Chapter 26: Mercy

[al****]

The story continues of my third live-in , right where the last chapter left it smoldering.

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I’d dropped her in the almond-colored bedroom around six. Maybe six-thirty. Room hadn’t changed in over a year, looked about as tired as I felt. Still buzzed, not drunk enough to pass out again. I made my way to the kitchen, stepping over shattered glass like a minefield in bare feet, feeling every sharp edge and crunch under my heels. Set up the coffee, fresh and black, trying to clear my head one pour at a time. She stayed upstairs till a little past noon, looking sensational in the doorway, unapologetically bare, like she owned the bruises ***tered across her ass and back from last night’s tour of every surface in the house. Then, arms crossed, she squints.

“Are those fucking cameras in your room?” She pauses. “And… how the hell did I get this shiner?”

I hand her the robe, watch her slip it on, her naked body disappearing behind thick folds of cotton before she sits down at the table. The cold peas go next, into her hand, onto that soft purple spreading under her eye, blooming like bruised ink in water. She doesn’t flinch. Just holds it there, eyes on me. She sits, waiting.

I pour the coffee, dark and bitter, slide the cup over, watch her wrap her hands around it like she’s holding something fragile. She takes a sip, eyes still on mine. And then I start.

My job. My house. That she didn’t sleep in my room. Keep it simple, keep it clean. The high-level stuff. A flash summary of the other room. Who I am, what I need, the women who’ve lived here before. I spit it all out in rapid-fire bursts, a checklist of facts with no room for question. She just watches, sipping, eyes steady over the rim of her mug, and I’m a machine gun firing every point I’ve ever memorized about myself.

Then I stop, take a breath.

She tilts her head, raises an eyebrow, her voice soft, even. “Can I watch us from last night?”

I feel the grin pull at my lips, leading her upstairs to my office. She practically floats up the steps, fingertips trailing along the banister. In the office, she swings her legs over my lap, settles in, a glint of flirt in her eyes as she shifts against me.

If I’d just hit rewind, gone back to the couch, maybe looked a little closer, maybe I would’ve seen it, the hint of the path we were on, the thread dangling toward where we were headed. But I was too locked in, fixated on how we’d look, the perfect shot caught under the glow of the cameras. I thought we’d start at the bar. Thought she’d like the rough slap of wood against her skin, the jolt when her head met the wine rack, glass shattering down in a slow-motion sparkle; each shard catching light like diamonds.

“That’s hot,” she said, her eyes on the screen, her body pressed into mine, like we were still in that moment, like we’d never left.

I don’t answer. Just let the tape roll, frame by frame, as we make our way to the bottom of the stairs. I’m practically carrying her, hands tight around her hips. Then, I slam her down, her head knocking back against the steps, one, two, as I pull her to me, lining up her body to mine. She keeps trying to edge forward, her elbows pushing up the stairs, spine arching, putting space between us. But I pull her right back, sliding her against the carpet, each movement creating that delicious friction.

She wraps her arms around my neck, breathless, that edge of lust simmering under the surface. “We look good together.”

The screen goes blank as I kill the feed. “So… you’re good with the recording?” The words slip out casually, as if I’d delete it if she weren’t.

She shrugs, not looking at me. “As long as it doesn’t end up on the internet,” she says, leaning in, her eyes scanning the screen. “It is what it is.”

And then her eyes widen, catching the live feed in the upper corner. Feed One: my favorite chair. Sleek, curved like a sculptor’s afterthought, the wood bending back like a perfect question mark. It whispers things about weight and balance, about the architecture of flesh. You sit in it, it holds you right there in that space between tension and release, in that dark, quiet place where even breathing feels loud. She’s practically biting her lip, eyes running over every sinuous inch of it.

“That’s for good girls,” I say, watching her face.

Then, with a nudge of my thumb, I guide her chin toward the bottom corner of the screen. “And this one here,” I say, and she moves closer, curiosity spilling from her like heat, “is for girls who need discipline.”

Her eyes trace the bench, a beast cloaked in black leather, low and thick, with a gleam that’s predatory, sleek. It’s simple. Unapologetic. Metal rings hang off the sides, quiet, waiting, ready to take wrists, ankles, anything needing control. The bench doesn’t care about comfort; it’s there to serve its purpose. It’s a confessional, a stage, a place of trust and control.

She swallows, her lips parted. “Can I… go see it?”

“We don’t go in there if we don’t play,” I say, almost teasing, hoping for that one phrase that sets it all in motion: I’m in.

She shifts her focus, eyes on the screen showing the almond room, the room she’d be living in if she said yes. “So,” she starts, tracing a finger over the screen, “would I have to live in there…” Her gaze returns to the leather chair, that quiet piece of art. “…to play in here?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” I say, dragging the word 'have' out like a piano wire pulled taut, letting it sink in. “You can pick a room, either one, or both if you want, you have to follow the rules that come with each.”

The bartender squints, bleary-eyed, and asks, "If you tell me to do something and I'm sick, like now, I’m hungover, and there’s no way I can even think about blowing you, what am I supposed to say?"

My response is surgical, precise. “Simple. 'Sir, I wish to serve fully, but today I am limited.' That would tell me everything. Then I’d decide if I still want your mouth, or if I'm fine with a different approach."

She blinks, wincing. "So you would make me do that while my head’s splitting, and my stomach’s about to turn inside out?"

Her word choice grates on me, make me do that. A jagged edge in her tone, maybe resentment, like I’m asking something unreasonable. “I don’t like make,” I tell her, holding steady. “But I want what I want. Anyone in that room has to be prepared to put my desires first. If you’re unwell, and I need release, I’ll weigh the options. How you behave, the effort you give, it affects what I choose.”

