Authors: Denise Hall
Judgment (14 page)
"Unnnngh!" she strangled.
I watched as she was unfastened and, as she turned to go, saw the blood where she'd bitten her lip at some point to keep from screaming. My knees went weak. Ebony had latched onto my arm with talon-like hands. As though I could save her. As though I weren't on the verge of hysterics myself.
My legs almost buckled as it hit me: Joy had taken six strokes; I was due thirty—thirty!—across trembling buttocks already tenderized by both a strap and cane.
Joy's progress to the door was slow and agonizing and allowed us all plenty of time to see our futures in each of her shaky steps.
"Treaz," Master Wilhite called, and we turned as one to look at him. He smiled. "Come to me, my darling."
Wringing her small hands, Treasure went to the Rack and took Joy's place upon it. As her legs were secured in the stocks and the bar laid across her back, she made a slight face and held out her hands to Sub-Master McPherson.
As Master Wilhite raised her pink skirt out of his way, he said, "Lovely. Absolutely lovely. Where did you get those two beauties?"
"Master Boyden, sir. Running in the halls."
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"He's likely had enough of runners for one day."
"Yes, sir."
"Those are nice and tight, but I'll see if I can't land a shot between and link those marks right together. Give you something to remember this by."
I don't believe any of us were in danger of forgetting. But she just whispered miserably, "Yes, sir."
"Whenever you're ready," he said brightly.
Treasure raised her head and tremblingly said, "This one seeks atonement for the sin of arguing with a master. She is truly sorry, Master. Please punish her for her disrespect."
And so it started again. Treasure met each whuck of the rod with a deep-throated grunt and much attempted squirming. I thought watching the welts flushing into appearance on Joy's dark skin was dreadful. But it was much, much worse on the already bruised buttocks of poor Treasure.
It was like a preview of what I would suffer when it came my turn to writhe upon the Rack.
Due twelve, watching Mimic was even worse for me. She endured Wilhite's torment in amazing silence until he lashed in with an impressive sixth stroke. Then she raised her head, her face a contorted mask, her groan dissolving into gut-wrenching sobs. "Oh please, Master ... oh please, Master..."
Having reached the upper swell of her round bottom, Wilhite lowered the cane to measure once more along the base of her bottom, this time aiming for the relatively unmarked spaces between the welts he'd just created.
Ignoring her sobs, he said, "I don't know. I don't think my aim's that good, but I might be able to do half without 124
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overlapping. What do you think, McPherson? Three out of six?"
Careful to keep hold of Mimic's hands to keep her from prematurely escaping his hold, McPherson came partway around the Rack. He looked at her flanks a moment, then nodded. "I'll take that bet."
"Put a piece up for it?" Master Wilhite asked.
"That new silver bridle bit I bought?"
"A beautiful piece that. How about a cane or two for your personal stock?"
"Throw in a nice lap paddle, good for over-the-knee spanking, and you've got a deal. I've got plenty of severe implements. It's the intimate ones I'm needing now."
"I'll even inscribe your Personal's name into it ... when you get one."
McPherson laughed and returned to the head of the Rack.
He braced his foot upon the bottom and pulled Mimic well over. During their conversation, Mimic had lost all shreds of bravado. She screamed as he continued.
Master Wilhite lost the game, landing only two of the following six strokes successfully without overlapping. Mimic twisted and writhed upon the Rack's leather padding for several minutes after they released her from it. When finally she at last came back to herself enough to leave the room, she did so clutching her bottom with both hands, uttering a deep and dreadful groan that accompanied each step.
"Tawny, my darling," Master Wilhite called, and beckoned her with his finger. "Come to me."
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Clutching the front of her uniform skirt, Tawny took two trembling steps and then broke completely down. McPherson had to help her to the Rack. From first to last, she screamed and howled.
Ebony fainted twice: once as Tawny stumbled past us for the door, a trickle of blood winding down the back of her leg where the cane had cut her, and a second time just after the tenth of her horrific eighteen stroke count. Smelling salts were applied to bring her back around before the caning continued, the final six overlapping upon his previous strokes until she screeched like something wild and inhuman.
He rubbed her back and kissed her forehead when it was done. "God, I love it when they shout like that!"
Then she, too, was punished and gone. And I was all that was left, suddenly very much alone, with two devils grinning in front of me.
It was my turn. The room spun. I couldn't move.
"Mischief?" Master Wilhite patted the black leather padding of the Rack's groin saddle. "Hop on up here, sweetheart. The quicker it's over and done, the better you'll feel about it.
Come on."
Slowly I forced myself to take that first step, unable even to take my eyes from that frightful contraption. McPherson held out his hand, and I lay mine in his steady palm. He helped me to balance myself as I stepped each foot into the ankle stocks. They had to adjust the Rack for my shorter stature, and as I pressed my hips into the saddle, I felt how warm the pommel still was from the groins of each previous 126
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Lesser. I shuddered, very nearly losing it right there, but for Master Wilhite, who touched the small of my back.
"I know it's your first time, Mischief." He stroked up to rub my shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm going to take good care of you. We'll divide this down into three sets of ten. After each set, we'll take a break so you can calm down some before we continue. All right?"
I was so terrified, I nodded—nodded!—and lay myself down upon the horizontal board. The bracing bar was pressed into the small of my back, clamping down on my hips firmly and forcing my bottom to curve up for the cane. The strength of its hold was surprising. My lower half was so stretched, I could barely even flex my legs.
"Do you remember what you need to say?" Wilhite asked.
My mind went suddenly, completely blank. I stuttered,
"This—this one l-loves her M-Master?"
McPherson arched his red eyebrows and grinned back at Wilhite. "He is teaching her, isn't he?"
