Mercy (21 page)

Before he even caught his breath, he gasped, “Lie down. Lie down and spread your legs.” I did, the obedient slave, and he fell on me at once. He stroked my thighs, bit the top of my stockings, licked and teased me while I flew on a high of sexual pleasure and pure infatuation for the man who mastered me.

He devoured me, kissed and sucked my sore clit, licked my pussy and asshole with a fervor that made me wild. He had gone down on me on many occasions, but this time, somehow, it was even more abandoned and wild. The arousal built, throbbed, turned inside out and then exploded. I came apart, thrashing under his mouth. He held my thighs hard between his hands and began again. I begged for respite, but he allowed none. He made me come again, this time finishing by thrusting his thick fingers in and out of my cunt. As I came, he gazed down at me chanting, “Yes. Yes, beautiful girl.”

He lay beside me then on the bed while I gasped for breath, completely spent, sprawled at his side. He watched me, his head propped on his hand.

“I have an unhealthy addiction to watching you come.”

I looked over at him. “I’ve noticed. I don’t mind.”

He stroked my face a moment, and then leaned over and kissed me like a true lover, and I let myself kiss him back just the same. We kissed like that while time spun away, and then he broke away from me. He suddenly seemed agitated and cross.

“Lucy, can you go home now? I’ll call a cab for you. You can’t stay here tonight. I’ve got things to do in the morning. You understand.”

I nodded. Yes, I did. Of course I did. I took a cab home that he insisted on paying for, and I was really okay with that. I climbed the stairs to my little apartment with my framed Keats poem clutched in my hands.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest...

Matthew, my handsome and mysterious priest. And I, the urn, frozen in beauty, not permitted to change.

He was the artist, the priest, the shaman, and I was the urn, existing only to receive.

* * *

That lovely Christmas Eve night that Matthew took me to dinner was an anomaly, certainly, perhaps an attempt at holiday cheer. It was nice, but I think it made both of us uneasy. We returned after the bustle of the holidays to our regular schedule and my stringent sessions in his basement continued just as before.

One morning after such a session, I came awake with the most delicious feeling. I was warm and relaxed. The bed was the perfect cozy temperature. Matthew lay beside me, an arm’s length away. He rarely held me in bed even though he insisted almost always that I sleep over. I knew he didn’t want me there for snuggles and cuddles. He wanted me to sleep over in case he felt like fucking me in the middle of the night, and he did wake me up to do that fairly often. Those were always nice fucks, half-conscious and quick.

But that morning, I just felt so happy and cozy. I did a hard stretch beside him. His hands came out for me at once and his sleepy arms wrapped around me. “Do it again,” he whispered. “Stretch for me.” I stretched again and his hands groped over me. He nuzzled his face into the curve of my neck.

“Lucy...Happy birthday.”

And I swear to God, I had completely forgotten that on this cold, luxuriously comfortable morning I had been born twenty-nine years ago.

He fucked me then, twice in a row, once from behind and once clutched close in his arms. Warm delicious
snugglefucking
. I came both times, to his soft encouragement, to his constant demand.
Come, Lucy, come.

Down in the kitchen, Mrs. Kemp produced a cake for me, a small cinnamon apple cake with roses in cream cheese frosting. It had a candle on it which Matthew lit with a flourish. I laughed while they sang Happy Birthday to me in surprisingly lovely harmony.

All of this strange softening of Matthew around me, the affectionate kisses, the cuddles, things like the birthday cake, I was so happy he felt all right with doing these things, because it meant I had finally convinced him that my emotions were not a threat. That I no longer harbored unrealistic fantasies, that I wouldn’t flip out and ask him for love. That I wouldn’t expect any commitment. Things got so much easier, so much simpler after that.

After one particularly debauched session, as he kissed me before bed, he asked if I’d like to go out with him again.

“On Saturday, I’ll pick you up at the theater. I’d like to take you to dinner with some friends.”

Some friends
. Friends like Davis? “Okay, Matthew.”

“Why ‘
okay’
?” he asked, mimicking my ambivalent tone. “What? Why not?”

“Nothing. I said okay. I would like to.” I didn’t know why he was so annoyed. Did he want me to fall over myself with excitement? “Will they know what I am to you?”

“Maybe. Do you care?”

“I guess not.”

“I’ll clear it up right off and introduce you as my sex slave.”

I just looked at him, because it was completely possible he wasn’t joking. I guess my uneasiness amused him, because he laughed and pulled me next to him in the bed.

“Listen, don’t think so much. I want you to come out with me. I want to see you smile and laugh and do something besides take me in every hole. You’re my submissive, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you do as I say. I don’t really understand the attitude.”

I murmured apologies, but I felt his mood shift.

“Do you want me to put a fucking collar on you, Lucy? Would that make you feel better? Take you to dinner on a leash? Make you eat it out of a dog bowl at my feet?”

“No, sir.”

“How about a toy in your ass while we dine? You’d probably like that, actually.”

“Matthew, it’s fine, I’ll go. I just didn’t know if these were friends who...”

“Who what? Who will come back with us to the basement?” He fought with himself for a moment, over whether or not to admit it, and then I knew for certain that they were. Of course, he’d wanted to spring the whole thing on me. Now he would be angry with me that I’d pried it from him in advance.