And there it is. The bait. I’d never meant for this conversation, never meant to drag her here, into this world. But here she is, tripping into it, and I see that flash, that half-second chance she’ll say “I’m in.” That charge fires, like the taste of success hot in the back of my throat, that pulse as my mind sharpens and narrows, zoning in on her, every nerve alive, the buzz of need tightening in my gut. If she says yes, I’m ready. And God, do I want her to be all in.

I let the silence breathe between us. “I don’t expect perfection from the start,” I say, almost a whisper, coaxing. “That’s what my playroom is for. Training. Molding you into exactly what I need.”

"But I can’t say no? I can’t say stop?" Her voice edges on a challenge.

I’m careful, each word precise. “You can say stop. You can say no. But those words mean we end. Whatever we’re building, it’s over.”

Silence. It stretches so long, a single moment holds the weight of eternity, pressing against us, pushing me to look away but I don’t. Then she mutters, her voice almost swallowed, “This seems… a little much. Maybe too much for me.”

I prop her off my lap, turn her so I can look her dead in the eyes. “Maybe this isn’t for you,” I say. “We had our fun; it is what it is.”

Slowly, I let the robe slip open, giving myself one more look at her bare form, catching that last spark before it’s gone. "Might be down for another round, though. No booze this time," I say, half-joking, as I draw the robe closed again.

She shifts slightly, searching for a response, hesitant but resolved. “If I can’t handle something, if I ask for…” she pauses, glancing down, finding the right word, “mercy. If it gets too intense, would you give me that? Mercy, I mean. Until I’m ready to try again.”

A decade on this journey, and I’ve never heard that question before. They’re either in or out. Yes, from Blondie, Sugar Lips. Yes, with limits, like Red. Or a hard no from the ones who didn’t leave an impression worth even a footnote. But here she is, asking for something… intriguing.

Something’s missing. Something doesn’t fit.

“Were you honest about it being four years since you’ve been with a man?” I ask, steady and direct.

“Yes.” Her answer is clipped, blunt, like she’s stating a fact.

“Then why the hell are you even considering this? This is like a rookie swimmer jumping straight into the deep end, no floaties.”

She holds her ground, and her answer cuts deeper than I expect, something raw pulling at her expression. “There’s something about all of this… about you that makes me feel safe.”

And there it is, this strange, quiet vulnerability that snaps me back, a momentary thread connecting us. I can feel myself drawn in, that familiar, nagging itch, wondering if I can make this work. Testing her, I ask, “If we go down this path, what scares you the most?”

Her answer is sharp, fast, unwavering. “Sex and ***.”

She shifts, crossing her arms like a shield, and adds, “I’ve been in the service industry my whole life, so I think I’d be pretty good at the non-sex stuff you described.”

I let the silence sit a second. "Are you willing to learn to submit? Not just to do what I say but not question it?"

She shifts a little, her honesty coming through. “I think so.”

I don’t let up. “Not ‘think.’ I need you to know. Picture all the things I might ask, the ways I’d shape you. The molding. The punishment.” I soften just a bit, let the next sentence steady her. “There won’t be ***. That’s one thing you’ll never need to worry about. But there are things you’ll need to adapt to sexually, things I’ll guide you through.”

My voice hits, sinking in like stones. Her pulse stutters a bit; I feel the shift. Another silence stretches long and thick, her mind spinning, I can tell.

She takes a breath. “I don’t know if I can… in my ass. You’d split me in half.”

I feel the corner of my mouth tug, but I keep it level. “Could you try? Could you put your faith in me, trust that I’d know what your body can handle?”

She thinks, eyes meeting mine. “Yes… I think I can.”

‘Think.’ There it is again, that word she leans on like a crutch. She isn’t ready, not yet. So I ease back, give her something she can hold onto.

“Here’s what we do,” I say, keeping it casual, like I’m doing her a favor. “A trial run. A few weeks. You come when I say, do what I ask, give me everything. Then, if it feels right, we’ll go further. You leave your job, make that room yours.”

I watch her, the flicker of hesitation still in her eyes. “What do you say?”

I’m throbbing, hard as steel, balancing on that edge where thought and instinct meet, where one wrong word from her might shatter me. Her legs shift, and there’s my erection, hot and firm, a barrier between us that’s more invitation than blockade. Then, her words hit like a release valve. "Let’s give it a shot," she says, and that’s almost enough to make me lose it.

Maybe I did, just a little, right there.

My voice, measured and slow, that edge of command. “Then let’s start. Remember, when I tell you something, good girls say ‘Yes, sir.’ You want to be treated like a good girl, don’t you?” Each word drips, lands heavy between us.

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, and that weight on my chest is like a vice, clamping down. My heart’s hammering; I can feel the heat pooling, building, my mouth watering as I offer her the first command, the test that’ll define the rest. “Then suck my dick.”

She shifts, her face still marked with the remnants of last night’s choices, her skin pale, almost sickly green, but she doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir,” she breathes,  like an oath, as she drops to her knees, her robe slipping like a curtain as she leans in, lips parted, ready.

Then, loud and clear, I say, “Stop.”

She freezes. Her eyes meet mine, searching, waiting. She’s passed her first test, so with my first act of mercy, I stand, pulling her robe from her shoulders, letting it slip to the floor, her skin bared in the dim room. I take her, bending her over the computer chair, my hands gripping her, claiming what’s now mine.