by D. A. Maddox
“I’m sorry!” Veronica yelled, managing half a stomp with her left foot and listening to her own voice echo off the walls. Then, quieter, “I’m really, really sorry—and … not only because of whatever you’re going to do to me. I feel like total shit.”
“Not for long,” Judge Malcolm said. “We’re going to help you. Officers—if you would, string her up.”
****
Officer Alejandro stepped back onto the stage and uncuffed her, one limb at a time. Joining him from Stage Left, as it were, emerged Officer Thompson, as if out of nowhere. With her, she brought a thickly packed coil of rope, easily sturdy enough to support a woman of Veronica’s slight weight.
Her shackles fell to the floor. Two more cops, a man and a woman, both with additional coils of rope, came onto the stage to assist.
Officer Alejandro took her by the back of the neck and forced her to bend at the waist.
That’s where the first rope went. The ring above her head lowered so that Officer Thompson could reach it. She threaded the rope through and snapped her fingers. Veronica then found herself hoisted up by the middle, half a foot from the floor, arms and legs dangling.
The rest of the suspension happened quickly. Officer Alejandro bound her hands in a column wrist tie and led them between her legs far enough to secure them to the ring behind her. Veronica found herself bent so far forward now that, if she tucked her chin, she could almost admire her own ass—so far that she could piss on her own face.
Ropes at her ankles, twitching in mid-air—and once again spread wide—went to the rings on either side of her.
Veronica had never heard of this suspension position before. It was monstrous. Both her asshole and her clit were elevated and agape for the leering audience. From here, however they punished her, she would see the blows fall from above. Her hands would clench and unclench, her legs would buck and spasm, her tears would course down her forehead and into her hair—and if her pussy decided to ooze and drip of its own accord, they could bloody well ask her to open her own mouth and drink it.
The crowd was silent. They studied her—and her predicament—in contemplative wonder, or shock. Hard to tell. From here, Veronica could hardly see any of them. She moaned, filling the void of sound with a purging wretchedness that was music in her own ears.
This was working. It was awful—terrifying, shameful beyond description—and already, it was working. This was the moment of passage. It was as Madam Reyes-Garcia had avowed. No one could say, after seeing her punished this way, that Veronica had not paid.
“Line up the jury,” Judge Malcolm ordered.
When they came, even though they came from behind, Veronica saw them approach through her own legs. She saw them upside down, and at just the right angle to admire whatever implement of torture or tease they brought onto the platform with them.
The first was Brandy. She was practiced in all manner of pain delivery, Brandy was. Veronica had no doubt she’d feel it all the way to her ears when she brought the nine-tailed flogger over—
Pop!
Veronica wailed, even as Brandy exited Stage Right, back for the jury box.
Courtney was next. She had a vibrating butt plug in hand, already running.
“Oh, no—oh, Jesus—Courtney, hold on … grrrrr.”
Courtney left—and left the butt plug in place, warbling its terrible song right up her guts—
…until Veronica expelled it like a shot at the shock of Rusty’s cattle prod.
Zeke was after that.
Then Colt.
Then Melody, who brought something to make her feel nice, something which Veronica couldn’t even see through the temporary ruin of her own vision.
Then Missy…
****
“Oh, shit!” Savannah exclaimed, forgetting for the moment to keep her voice down. “Oh, Scott. We’re getting one of those. Have to add that to our after-graduation shopping list.”
Scott nodded absently. He had his tablet out and was sketching the arrangement and configuration of the ropes and ties in Veronica’s hogtie suspension rig, or whatever one would call it. Savannah had said they might try that, too, once they’d grown tired of the basics—and Scott had gotten to work right away.
They were in bed together. The covers were drawn up to their middle, but Savannah let her breasts hang free, her pendant of gold resting between them. He stole glances often. She noticed and did not seem to mind one bit. One of her legs still rested over his, and he liked that just fine, too. They were comfortable, in love and just watching TV.
And, thanks to the latest files delivered via phone message, keeping well caught up with the tragic, excruciating saga of the Redemption of Veronica Cruz.
He put his arm around her, set the tablet down, and snuggled a little.
On screen, Veronica screamed again. She was getting pretty hoarse, he noted. Someone would want to give her a drink of water—or maybe not. He had to keep watching to be sure.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “What’s the thing you want to put on the shopping list? Was off in my zone for a second.”
“There it is again—oh, God, Scott, that’s just evil!”
“Hm,” he said, interested. “Yeah. That one. Definitely. We’ll need a house with a basement, you know.”
She kissed him. “We’ll work hard,” she said.
“We’ll play harder,” he said, and crawled on top of her again, even though the line behind Veronica was almost done and the climax of the show was at hand. He was ready to go again, and Savannah didn’t stop him when he stretched out her arms to either bedpost. “Stay like that until I can dig up something to tie you down, my love.”
“But … but what will you do?”
On screen, a buzzing sound, more moaning. One of the subs being nice to Veronica again, offering her some release.
“Anything I can think of,” he said, “until you say the magic word.”
That word, as they both knew very well, was not “mercy”.
