Mistress of Redemption (24 page)

over the top of one curve and began

to lick. Suck, nip, taste her skin, tease

her, reveling in the ability to at last

touch her. For a few moments that

was all that was in his mind. That,

and the torture going on in his groin

area. He followed her command to

the letter so he could have this

sensation, even while his genitals felt

like they were in the clamp of a bear

trap. He pleasured her, not for any

calculated reason or to persuade her

to release him sooner.

That was up to her. He just had to

please her. She’d release him if he

did a good job, obeyed her Will

fully. That was all his lust let him

think about.

God, he would have been willing to

stay in the torture device in which

she’d encased his cock another

eternity for the right to suckle that

sweet nipple that was hardening

against his temple. Her lips pressed

against the base of his neck and he

wanted to dip his head, kiss her

mouth. But the way she was arched

up against his mouth now, he knew

what she wanted most.

“Please, Mistress. Let me suck on

you. Please.” He murmured it against

her skin, felt her touch his bare scalp,

stroking him. He saw a spot of blood

on the side of her neck, just a fleck.

She’d said every bit, hadn’t she?

Her breath drew in as he reached it.

Her fingers tightened. The triumph he

felt sent a surge of blood into his

cock that nearly caused him to cry out

in agony. For once the satisfaction he

felt at a woman’s response was not

the satisfaction of a predator, but of a

man coaxing a reaction out of a

woman he desired, a lover, a

Mistress he wanted to please, to

serve. He liked the feeling. Liked it

enough to keep nibbling on her throat,

despite the tearing fire in his groin

and the bite of those metal discs.

Her hand curved over the back of his

head, caressing the base of his skull.

He wondered that anyone would

think that heaven was north when

dealing with Dona’s well-built body.

When she guided his mouth over her

right nipple, her voice was the

answer to a prayer.

“Suck on me.”

As he fastened on her eagerly, the

reality changed, the pain and restraint

on his groin area gone. They were no

longer at the tablet that had reminded

him uneasily of a sacrificial altar.

The mirrors turned, showing Dona

stretched out on a luxurious fainting

couch, tossed with velvet throws.

One of her knees was bent, allowing

her leg to lean 94

Mistress of Redemption

against the side of the back cushion

so her legs in the tight pants were

spread wide, taunting his peripheral

vision with the lazy rock of that knee.

The fabric at her crotch creased with

the back-and-forth movement as he

knelt on the floor next to her, his head

beneath her hand. His hands were

bound behind his back as he nursed

her eagerly, wishing he could palm

the full roundness of the breast in his

two hands. She had such large

nipples, like the sweetest of pale

pink marshmallows, gone firm as

gumdrops beneath his tongue and

lips.

He was skilled at pleasing a woman

and yet he’d never done it as he did it

now, to prove to her that he was

worth having at her side…

Daring to look up, he saw her lips

were parted, color flushed. Her

breath whispered from her in an

excited cadence. He wanted his

hands free, wanted to have her

permission to touch those slick, soft

lips between her legs, the globes of

her buttocks so well defined but not

revealed. If he could, he could make

her writhe. Feel her softness…

Make her lose control… Taste those

gumdrop nipples… She’d be his then,

and he’d have the upper hand… He

could make her beg. Even in Hell he

could win.

Do you want your candy now?

He jerked back, his head rising at the

insidious whisper, the taste of

gumdrops on his tongue. The mirrors

turned and a shadow became that

hated image again, a woman of

enormous size, three hundred pounds

encased in tight stretch pedal pushers

and a sweatshirt with the Disney

Siamese cats from
Lady and the

Tramp
on it. She held out a handful

of candy in her hand. She had nails as

long as steak knives, as they’d been

in his childish memory.

Stumbling away from the couch, he

spat, trying to get rid of the sickly

sugar taste.

He told himself if he’d been close

enough he would have tried to hit

Dona with the spittle. He would have

dared it, no matter the consequences.

“So did you taste like that on

purpose?” He made it an accusation,

but the anger was already slipping

away. His heart wasn’t in it. He’d

been so close to

something…different. Hadn’t he?

She’d duped him.

“No. That was you, Jonathan. Your

desire to manipulate me was about to

rise, driving away your joy in the

simple act of pleasing me. This is

another of your mirrors, called at

your behest. Pity, because you were

pleasing me quite well.”

Dona rose, every hair and item of

clothing in place, and drew his

attention to the turning mirrors.

“Foster mother number one…” she

observed, touching the glass. The

image rippled as if it were water she

had disturbed. Pieces of the woman

were picked up on all the mirrors

around them. A profile, a close-up of

her ear, her mouth, a fat thigh, a

meaty hand, all flashing at him,

making him feel sick, disoriented.

“She thought you ate too much.”

“She fucking tried to starve me.” The

words scraped in his throat. “When I

tried to steal food from the kitchen,

she caught me at it. After that, she’d

throw my food in the backyard, make

me eat it on my hands and knees like I

was a dog. It was a rural area, 95

Joey W. Hill

no close neighbors. Sometimes she’d

chain me out there with a collar, tell

me if I took it off I wouldn’t get any

dinner at all.”

