Mercy (34 page)

It was one of those nights when my ankle was almost completely better that Matthew stroked my face and said, “So, now, Lucy, can I be your dominant husband?”

“You call that a proposal?” He pulled out a ring that made my jaw drop.

“Lucy Merritt, marry me.” An order, not a question, of course.

“And be your submissive wife? Let me think it over.” I pretended to for all of three seconds. “Yes, Matthew, I will.”

He kissed me a long time, then he whispered to me.

“Lucy, will you always be truthful to me? Forever?”

“Yes, Matthew,” I said. “I promise I will.”

And I really meant it this time.

* * *

We had a wonderfully beautiful wedding that Matthew’s money threw together in a week. His rich developer friends attended, and the dancers from my company. They wished me well but they looked at me with fear in their eyes.
She’s through. Someday I’ll be through too.
But being through wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. As time went by, I missed dancing less, and settled into the wonder of just being Matthew’s wife.

I was quickly becoming Matthew’s huge, bloated, whale-like wife, but he seemed to love me just the same. And being Matthew’s wife was a full time job, much to my pleasure and occasional pain. We played almost every day, and every night, and I’d never known such happiness in my life.

We found out eventually that we were going to be having a boy, so we began to shop for blue and boyish things. It was one such time, when we were out shopping downtown, that we ran into Joe. We were getting coffee, and a huge pastry to feed my pregnant hunger, when I looked up and saw his eyes on me, on my massive waistline, and Matthew at my side.

“Hi, Joe,” I said. Matthew’s eyes shot to him. “Matthew, this is Joe. We almost got married once.”

Joe had the grace to look sheepish. He had a ring on his finger. “Kim and I got married. And

I see you did, too.”

“This is my husband Matthew.”

Matthew and Joe shook hands, in that way of two men who’ve loved the same woman.

“Nice to meet you,” Matthew said. “I guess I should thank you for being foolish enough to leave her at the altar.”

I nudged him, rolling my eyes.

The awkward conversation ended shortly afterward and we said our goodbyes. As soon as he was out of earshot, Matthew taunted him under his breath. “Idiot,” he muttered. “Vanilla
fuckboy
.”

“Matthew, be nice. His loss is your gain.”

“And yours too,” he whispered, eyeing me lasciviously.

I laughed. “How can you look at me like that, when I look like this?” I pointed down at my huge belly, round and swollen.

“I think you’ve never looked sexier. I bet Joe did too. I can’t wait to take you home and fuck you.”

“Stop!”
I laughed, looking around at the people passing by us, oblivious to what he said. “You’re such a
perv
. To even think of fucking a woman this pregnant—”

“What are you talking about? We’ll be fucking up until the bitter end. Did you hear that, baby?” he said to my stomach. “If the womb’s a
rockin
’...”

“Don’t talk to our baby about sex!” I giggled.

“I’ll be pushing the doctor out of the way to get at you in the delivery room.”

“Matthew!”

“Those stirrups will come in handy. I’ll be hunkered down there with my mouth between your legs.”

“Oh God,” I laughed. “Please shut up! You’re so sick!”

“You made me that way. You’re the one who did this to me and you know it. I was doomed the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Yes, we spent many fun, wonderful afternoons shopping and preparing for our lives to really, really change. We fixed up a nursery for our soon-to-be-born baby on the top floor of the house, the longest possible distance from the basement where we played, for obvious reasons.

In the early hours of New Years Day a little over a year and three months since we’d met, we had a healthy, darling baby boy. He had light blue eyes and red curly locks of hair, and we named our beautiful baby Keats.

Epilogue

His deep voice whispered over the monitor. “Little Lucy, I’m coming for you.”

I laughed. So he’d successfully gotten Keats to bed. I was in the basement room, kneeling by the sofa. A moment later he was there at the door.

“Did you hear me?”

I nodded with a smile. It was a little ritual we used to test the monitors each night. A whispered message to whoever waited below, more provocative some nights than others.

He came to the sofa shedding his clothes. He looked down at me, taking control without words. As always, I gave myself over to him easily and thankfully. He sat in front of me, spreading his legs and guiding my mouth to his cock. I sucked him. He pinched my nipples each time he wanted something different, for me to lick his balls, or rim his ass. I stroked my lover and my husband all over, and he came on my lips and on my tongue.

“Beautiful little whore. Savor it. Swallow it all.”

I did, with grateful exuberance. He watched me,
then
pulled me over his lap. He started to spank me and I moaned from the pleasure of the contact. I squeezed and kissed his leg, and then I nibbled.

“No biting, Lucy,” he said with an especially sharp crack.