****
Veronica stared down to the puddle beneath her face on the floor. Tears and cum. No blood. Nothing filthy.
Only Tabitha and Malcolm remained for the fulfillment of her sentence.
Well, that plus another twelve hours in her cell.
They came to her as one, the tails of the whips trailing behind them like dead snakes.
“We’ve already punished you,” Malcolm said. “We really let you have it this morning, Ronnie.”
“You’re forgiven,” Tabitha said, then knelt between her legs and, reaching through her outstretched arms, took her by the face with both hands. “Welcome back, Ronnie.”
Veronica’s breath picked up again. She had to make herself say it. There was no way it could end like this.
“In … in a minute,” she said, her eyes dripping with horror at her own words. “First—first…”
“Yes?” Malcolm slowly said.
“Hit me with your best shot, motherfuckers.”
The applause broke out from everywhere—gasps of disbelief as well. Veronica, in utter and absolute agony, grinned. She’d never had applause like that before.
Tabitha nodded respect, then rose up behind her again. She and Malcolm pulled back together—and with the simultaneous crash of twin bullwhips, they brought Veronica back into the fold.
****
As the post show commentary kicked in and the credits started to roll, Scott tore the topmost cover from the bed, exposing Savannah’s wondrous, perfect legs and sex along with the rest of her. She obeyed and kept her arms spread, holding the bedposts on either side, her chest heaving with expectation, her eyes leaking liquid trust.
His cock was so hard. It pointed up like a scimitar, already damp at the cleft.
“Tell me again what you are to me, and why,” he said, tying her right wrist to the post with her own shirt.
“I am—” she started, then paused as he cinched the knot tight, “your Savannah. I surrender to you of my own choice, out of love for
you—and because you make me fucking wet, you … gentleman monster.”
He walked around the bed, pausing first at its foot to stroke her a little between her unbound legs, and then himself. Then, at her left-hand side, he tied off her other wrist with his shirt.
“I’m the luckiest man alive,” he said, cinching the second knot, “because I love you, Savannah. To control you in this way, to me, is to serve you. I am your man and your lover and friend. I will never betray you. I am your Scott, and tonight, once more, I’m going to make you fucking squirm.”
He tied off her left ankle with the legs of her own jeans, then did the right side with his.
He went down on her, tonguing her with adoration and tenderness, holding her legs still with his arms whenever she tried to kick, not stopping until she had satisfied herself all over his face.
“Let me suck it,” she said. “Like this, while I can’t move. But don’t finish. I want it in me again.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, scooting up so that his knees were at her armpits, then leaning into her mouth with his full erection. He groaned, moving back and forth, palm against the wall.
He couldn’t maintain that very long, just a few movements, and then slid back again, tip dripping with saliva and drooling the first threat of orgasm.
He put on the condom—the second of three Zeke had told him via text he’d find under the lampstand in his dorm. And then he slid into her again, parting her sex with his.
“You’re so strong,” she said as he increased his rhythm, pounding her in time with the synchronized beating of their hearts.
“So are you,” he said. “There’s … more than one way to be strong.”
“Oh,” she said, her insides and clit moistening afresh, and so soon after he’d made her come already. She squeezed him from her guts, felt his tip delve as deeply into her as it ever had, his shaft swelling, dilating her further …
“So … fucking … strong … in your body … so strong in yourself.”
“Well,” she said, trying be conversational, even as he banged her like a metal drummer in a concert solo. “Ah—oh, my shit—well, I ah, work out, you know.”
They came together again, Savannah with her lips clamped tight, Scott with his teeth clenched, both aware of the proximity of his neighbors—neither wanting to appear as guests on a show like Consequences, Live! themselves.
For a moment, he lay on top of her—then moved to untie her wrists.
“No,” she said. “I mean, yes, in a minute, but … let’s just stay like this for a little while.”
He kissed her. “Okay,” he said. “And then? What’s after that?”
She kissed him back. “The rest of our lives,” she answered. “One day at a time.”
Epilogue
Veronica took another long draw from the water bottle, pulled on the halter top, then picked her panties up off her cot and considered.
“Not yet,” said Nurse Reyes-Garcia. “In a moment. Face away, please. I should take care of this.”
Veronica complied. Might as well complete the image, she thought, then stretched her arms out and pressed her hands flat against the wall. “You’re going to put that napalm on my ass again, aren’t you?”
“My heavens,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said from behind her. “You really did take us to the limit today. Your buttocks look like Mars after a meteor storm. Yes, Veronica—that is my plan. Do you object? You can, you know. The physical part of your punishment has passed. But I wish to return you to the world fully intact tomorrow morning.”
“Do what you gotta do.”
“Do you wish a bit for your mouth? It may help with—”
“Thank you, Madam Reyes-Garcia. I’m not a horse.”
“You are as stubborn as one,” she quipped without missing a beat.
