A Number's Game Ch. 02

Chapter II - Sixey's Sorrow

My Master! My Master! What have I done?

Did I not play your game properly? Did I not please you? Does this body disgust you, this face repel you? I'm sorry I spoke, Master. You'll never hear my voice again, if that is your desire.

I knew I couldn't hide it from you when I came. I tried so hard, Master! I promise to never come again when I swallow you. Or at least, I promise to try not to.

Oh Master, I am so ashamed! My dreams were so foolish. Of all the Hierarchy who could've drawn my lot, you are the one who least deserves a pathetic creature like me. My body is pale, sickly, and weak. Who could ever want to touch where supple flesh should be and feel nothing but unyielding bone just beneath the skin? Who could ever love this face? This hideous face? Master deserves a prettier, softer plaything.

This cage. This cage is what I deserve. To be locked away from your sight. To go without sustenance until my belly distends and my eyes bulge from their sockets. To slowly starve to death on this cold stone floor. If this is your desire, Master, I will comply, and I will do so silently. I only wish it could be otherwise.

My come is not the only secret I've tried to keep from you, Master. There are more, and I am ashamed of them.

While you have forgotten me, I remember you. It was Parade Day, many years ago. I was just a girl, still five years from harvest. The whole of Palsinore was buzzing with chatter before the Hierarchal Parade arrived. I overheard my sister's friends talking, dreaming of having their lots drawn, but mostly, dreaming of Emancipation and the entitlement it brings: the wealth and power, the gift of two Tithes a year to keep or discard as they please.

My sister, Allura, had been entering the lottery for two years, dreaming of being picked by The One and the vast estate she would receive if she pleased Him or Her, not caring which the invisible One might be. Her friends knew better than to dream so big, instead fixating their thoughts on lower Masters or Mistresses.

Bevin was enthralled by Fourteen's green eyes, copper curls and voluptuous breasts. Ferrian was consumed by Seven's full lips and strong arms. Elspeth's desire was much baser, having once glimpsed Eleven's cock as he urinated outside of the tavern. She joked about how any smaller numbername would be a misnomer. He could be nothing if not Eleven.

But there was much speculation about you. There had been much gossip about the man who had taken the old Twelve's position upon his untimely passing. They had heard all the outlandish rumors one hears about any new Master: stronger than Seven, taller than Sixteen, more beautiful than even Five in all her glory. I even heard jokes that were only half-jokes about how draft mares ran in fear at the sight of your cock.

I'll never forget that day when I first saw you or my anger when I saw the disappointment on the faces of my sister and her friends when you proved to be less than a god incarnate.

I saw something they didn't. Something their shallow hearts and simple minds could never see. And it was more than seeing that your body was strong enough, that your face was beautiful enough. Oh, your pride, Master! Even though you weren't as coldly perfect as the others, you held your head higher than any of them. I had to get a closer look.

I fought my way to the front of the crowd just as your stallion was passing. It was like being in a dream when he reared, at first a terrible one. I screamed when I thought you'd be thrown.

You reined in the giant beast with such grace and calm. You were forceful, but not cruel. You knew he was but a frightened animal with the mind of a child and you did not harm him. Others would have whipped him. Nine would've had him killed... but not you. You calmed him, dismounted, and then stroked his flank. Your soft eyes met his and he understood.

And then your eyes fell upon me. You smiled, and that was when I knew I had to be yours forever, for that was when I saw what my sister could never see.

Master, I saw your heart, and it was pure. Gentle. Kind. Or so I thought until today.

Once you had passed, I rushed to find my sister and her friends to tell them of your glory. Their words! Their cruel words! Saying you were nothing more than a farm slave who had lucked into status and riches. Allura said you looked like anything but a Master.

No matter what I said, they would not hear. Allura's friends mocked, calling me "Avissia, the Little Farmer's Wife." But that wasn't the worst. Allura laughed when I said that I loved you.