“So what if they do, Lucy? What are you going to do about it? I know you’re a hot little cum-crazy whore. You come like a fucking horny slut every time I fill all your holes. I thought you might enjoy a few extra of my friends.”

“Yes. Yeah. I would love that, Matthew.” I expected to be slapped now, for the way that I said that.

“You know what I’d love?” he said low and dangerously. “A little fucking appreciation sometimes.”

I turned to him and pressed my head into his chest, and then sank down until I faced his cock. I wanted to suck him more than anything at that moment, just so I wouldn’t have to participate in this conversation any more. He sighed as I put my mouth on him, and he let me suck and caress him at my own pace. For a long time he just let me have him, and while I had him, I thought about what he’d said.

I thought about going out to dinner and coming back to the basement with his friends. God, who cared? As long as it felt good. Just more way to be sure we didn’t fall in love. I was actually really looking forward to it. By the time he came in my throat the idea actually turned me on. I hoped they were as beautiful and handsome as Matthew. I hoped they thought I was beautiful and desirable too.

Chapter Ten: Falling

On Saturday night, Matthew didn’t meet me at the stage door. He actually met me backstage, outside my dressing room door. Of course he had all-access granted whenever he wanted it. The amount of money he donated to the company assured that. He had a garment bag in one hand and a small boutique bag in the other, and a broad smile pasted across his face.

“My little dancer. How was your show tonight?”

“Fine,” I murmured. My ankle hurt.

As soon as Ellie left he came into the dressing room with me. He helped me pull the black dress down over my naked body and it fit like a glove. He nodded in approval while I marveled at how it made me look. It fit so perfectly and so flatteringly. I had no idea how he managed it. I pictured him standing over me with a measuring tape while I slept, then calling a seamstress with all his notes.

“Yes, I had it made for you,” he said.

“How—”

“I got your measurements from Jo.” The costume mistress.

“I’ve never worn anything so beautiful. I really haven’t.”

“Well, it’s yours now. It looks wonderful on you.”

It wasn’t a slut dress of course, not from Matthew. It fell to just below my knees. It had some beading, very subtle, on the front. It had an almost iridescent sheen to it, and the bodice laced up. It didn’t lace up in some pseudo-corset way, it laced up with silk laces to a tie at the top. It was sexy, elegant, and girlish. I absolutely loved it and it moved like a dream.

But he wasn’t done with me yet. “Hold up the skirt,” he said, kneeling down. He reached for the shop bag he’d set down on the vanity and drew out a garter belt that made my breath catch.

It matched the dress in design and laced up in the front, and was embroidered with delicate beads. He put it on me, and of course, again, it fit perfectly. Then he gathered up the stockings and put them on next. He smoothed them up my leg so that I shivered, and then he attached the garter clasps for me. He licked me softly at the place where my ass met my thighs and I put my hand back on his head, twined my fingers in his hair. It was partly because I didn’t want him to stop it, and partly because my legs were about to fail. It may sound funny to say this, but it was the first time in the nearly four months I’d known him that I’d touched his hair that way.

He stood up all too soon and said, “We’ll be late.”

As we sat in his car driving to the restaurant, he ordered me to pull my skirt up over my thighs. He made me masturbate myself until I came, and I was thankful that his windows were tinted black. For once, primed as I was by the erotic way he dressed me, it wasn’t that hard to jack off for him. I wasn’t as self-conscious and hesitant as I usually was. I thought too of the way his hair felt under my fingers for that wonderful moment, that very short moment when they twisted in his soft, blond locks.

When we arrived at the restaurant, it was busy and crowded. Lots of rich people standing around looking rich. It was loud, smoky, frenetic, and expensive of course. My eyes darted all around, wondering who his “friends” could be. He had told me nothing further of the people we’d meet, letting me work myself into frenzy of curiosity and nerves. And I was nervous, very nervous to see the people that Matthew had decided to let play with me. Unlike Davis, I assumed these players knew what they were doing.

The
maître’d
led us to a secluded table, and I was surprised to be greeted by two men and a beautiful woman my age. Well, perhaps she was a bit older, thirty five or so. The men were older than Matthew too, with grey in their hair. They weren’t old men though, not at all. If they were fifty, I would have been surprised. And they turned me on. God, I hate to say it. They were sexy and virile, and potent to the core. They looked at me in the same way Matthew looked at me, as something to appraise. A thing to conquer and own. These men were dominants, and the woman was a submissive, that was patently clear to me even before we spoke.

All of a sudden, I started to panic a little. What were the rules here? How should I act? I hung back and shrunk closer to Matthew, but he put his hand on my back and pushed me forward. They all stood up and greeted each other warmly, including me, so I was not to be ignored, the peon slave. Matthew pulled out my chair and seated me next to the woman. She was a woman that made me feel like a girl, voluptuous and sexy, and quietly self assured. Her body was amazing, large breasts and hips, and wide brown eyes framed by jet black, flowing hair. I wanted to cry, imagining my skinny dancer body beside hers, my babyish red curls next to her black, flowing mane.