shoes, Mary looked every bit the housewife—plain, simple, and common. While their bodies bore the marks of their master’s affection, Mary’s skin remained smooth, unwealed, and unblemished, the result of her husband’s steady neglect. They arched and moaned and cried out every week from Richard’s virile attentions; Mary slept by his side each night, untouched by him sexually now for almost two years. She had never felt so alone in all her life, as she had since the day her husband had purchased the Interlopers and deemed them far more worthy than her of both his money and his time. Mary was just...Mary.
She had been thoroughly displaced, and she didn’t even know why.
So as not to disturb, Mary opened the study door without knocking and quietly slipped inside. Though the room was well illuminated by the fireplace, Mary kept her eyes down so she wouldn’t be tempted to look. She didn’t want to see what she was missing, and she didn’t want to pity the Interloper any more than she already did.
Trying her best to ignore the high-pitched whimpers and ragged pants, she walked along the long shadow cast by the figures coupled in the flickering light to her husband’s desk. It wasn’t until she’d set down the serving tray that, through her envy and resentment, she realized that all the sounds within that room came from Mahogany alone. There was no heavy panting or masculine grunting, or the wet, slick slapping noises that accompanied rough, animalistic sex.
Despite knowing better, at any moment expecting her husband’s terse command to get out, Mary turned from the desk and raised her head to look at them.
Mahogany was tied bent over a low-backed easy chair, her feet splayed far apart. The cane that had been used to impart her suffering and to ignite her screams lay where Richard had dropped it on the floor. He, himself, was drooped over Mahogany with his trousers around his ankles. He remained perfectly motionless, his heavier weight pressing her belly and hips down into the well-stuffed cushions.
The first thing Mary thought was that it should have been her pinned under his heavier weight, her body locked around his deeply imbedded cock, with her round buttocks blazing and marred and throbbing from the ministrations of that cane. The wave of jealousy that swept her left Mary shaking from its intensity.
“M-mistress?” Mahogany gasped raggedly. “He—he’s not moving. I c-can’t b-breathe—”
If he was just resting...If she dared to disturb him...
Mary’s breath caught nervously in her throat. She looked back once towards the door, but in the end, her fingers fidgeting in her skirt, Mary crept across the Polynesian carpet. She stretched out a timid hand to touch her husband’s back and gently shook him. “Richard, are you all right?”
He slid backwards off Mahogany, popping free of her body as he fell lifeless to the floor, his phallus still mostly erect and glistening in the flickering firelight, wet from the sexual moisture of his perfect and preferred Judgment Product. There were froths of spittle at the corners of his blue lips and his eyes stared strangely and without blinking at nothing at all.
Mahogany screamed again, wriggling frantically in her bonds, barely able to move so much as an inch in any direction. Richard al
ways had been good with knots.
“Be quiet,” Mary told her, and the girl stifled herself to whimpers.
Kneeling beside him, Mary touched two fingers to his throat, but felt no pulse. She bent and slowly laid her head upon his chest. There was silence. He was dead, and she sat up again.
Her jealousy abandoned her, leaving her feeling wooden and completely bereft of whatever emotions loving wives were supposed to feel for their dead husbands. Except, perhaps, for a small measure of vindication. He was, after all, dead because of the toy he loved the most.
Knowing she should be ashamed for such a thought, Mary stood up. She gazed down at him for long moment, then went back to his desk. Fishing her keys from her pocket, she unlocked the bottom right-hand drawer and swung it open to reveal the concealed safe. She knew the combination, though she’d never before used it. Just in case something should happen, Richard had once told her.
She opened the safe. The envelope with her name written upon it wasn’t difficult to spot. Light weight with probably no more than a sheet of paper inside, she slit the top and withdrew a list of instructions. Her mouth compressed as she read. Even in death, he thought of them first.
She untied Mahogany and took both her and China upstairs to their rooms, locking them inside. Then she dialed the number Richard had left in the instructions.
It was long distance—overseas to Italy. And to the man who answered the phone, she said, “My husband is dead.”
There was only the briefest of pauses on the other end, then a voice with a heavy Italian accent replied, “What was his name?”
“Richard Blackwell.”
“Hold.”
Mary sat in the dark at Richard’s desk, the phone held to her ear, staring at her husband in the flickering light of the fire. His penis had grown flaccid and now lay over his left thigh like a fat worm. Unappealing. She looked away.
A deeper, smoother voice came back on the line. “Mrs. Blackwell? Your husband purchased two of my Product. Where are they?”
“I locked them in their room.”
“Good. I will be there in twelve hours.” He hung up the phone.
At least she wouldn’t be forced to continue living with them.
Mary called the police next. She picked up the cane and ropes. She took the tea tray back to the kitchen and ate one of the scones so the jam wouldn’t be wasted. Then she sat on the stairs in the Grand Hall, staring at the front door, feeling wooden and surreal until the police, paramedics and coroner arrived.
“We were having sex,” she told the two officers.
They looked at the body, lying partially unclothed on the floor, at the study, and at her.
“What happened?” one asked her.
“We were having sex,” she said again. If she hadn’t been so wooden, she might have been able to think of something different.
“Looks like a heart attack,” she overheard the coroner say just before the paramedics took her husband’s body away.
One of the policemen came to sit beside her on the stairs. “Are you going to be all right? Sometimes it’s a good idea to have a family member or a friend stay with you. Is there anyone you can call?”
“I’ve already called someone.”
The officer patted her hand. They were the last ones to go, leaving her alone on the stairs, wooden, emotionless, wondering what had made her second best to the two women locked securely in their room.