I was enraged. Not for myself, Master, but for you. I threw myself upon her, though she was older and twice again as strong as I. She'd still be recovering from the beating, had Bevin and Elspeth not pulled me off and held me while Allura gasped for breath and Ferrian ran and found my father.

Father was a fair man as always and as always I was honest with him. I told him what I had done, but I refused to be ashamed of my actions. Though fair he might've been, a gentle man he wasn't. That night he spanked me harder than he had ever spanked me before.

Oh, Master, it was horrible! Not the spanking, but how I dealt with it. The only way I could stand it was to imagine that it was not my father beating me, but my beautiful Master, my flawless Twelve. Once he was done, had my father been the kind of man who raped his daughters, he would've found me ready for his taking.

The only way I have lived with the shame of that moment is by believing it to be practice for when I finally became your Tithe. When I cast my lot, there was so little chance it would be drawn by any of the Hierarchy. My solitary tile looked pathetically small mixed amongst the sea of others. And even if my tile was drawn, odds were still twenty-to-one against that your strong hand would be the one to draw it.

But I had to believe. I was made for you, Master, and to have you cast me aside... Oh, Master, I cannot bear it!

I am so cold and the darkness frightens me. I have never felt so alone in my life. I was so foolish to think that you would love me, or even want me... that you would want the gift I have saved for you... what I knew was yours from the moment I saw you.

I may not be soft and beautiful like your other servants. I know I am inexperienced in the ways of pleasuring a man. I am none of the things a Master such as you would find desirable. But I am willing, Master, and my desire to please you is greater than that of a thousand other Tithes.

Oh, Master, surely that means something to you! I cannot believe you are really the heartless tyrant that has cast me tonight into this cage. I cannot! Even if you don't want me, even if I am not worthy of you, I cannot see you as that man. I would gladly face the wicked razors of the dreaded Mistress Nine if it meant knowing that you were the Master, the man I have loved all these years.

And if you are that man, the Master that I pray you are, even if I am never to be more than a farm slave to you, I will be happy just knowing you are not just a silly girl's dream. I will lovingly serve you until my bones grind to dust against your flagstones.

I only ask one thing of that man: that he keep me forever. I dread my Emancipation Day, for that is the day I will be buried. I only wish that you could hear these prayers, my beautiful Master, my precious Twelve. No. I wish you would hear them and answer.

Footsteps... someone is coming.

A door swings open and light streams into the room, so bright I shield my eyes. I hear voices and lower my hand to try to see, but the light has blinded me.

"This must be the scrawniest, most pathetic creature I've ever laid eyes upon."

A woman's voice. Low and husky. And obviously unimpressed.

I hear a match struck and a moment later the door shuts. I open my eyes to the soft glow of gaslight and faceless shadow figures, but I can feel their eyes appraising my naked body as if I am livestock.

I take in my surroundings. Beside my cage is a long table with leather straps hanging from both ends. An assortment of whips and devices whose purposes I can only imagine hang neatly from a rack on the far wall. Several sconces hold unlit candles.

The woman steps to the table and drops a burlap sack onto it. The rush of air takes only a second to reach my nostrils. My mouth begins to water at the heavenly scent.

Bread.

"Kennelmaster," the woman says. "Open the cage."

"Yes, my Prime." A man's voice. Deep. Powerful. Frightening.

My eyes still adjusting, I can make little of his face as he steps toward my cage, but I can see that he is a brute of a man. Instinctively, I cower from him, pressing my back against the cold steel. His laughter is the booming report of cannons.

"Frightened?" His keys rattle against the bars as he unlocks my prison. "I have that effect on every Tithe. Don't be ashamed. I couldn't possibly think any less of you."

The door of my cage swings open. The woman he addressed as Prime speaks. "Come to me, Two Hundred and Seventy-Six."

I am terrified of this man, this Kennelmaster. I know I should obey, but I can't. Even the possibility of food isn't enough. The man looks back over his shoulder.

"No doubt you had hoped things would go this way, Fifty-Four," the woman says. She sighs and gives him a nod.