Wilhite only said, "Close enough," and patted my hip. As he drew the skirt of my uniform up to bare me for punishment, he tsked. "Look at this. What a mess. Mischief, I'll try not to draw blood so we can stay up off your thighs for as long as possible. Poor girl, you are going to feel this."
When McPherson held out his hands, I, shaking badly, reached out to take them. That was when the door opened behind us.
"Hell no," Master Wilhite said as Tane entered the Demerit Room. "Absolutely not. I'm the Black Master this week. I 127
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refuse to step aside until I've thumped her at least once. You owe me that much at the very least!"
"I am not here to take your place." Tane held the door open for Deaton who brought in two chairs. "I wish merely to hear her scream."
Keeping to the back of the room, they set the chairs against the wall and sat down side by side. Tane stretched his long legs out before him, crossing them at the ankles. He folded his hands over his stomach, resting his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. "Proceed, Master Wilhite. Give me a symphony."
Mine was a brief fury of rebellion, but it helped me to stay silent through the first three strokes. After that I was lost to torture. Hellish, burning waves of pain assailed me; pure white fire carried me on infernal wings to new planes of agony. I don't remember screaming. They told me later that Master Deaton opened the Demerit Room door so the halls of Judgment could sing with the sounds of my suffering, but I don't remember that, either.
I do remember feeling broken: totally, mentally, physically, utterly broken. I remember hurting every where, as though Master Wilhite had taken his cane and beaten me from head to foot. And I remember Tane's strong arms, lifting me from the Rack, cradling me to his chest as he carried me back to his quarters. He bathed me, limp as a rag though I was, staining his washcloth with my blood, and he gave me something to soothe my raw, voiceless throat.
I slept the night in his bed and awoke in the morning to the gentle touch of his hands upon my body. I turned into his 128
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kiss without much coaxing, sighing as he slid himself inside me, wrapping my limbs around him despite the excruciating pain and trying to move with him. I wanted him as close to me as he could come. If he was close, then he could not hurt me. If he was close, then I was safe.
"Good girl," he murmured and cupped the side of my face in his hand. "You are mine, Mischief. My beautiful Mischief."
I wept as he made me come.
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My stomach growled three times in one hour and the
Detective decided to break for lunch. The blonde detective
said something about a corner vender and the other two men
took out their wallets and gave him money. The Detective
asked me, "Ketchup and mustard okay with you?"
I couldn't remember what either of those were, but I didn't
want to be difficult. So I just agreed. "Yes, s—" I caught
myself just as he raised an eyebrow. "Yes."
He smiled. "Thank you."
Jim went to get drinks, and the Detective took me to the
bathroom. Then we waited for the food to arrive. Jim returned
first and put four cans on the table.
"I didn't know what you wanted so I got you a diet," he
said as he set one in front of me. I looked at it. It must have
been cold, there was condensation already building on the
outside.
Then the blonde detective returned with a box. "Hey, hey!
Grub's on!"
He unpacked several individually wrapped items around
the table and even placed one in front of me.
Another punishment.
My stomach clenched and bit painfully. I gripped my
fingers in my lap in silent frustration. Miserably, I watched
them eat. It had been two days since my Master and I were
separated. Two days since my last meal. I was so hungry!
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"What's the matter?" Jim snapped. "Hotdogs too good for
you?"
"Shut up, Jim," the other two said in bored unison.
"Maybe she's not hungry," the blonde detective suggested,
but my grumbling stomach vetoed that.
"Maybe she's never had a hotdog before," said the
Detective.
"Or maybe—" Jim said, emphasizing the word above my
bowed head, "—she likes sitting on cushions at her 'master's'
feet while she eats little delicacies from his fingertips. Maybe
she likes being pampered and is waiting for us to do all that
for her, too."
"Man, I'm gonna hit you if you don't shut the fuck up," the
blonde detective snarled. "Leave the woman alone. She's got
it rough enough already without you nettling her."
"Fuck you," Jim laughed.
And while the two drew breath to argue in full fury, the
Detective suddenly raised his face to look at me. He softly
said, "That's it."
The other two looked at him.
"What's it?" Jim said finally.
The Detective put down his food and picked up mine. I
watched with hungry, watering eyes, fully expecting him to
eat it right there in front of me. My shoulders jerking
spasmodically, I began to choke on the sobs rising in my
throat.
"Hold on, hold on. I'm going as fast as I can." Unwrapping
the hotdog, the Detective broke off a small portion of meat
and bun and raised it to my mouth.
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I lunged forward, grabbing his hand with both of mine to
keep him from pulling away before I could take a bite in my
teeth. For such behavior at Judgment, I would have been
severely punished. But here I didn't care. I barely chewed
before swallowing, small whimpers of relief escaping as I bit
hungrily into a second piece.
"She can't feed herself," the Detective said. "God, I'm such
an idiot. She can't dress or undress herself. Last night she
couldn't get into bed herself. She didn't know how to wash
her hands, either. I had to do that for her the other day. It
only goes to figure..."
"They don't let her eat?" the blonde detective asked, his
eyebrows raised incredulously.
"They don't let her feed herself." The Detective had run out
of my hotdog and picked his own to give me. I all but cooed
appreciation.
"Bull shit," Jim barked. "She could if she wanted to. Just
leave it sitting in front of her. When she gets hungry enough,
she'll eat."
The blonde detective was staring at me. "Man, would you
look at her inhale that stuff."
"No, I think she'd starve before she fed herself," the
Detective told Jim. "Remember a few years ago, in the paper,
that story on a boy the South Central P.D. picked up. The
poor kid's parents had forced him to live in a small storage
closet for seven years before a neighbor saw them feeding
him through the door and called it in. The kid was eleven
years old when they first locked him up. By the time he was
released, he crawled around like a dog, barking and whining
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