Veronica heard the gloves go on, the squirting of gel, the sliding of it over fingers. Nurse Reyes-Garcia then went to work on her ass with both hands at once—but it wasn’t as bad this time. It still forced a strangled yelp from her, but somehow just knowing what was coming—and knowing the relief that would follow—helped. It was a bloodshot but relatively dignified Veronica Cruz who, five minutes later, pulled on her panties and wormed back into the jumpsuit. She plopped down onto her cot but did not lie down.
“How many times have you done this?” she asked, fluffing her hair, patting her pillow. Veronica wanted sleep—not only because she needed it in the worst way, but also to speed time faster toward tomorrow, toward release. But there was something—not much, and probably not attainable, anyway—that she wanted more.
“You are show inmate 197,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said. “The next will be 198. But no one new is on tap, at present.”
“How were the ratings? You know, for Session 4?”
Nurse Reyes-Garcia pulled up a chair. “Veronica—why would you want to know such things? We are done, now. We should be discussing your ride back to school. Your mother is staying at a nearby hotel. She is already in town.”
Veronica let it sink in. Her mother. Tomorrow. She’d be getting the third degree for two hours at the least.
“What choice do I have?”
“You are still transitional. We could arrange a ride for you back to school, if you prefer.”
“I don’t know,” she sighed. “I should go with Mom. Get it over with and not worry about seeing her again all the way up until Spring Break. And she’d be really mad if I blew town out from under her.”
“You do not wish to hurt her feelings.”
Veronica closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Not sure if she has those.”
“She does,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said. “Some of us bury them deep or hide them. We all have them, Veronica.”
I tried to stand with her when she got up to leave me at the admin building, Veronica thought. Your husband wouldn’t even let me hug my own mother when I was given up to jail.
But would she have hugged me, in public?
“Shit,” she said, realizing she was crying all over again. “Shit, shit,” she repeated, when the nurse herself took her into her arms and embraced her.
Veronica hugged back, hard as she could, and let it all go.
Nurse Reyes-Garcia let her stay in the hug until she had calmed back down.
Kleenex. Veronica tossed it after wiping her eyes into the steel wind toilet, which automatically sent it down. She took another pull from the water bottle. “Thank you,” she said. “What a pussy I am, huh?”
“Not the first word that leaps to mind, when I think about you.”
“So—how about those ratings?”
“Veronica.”
“Just curious,” she said. “Who wouldn’t be?”
Nurse Reyes-Garcia leaned back in her chair. “They were well above the average,” she said. “Not record-breaking. Your viewership peaked at eleven million. The normal number would be more like eight or nine—and most of them have more days to build their audience … not that that is typically what is on their minds. You are an … odd little bird, Miss Cruz.”
“I’m a media major,” she said by way of explanation. “I’m a senior, final semester.”
That seemed to take Nurse Reyes-Garcia aback.
“It’s funny,” Veronica said, stopping to blow her nose, then continuing. “Saw that clip in my Making the Transition Class, just a day or two before everything in my world went to shit. That one with the boy.”
“Michael,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia supplied. “Yes. Alejandro mentioned you saw that.”
“The thing is, while I was watching it, I had a thought. A crazy thought.”
“Yes?”
“Before I knew I’d end up doing time here, doing the show myself, I thought about applying for a Consequences internship. Weird, huh?”
They regarded each other. It was like a staring contest, and Veronica was fine with that. She was good at staring contests.
Nurse Reyes-Garcia didn’t blink—but she said, “That is not so far out of the realm of p
ossibility as you might think, Veronica Cruz.”
“Really?”
“I shall consider it,” said Reyes-Garcia. “You have no criminal record—and you were very popular. First, graduate. If you are then still of a mind, be in touch.”
****
Once back on campus, most of the Select dispersed at the Student Union building. Those who owned the caravan vehicles then drove off, Tabitha’s gas-chugging chopper belching a grayish-black plume of exhaust in its wake.
It was so late. Malcolm yawned expansively, stretching his arms.
Melody yawned in response, one arm flung dramatically over her eyes as she leaned into him, faking a swoon most prettily.
Malcolm laughed and swept her up into his arms, holding her like a new bride, starting off to her sorority house.
She blinked up at him. “You were a most fearsome judge, Your Honor. I almost felt bad for her.”
“Really?”
Slight pause.
“No.”
“Whatever am I going to do with you, kitten?”
“Whatever Master wishes. Sub-Melody doesn’t really want to know ahead of time.”
Malcolm kept walking. And even though he kept carrying her, he decided to speak to her normally. It wasn’t like they were in session with The Select. “I’m four years older than you, Melody. I’ll be at regular work while you’re still a sophomore.”
“And still Select,” she said. “You better come as old bones to the parties, Malcolm.”
“Oh, I will. You can count on it.”
They continued, for a while, in silence.
“That’s what concerns me, Melody,” Malcolm said at length.
“They’re only parties,” Melody said, wrapping her arms around his neck, inviting a kiss. “You did your four years. I’ll do mine. You’ll wait for me?”
Malcolm took the kiss, making it last. “You won’t forget about me?” he asked in return. “There are a lot of Doms in The Select. Can’t help a little jealousy.”
“There is only one you, Malcolm,” she said with a soft smile. “Only one us. The rest is just … you know, college.”
