Authors: Denise Hall
Judgment (12 page)
The guard took me right up onto the dais to laying my leash in the master's outstretched hand without so much as a word.
"Thank you," Deaton said, and my guard took his leave of us.
The dark-haired master's face was glacial for all the emotion he showed as he wrapped the end of the leash around his palm. He drew me in very close to him. "Did you enjoy your little run through the halls?"
"N-no, sir." My hands shot out at my sides as I struggled to keep my balance as he caught hold of my collar clip and pulled me right up onto my toes.
He dragged me around to the front of his desk and sat down on the edge, dragging me by my collar to stand between his knees. "How strange. To me, it looked as though you were enjoying yourself immensely. At my expense, I might add."
My muscles tightening automatically, hurting where Tane's strap had already turned my bottom scarlet. "No, sir."
"And now you dare to argue with me."
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I caught myself before another 'No sir' slipped from my mouth. There was no safe way to answer him. I tried to keep quiet, but he didn't let it go. Masters never let go when an infraction worth punishing presents itself.
Deaton gently shook me by my collar. "You dared to argue with me, didn't you, Red?"
I swallowed hard. "Y-yes, sir."
"Come here." Without waiting for my compliance, he pulled me face down across one knee. "Let's see what damage he's done to you."
He flipped the back of my uniform skirt up to appraise my red, raw flanks.
"My, my. He obviously enjoyed himself. A pity that you did as well. Just look at how wet you are, Red. Disgraceful."
I hissed a long-drawn breath as his fingertips traced that painful line where Tane's strap had scalded the tops of my thighs.
"At least he gave me something to aim for. Don't worry. I'll leave you so completely welted that, by the time I'm done with you, you won't even notice this."
I closed my eyes, my head hanging down between my shoulders. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't run. I couldn't escape. In a few minutes, he would have me shrieking and begging for mercy until my throat was raw, so I would not even be able to maintain the dignity of silence.
"Well," he said expectantly, and gave my hip a stinging slap. "Do you think I'm going to spank your bottom as though you were a Personal? You aren't worthy of so gentle and loving a touch. Stand up."
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I pushed slowly back to my feet, but could only retreat as far as his hold on my collar permitted. He stood with me, his dark eyes boring into me with a fierce, almost gleeful ferocity.
"Let's go find a proper cane. Nothing too thick or brutish. Nice and whippy is just the thing for you."
He made me crawl on the floor beside him, led by my leash to the back of the room he governed. He selected the thinnest verge from his collection—a long and wicked wand that swished as it sliced the air and bent almost double when his arm stopped its arc.
Perched on hands and knees, I had to spread my legs wide and arch my hips back to receive his strokes. Before each one, he held the cane to my lips so I could kiss the length and thank him for his time and efforts. My count was eighteen, with the added stipulation of a repeating cut if I moved from position. I wasn't very good at holding still. Though Master Deaton held tightly to my leash, as the whuck of the cane burrowed into me, I crawled and flopped at his feet, shrieking lustily I could not bear the pain.
Patience must have been a family trait. Master Deaton waited through each of my disobedient displays, allowing me in my own time to rise shakily back onto my hands and knees, offer up my bottom for the next stroke and tearfully kiss the cane.
My bad behavior turned an eighteen stroke punishment into one that numbered forty-seven. From first to last, Master Deaton spared me nothing. It took time, but I eventually came to realize he was right to do this. And over the years, 106
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no matter the marks I would accrue at his hand, I never ran from him again.
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"Okay," the Detective sighed, rubbing his temples with two
fingers and tapping his pencil on the piece of paper in front of
him. "There's your master..."
"Yes, sir. Daymon Tane," I supplied helpfully. I didn't mind
answering their questions. It was the only thing I'd yet done
that had made anyone happy here on the Outside. At this
point, I was grateful to have finally found a way to please.
He looked at me, a slight frown tugging at his mouth.
"Now, Callie, I thought we just agreed you weren't going to
call me that."
Unfortunately, I flushed miserably, I never seemed to
please them for long. 'Sir' was so hopelessly ingrained in me,
unless I was truly rattled, it fell from my tongue without my
thinking.
The Detective looked back down at his paper. "So under
this Tane fellow there's these other "masters," their
assistants, and guards. Give me their names again. I want to
make sure I've got everybody."
"Master Deaton, Master Boyden, Master Smith, Master
Rodman..." I recited carefully the names of every male in
Judgment by their order of importance and seniority, right
down to Ray, my favorite guard, who cleaned the Personals'
common rooms daily.
"This is going to be one hell of a collar," said Jim, leaning
over the Detective's shoulder.
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My ears perked. "May I have my collar back, too?" I asked
hopefully. I wanted my jesses, too. But I was hesitant to ask,
lest they think me greedy.
The Detective ignored both of us. He tapped the paper
with his pencil, again. "Tane has you," he said, redirecting my
attention. "Do these guys—these top masters—do they have,
uh, girls like you ... slaves ... uh, too?"
"Personals," I supplied. "Yes, many do."
"Do you know their names, too?"
Well, of course I knew my sisters in suffering. "Desire,
Opal, Snow, Midget..."
"No, no." The Detective stopped me. "I need their other
names. You know, like your other name—"
"Mischief."
"No, your real name," he corrected. "Callie McGuire."