She was still sitting there many hours later when she heard a car pull up in front of the house. The sun had long since set. The fire in the study had died, and the house was dark, but for the front porch light. It was also three am, but none of that swayed her visitors. Three men strolled up the walk, one separating himself from the group. He climbed the porch steps alone and stood upon the welcome mat. But that was all he did. Mary watched the shadow of him, which darkened the lace window curtains beside the door. He didn’t knock; he just waited.
After a moment, she stood up slowly. Her hours-long vigil on the stairs had left her body sore, although she hadn’t realized it until she tried to move. Now, feeling suddenly older than her thirty-two years, she crossed the Grand Hall, cracking open the front door and peering out at him.
“I am Daymon Tane.” He was tall, dark of hair, impeccably dressed in a three piece suit and grey overcoat to guard against the night’s chill. When he spoke, she recognized his voice as the man she’d spoken to on the phone. “Where are they?”
Her eyes flicked from him to the two men who waited a respectful distance behind him, then back again. “Upstairs.”
“Lead the way.”
They stared at one another for a moment in silence before Mary finally stepped back and let them in the house.
One man stayed at the Grand Hall, the other two followed her slow ascent up the stairs and down the second story hallway. They passed the room she’d shared with her husband, the guest rooms, and the library. At the end of the hall in a small alcove, she opened a second door to reveal a narrow flight of wooden steps that led up to the Elite’s secluded attic space.
“After you,” he said, the barest ghost of a smile gracing his lips when she glanced back at him over her shoulder.
Once more, Mary preceded him. She unlocked the door at the top of the stairs, opening it ahead of herself as she walked into the Elite’s Spartan bedroom. She flicked the light on, the sudden illumination waking both girls where they slept, each to her own narrow cot of a bed.
They sat up, blinking blearily, but as Tane stepped into the room, they came awake with a notable shock. As one, they scrambled nude from their beds, hitting the floor on their knees, heads down, hands clasped behind their backs in utter abasement. Mary stared. Neither had ever moved that fast for Richard.
“Sloppy,” Tane commented, his face mirroring the disapproval that weighted his tone.
The women quaked at his feet, not daring to look at him or speak.
“Present,” he commanded, and they both sat up. Their knees snapped apart and they grabbed their ankles, bending over backwards even as they lifted their hips and offered their loins for his perusal.
Tane half-turned and held out his hand to his companion, who withdrew a coiled length of leather from his pocket and handed it over. Unraveling the strap, he stepped into the room and with a quick duck and slash of his arm, he cracked the length of it across the front of China’s thighs.
China, the screamer, barely made a sound. But she snapped her knees wider apart, and though Mary didn’t think it possible, bent backwards even farther than before. Mahogany lifted her hips higher, as well, but that belated obedience didn’t save her from receiving an equally sharp lash across her own legs.
“Damned sloppy,” he said with disgust, and Mary stared at the Elites in shock. The muscles of their bellies and thighs began to quiver from the strain of holding such a pose, and Mary felt an answering quivering in her own belly. A fine sheen of sweat appeared over their skin, making their bodies glisten under the lights, and Mary stopped breathing. She looked at Tane in wide-eyed wonderment, though he had already turned from her and didn’t notice.
“Tether them,” he told his companion, lightly slapping the length of that leather strap against his own leg in a show of heightened irritation.
The companion slipped choke-collars around each Elite’s throat, then fastened a leash to the metal clips. Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he gave a sharp tug and both women rose gracefully to their feet. He led them from the room, and this time it was Mary’s turn to be the follower. She stared at the strap that dangled from Tane’s hand, her heart palpitating in her chest, for the first time in a long time completely unsure of herself.
Halfway down the stairs to the first floor, Mary finally found her voice and the courage to call out a shaky, “Please wait.”
The companion men had already crossed the threshold, escorting the Elites on their leashes to the car. But Tane paused, his hand on the golden door latch. He deigned to look back at her, unsmi
ling, a dark man half-blanketed by shadow while the rest of him basked in the yellow glow of the front porch light.
“Why them?” Mary asked. Why not me, a trembling voice inside her begged to shout.
As if he heard that trembling voice anyway, a corner of his mouth drifted slightly upwards. Without a word to her, he walked out and shut the door.
Mary sank down on the steps, sitting with her hands in her lap, for the first time in her life, utterly alone.
* * * *
Two Weeks Later...
Mary Blackwell stood shivering outside the mammoth gate, staring through the iron portcullis into the empty courtyard, half buried in newly fallen snow. Judgment. It had to be. How many mountain fortresses could Italy have?
There was a mechanical whir and hum above her head and she looked up to see a black camera hidden under the stone arch of the gate, panning down to fix on her. She closed her eyes as a sudden gust of icy wind shoved her closer to the portcullis, whipping her blonde hair around her face. She grabbed the iron teeth to keep her balance. Squinting up at the camera, she then blinked rapidly, waving her hand in front of her eyes to dislodge blinding snowflakes from her lashes.
“I-I want to see Daymon Tane,” she stammered. This had not been one of her best ideas. What if the Mountain Lord didn’t want her? She would likely freeze to death before she ever got back to the village at the base of the mountain. God, it was cold! “Please may I see Daymon Tane?”
After a moment, an intercom set into the stone by the iron portcullis crackled and a man’s voice said in heavily accented English, “One moment.”
She waited, pulling her coat tight around her and hunching her shoulders as she stomped her feet to get the circulation moving again.
It seemed forever before she heard the box crackle again. “Yes?”
She struggled to still her now chattering teeth, “I w-w-want t-to speak to Daymon T-Tane.”