He stood upright, alone. Sweating,

trembling, facing that image. As the

mirrors kept turning, moving, he lost

sight of Dona. Anger rose up in him

at that hated face, all the horrible,

disgusting features. Dona had known

what she was doing, slashing him

open with Lauren and then pouring

his worst foster mother like salt into

that wound.

But she wouldn’t defeat him. None of

them would.

“So I learned. Learned what drove

her. She was going to throw some

candy out in the yard one day, one

measly piece for me when she had a

whole box. I told her I wanted to eat

it out of her lap, like a good dog

would. Eat only from the hand of his

Mistress. You should have seen the

light that rose in her eyes.” His lip

curled up in an almost canine snarl,

remembering how it quickly became

a daily routine.

“Little boys are just hound dogs.”

She nodded, studying him with

green eyes the color of
institutional
walls. “Your dinner’s buried in the

backyard. Go find it, eat every bite

and come
back to get dessert.” She
opened her pants, dropped the

candy down and wiggled until it

became
a lumpy expanse at her

crotch. “You’ll get your dessert

then. Teach you to waste food and

sass
me. Chain you up in the yard if
you don’t behave.”

It disgusted him, not just because it

was a horrible memory, but because

he’d figured out the solution by

twisting a compulsion he’d had, even

so young. There was something

beckoning to him, a desire to serve a

woman, be her slave, but in an

entirely different way… He’d used it

to defend himself. Just as Dona used

her undeniable need to be a Mistress

to serve the purposes of Redemption,

he’d used his undeniable craving to

be a submissive to make it through

the foster care system.

You had to twist a gift a woman

should treasure into a hideous

weapon. It helped destroy
your soul,
your faith in women entirely. You

were an innocent then. You can’t

blame yourself
for that one. You

were a survivor, Nathan, and you

used the only tool you had. Instinct.

He wasn’t an innocent victim. Things

had happened later…

At that point you
were
innocent. The
rest happened later.

He shook his head, shook the words

away from him as if he were

scattering the shards of the mirror

Dona had broken earlier. “It clicked

then. Every woman had a weak side,

a darkness. I just had to figure out her

light switch, turn her on and off, and

then I could have anything I wanted

from her.” He glared defiantly at that

image. “I ate good after that. She let

me sleep on the floor by her bed,

instead of out in the yard. Until social

services found out about her and

moved me on again.”

Before prison, he’d considered

himself fit. He’d taken martial arts,

self-defense courses, had owned and

known how to use a gun on a practice

range. Once in prison, he’d realized

he knew nothing about the level of

fitness required for survival versus

show. But adaptability had gotten him

through the foster care system, drove

him to learn about table manners and

dressing well so he could appear like

a well-to-do stockbroker who had

never experienced anything but

private schools and church on

Sunday. That adaptability had

allowed him to change again.

Suffering through the 96

Mistress of Redemption

beatings, what passed for “routine”

rape and a couple of serious gang

rapes, he’d found out how to turn

fitness into dangerous strength and

agility, both of mind and body.

Which was why now he didn’t

hesitate to take two strides forward

and plunge his fist into the glass,

shattering his foster mother’s face.

The glass cut but the blood flowed

out clean from his knuckles, a

purification. The shattered pieces

were there for one satisfying moment.

Then they were gone, the mirror

remade around his plunged fist.

Sucking him in, it seized his other

wrist when he punched at it to make

it let him go.

Now he was held fast. The shadows

in the mirror shifted like the face of a

Grim Reaper in the cowl of His robe,

elusive but dreadful.

“Dona…” He despised himself for

the panic in his voice, but those

shadows were coming closer and he

knew what had to be behind them.

“Dona!”

“I’m here.” Her hands, cool and

almost gentle in their ruthless

implacability, closed on his waist.

Though he couldn’t turn and see her,

she was naked. Her bare breasts

mashed lightly against his skin. The

length of her smooth thigh was soft

against his. Her pubic mound brushed

the seam of his buttocks. Just a

beautiful woman, simple and pure

against his own nakedness.

“It won’t let me go.”

“I know. You want to break the

mirror, but you won’t let go of what

created it.

You’re holding yourself.”

“There are more…”

“Six foster mothers. The last one who

had you took in ten children and only

had time to make sure you were

dressed and sent off to school each

day. That was probably the best of

the lot.”

The shadows started to form images.

“No.” He jerked, but the glass held

fast.

Dona’s arms circled his waist, her

fingers playing absently along the top

of his cock.

Now he was face-to-face with the

obscenely layered images of all of

them. There was a reason six was

considered an evil number. Violence,

apathy, gluttony, indifference, greed

and perversity. Six creative ways to

rip away the outer shell of a child

and thrust a man out of the remains,

leaving him shivering and unformed

to face the world.

He had to calm down. Dona’s hands

were devastatingly tender. Somehow

that made it both better and worse.

“They destroyed the perfect human

being you would have become.

That’s what you think, don’t you? In

the deepest part of your heart, the

only place you don’t lie to yourself,

you think you’re garbage because you