I jerked under the harsh sting of it and he gripped my arm more firmly behind my back. He spanked me soundly and I reveled in it. No matter how many times he did it, I still wanted more. When my ass was deep pink and burning, he stood me up and walked me to the center of the room.

“Stay,” he said, and I complied, although I shifted a little from one leg to the other, trying to cope with the discomfort of my reddened ass and the increasing arousal in my pussy and clit.

He looked at me sternly on his way back from the armoire.

“Behave yourself. Stand still.” Over his arm
was
a fine silk garter belt and some matching black stockings. I shuddered a little in delicious anticipation. It was going to be one of
those
nights.

He knelt at my feet and fit the garter belt to my waist, then laced it up in the back. He smoothed it down over my hips and my bottom,
then
picked up the first of the black stockings in his hands.

“Turn,” he told me, his voice low and raspy. I did, and pointed one toe. He gathered the stocking up with deft fingers and smoothed it up my leg with a delicate touch that belied his strength. He carefully hooked it in the front and the back, working the tiny garter clasps with a skill born of practice.

“Your other foot.”
He did the same, gathering the stocking up, pulling it up to the top of my thigh, and hooking the clasps. He held my foot in his hands, massaged it.
“Point.”

I obeyed. He caressed my pointed foot while I stood perfectly still. “I thought dancers were supposed to have ugly feet,” he said.

“I’m not a dancer anymore.”

“Of course you are. You always will be.” He picked up my other foot and I pointed it in his hands. He ran his fingers over the arch and across the top.

“How beautiful you are, Lucy.”

“Thank you, Matthew.”

His fingers moved up higher, splayed across my ankle and then up my shin. He shifted to crouch behind me until I could feel his hot, steady breath on the back of my thighs. With both hands he smoothed the back seams, running one finger up the center of each calf. I tried to stand still but I was so hot, so wet. I tried to stand still and be a good submissive to him.

I felt his mouth brush against my outer thigh, and then at the lacy sheer top of the stocking, he placed a kiss. He nibbled, softly biting the pale skin outlined by garters, and wherever he bit me, he licked and tasted me too.

“Down, lie down.” He pulled me down to the floor right there where I stood. He parted my thighs and licked above my stocking tops, and I flexed my thighs in that way I knew drove him wild.

“Your hands,” he growled, and I gave my hands to him. He grasped them tightly in his own. His questing mouth settled between my legs, and the second he put his lips on me, I arched under him, the warm erotic sensation too much to bear.

“Lucy,” he chided. “Be a good girl. Don’t you come
yet.
I’ll punish you if you come.”

I shook my head and gritted my teeth as he
laved
me. Lick, caress,
nibble
. Each point of contact sent lust through every teeming nerve. He went on and on, teasing me to insanity.

“Matthew, please!”

“No.” His deep voice vibrated against my clit. He nipped me softly, thrusting his fingers inside me.

“Please, Matthew, please, you’re going to make me come!”

“I said no,” he growled, feigning impatience. “You obey me or you’re going to pay.”

I felt him smile against my clit as he closed his teeth on it and very intentionally sent me over the edge. I came with a howl, shaking and bucking. He licked me hard across my entire aching slit,
then
looked up at me with a devilish grin.

“You’re so naughty, such a naughty girl. I don’t think you’ll ever learn.”

He hauled me up, looking down at me masterfully,
then
kissed me long and hard so I tasted myself on his lips. He ran his rough hands over my bottom, squeezing and pinching it.

“You’ve already had one spanking tonight. You’re going to be sore.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry I came without permission.”

“I know you’re sorry, but my rules are very clear.”

I loved this man. He hauled me to the armoire and I stood beside him and watched him choose which instrument to punish me with. He chose the thick leather strap that really smarted. “Over to the wall, Lucy. You know what to do.”

I went to the wall and put my hands on it, and rested my forehead against it. I thrust out my ass just the way he liked me to, and he tapped it lightly with the strap.

“Part your legs.” I did, but not very wide. He popped me then. “More. Don’t fuck around.”

With a sharp yelp I parted them wider. “I’m sorry, Matthew!”

“Hush. Just stop dawdling, it annoys me. Spread your legs and stick your lovely little ass out to me. You know by now how this works.”

I did as he
asked,
my trembling legs spread wide, my ass ready to accept whatever punishment he wanted to mete out. That night, he was in a mood to beat me hard, and he landed some good ones that had me hopping up on my toes.

“Keep your legs spread. Stand still or I’ll add more strokes.”

I whined because it was a really hard strapping, but I tried to resume the position he liked, that had me spread wide and open to him. My hands clenched into fists against the wall as I counted each stroke and struggled not to reach back.

“Don’t you dare take your hands off that wall,” he said. “If you cover yourself, you’ll be a very sorry girl.”