I dared to argue with him, whispering, "Mischief," even as
I shied from him and from that old Before time name.
The Detective shook his head. "Okay, forget it. We'll get
back to that later. Uh, how many of these masters have—
what did you call them..."
"Personals," the blonde detective interjected.
"Yeah, Personals. Which of these guys have Personals?"
I named off sixteen masters.
"What about the assistants? Do they have Personals, too?"
"Some do."
"How many?"
"Four," I said and named them off as well, watching as he
made notes upon his paper. I couldn't read the markings. I
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think I remember I once could, but now it looked like
gibberish.
"What about the guards? How many of them have
Personals?"
"Eleven."
"Only eleven?" He looked at the paper. "What about these
other guys? When they want a Personal, what do they do?"
"Run out to the local Seven-Eleven and grab one off the
shelf." Jim smirked.
I fidgeted with my fingers. "Many do not want Personals.
They do not like the hassle."
The Detective ran a quick tally down his page. "I've got
seventy-four names here and only thirty-two Personals. Does
your master share you with the guys who don't have slaves of
their own?"
I held my breath a moment, stunned by what he was
suggesting. In all the years that I had been at Judgment, only
once had a guard been permitted to mount me. It was a
special treat bequeathed to him for preventing a Lesser from
harming another Personal. Both females had been where they
shouldn't have, and it might have ended disastrously had the
guard not heard the ensuing attack and investigated. Tane
rewarded him with me; my command having been to pleasure
him 'until his eyes cross.' But no guard would have presumed
to command a master's Personal without his express
permission. As far as I knew, permission was never even
asked.
Maybe I was misunderstanding the question. "I am shared
with the other masters, sometimes."
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"What about the guards?"
"Maybe they're all gay?" the mean detective suggested.
"Or eunuchs."
I fidgeted with my fingers again, growing increasingly
uncomfortable as the conversation steered unerringly toward
the topic of the Lessers. Personals did not associate with
Lessers. They did not look at them. They did not talk of them.
I licked my lips, answering carefully, "They use the others."
"Other Personals?"
"No." My voice dropped to a whisper as I did the forbidden.
"Lessers."
"Lessers?" He began writing again. "What's a Lesser?"
"The unfinished product."
His pencil stopped its busy scratching. He echoed, "You
girls are a product?"
I rubbed my hands upon my knees, trembling as his
expression began to darken angrily. Had I said something?
Was his anger directed at me? I was answering his questions.
Was it something I'd said?
"Is he selling his slaves here?" The Detective pointed at
the table between us. "In my city? How many girls, Callie?
How many Lessers does he have?"
"I-I-I don't know," I quavered. My fingers picked nervously
at my clothes, and I dared a quick look behind me, past the
blonde detective, who was chewing on his bottom lip. I didn't
want to talk about this anymore. I wanted to be helpful but,
oh, if my Master were to hear this conversation...
"This is important, Callie." The Detective was writing again,
the pencil scratching furiously at the paper before him. He
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filled the page, flipped it and continued on the blank one
beneath. "What's your best guess? Ten, twenty girls? Where
does he get them?"
"He buys them," I said, my throat closing on the words,
choking me.
"He buys them!" His voice rose. "Somebody else is selling
these girls?"
"Mac," the blonde detective said behind me. "Lower your
voice."
I hugged my shoulders, beginning to rock. Why was he
angry at me? I was answering his questions! Why was he
angry?
"How many girls, Callie?"
"I-I d-don't know."
"Is it more than twenty?"
I couldn't breathe right. My heart was pounding in my
throat. I tried to think. "I-I don't—Maybe two hundred. There
was almost that many before my Master took me from Pit."
"Two hundred?" The blonde detective groaned and covered
his eyes.
"He keeps you in a pit?!" The Detective's fury seemed to
magnify right before my eyes, and I couldn't bear it. I bowed
into submission, pressing my forehead to the floor at his feet
as I burst into tears.
I felt a gentle hand on my back, and the blonde detective
said, "We're taking five."
"I don't need a god damn break!" The Detective snarled. "I
need to catch this fucking asshole and put him in jail for the
rest of his life. Two hundred girls in a pit!"
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"You are going to take a break," the blonde detective said
firmly. "And so will she. And when you come back, kindly
remember to keep your fucking voice down."
I felt the flow of air shift around me as the Detective
slammed his chair back. I felt him touched the back of my
neck. Struggling for calm, he said, "I'm sorry. It's not you I'm
mad at."
And then he stalked from the room. The door shut hard
behind him.
* * * *
Dinner was held first. The Primary table was right in front of the masters' dais, and I found myself sitting squarely in front of Tane's place, where I felt his eyes on me throughout the meal.
Brunette sat down next to me. In a soft voice, she asked,
"You've got a Demerit already?"
"Yes." Surprisingly enough, talking was permitted in the dining hall so long as we were sedate about it. I noticed her wince as she shifted on her chair. "Did they get you, too?"
"Ten with a paddle," she confided. "I wasn't paying attention."
A guard made his way to our table, and tapped Brunette on the shoulder. "Your name is Honey."
As he walked away, I noticed the newly-declared 'Honey'
blushing. "What?"
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She didn't look at me. "Master Hutch, my barrack master, he said I tasted sweet as honey. You know," her voice softened and lowered in embarrassment. "Down there."