"Thank you, my Prime," he says and as quickly as the strike of a Marsh Adder, his hand is around my ankle. He pulls and my grip on the bars is instantly broken. My world turns upside down as he hoists me into the air with one arm. My scream is cut short when he slaps my belly, his open, callused hand as hard as any fist. I gasp for breath as he dangles me like a cruel child holding his little sister's rag doll just beyond her reach.

The Prime speaks again. "That's enough, Fifty-Four."

She kneels beside him and comes face to face with me. For the first time I can really see her. She is older than me, maybe by a decade, but her beauty is far from fading. Her eyes are a soft green sunburst of gold within blue. Her auburn hair falls to well below her shoulders in waves that seem to float on a breeze that blows on her alone. Her full lips curl into a smile as she speaks. That's when I notice the scar on her lower lip. This is the one of which my Master spoke.

"Ready to listen now, Two Hundred and Seventy-Six?"

I am helpless in the grasp of the brutish Kennelmaster and I know it. I nod.

"Good," she says. "Right her, Fifty-Four. The last thing this little whore needs today is a headache. Not that she could use it as an excuse."

Kennelmaster laughs as he takes me by my wrist and swings me upright before gently lowering me to the flagstone, an action that surprises me, but does little to make me like him. I want to run, but there is nowhere to go but back into my cage, and I know how little protection that will afford me against him.

The Prime stands and pushes her hair away from her face. "Can you stand, Two Hundred and Seventy-Six?"

"Yes, Mistress," I say and struggle to my feet, the smell of bread causing my cramped stomach to growl.

She shakes her head. "I am not a Mistress. My name is Thirty-Seven. I am a Tithe, like you. But unlike you, in this household, I answer only to your Master, Twelve. When you speak to me, you are to address me as your Prime. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Prime," I say. So this is what my Master wants in a woman - strong, proud and beautiful.

He will never love me.

"Because you are new, I will be easy on you, but only this once and only if you listen to my every word and adhere to what I say as law," she says, the smile falling from her face. "Understand?"

"Yes, my Prime."

"Good." Thirty-Seven crosses the room to the rack of torture devices. "It is my job to ensure that you know all the rules of this household, and I am very good at my job."

Thirty-Seven taps her lip pensively with her index finger as she gazes at the tools of her trade. As a Prime, I'm sure she knows not only how to expertly use them, but exactly how each one feels. Her smile returns as she grasps the leather handle of a riding crop.

"These are your Master's favorites," she says. "You have no idea how lucky that makes you. Master Seven prefers a wooden paddle, wrapped in rawhide and drilled to lessen drag. I have it on good authority that he's broken more than one against a Tithe's backside their first day. Comparatively, a crop like this one is the caress of a butterfly's wing."

She turns and walks back, circling behind me. I hear the whistle as the crop slices the air and feel the sharp crack against my backside. I cry out and instinctively reach back to protect myself from the next blow, but it doesn't come.

"Not so bad, is it?" Thirty-Seven purrs in my ear. Her breath is warm and smells of cinnamon. "You need to become familiar with its feel, but I'll only give you five more if you lower your hand now and don't try to cover yourself again. If you don't comply, you'll be bound and then get twenty from Kennelmaster."

"Don't listen to her, Two Seventy-Six," Kennelmaster says mockingly. He leans in close to me and grins. "She's the best marksman in the household."

I don't know what he means, but Kennelmaster's cryptic threat doesn't scare me nearly as much as his eyes do. They are black and lifeless. The eyes of a sea-demon. Thirty-Seven isn't fat by any means, but she isn't a small woman. She must be a full two hands taller than I and outweigh me by as much as three stone. Much stronger and healthier than I've ever been, even when I'm fed and well-rested, but compared to Kennelmaster, she is a reed. I swallow hard and lower my hand.

"One more thing," she says. "If you cry out like that again, the only thing that will fill your mouth today will be a gag. Now, bend over your cage, Two Hundred and Seventy-Six."

The instant I feel the cold steel of my cage pressing against my breasts, a sharp pain streaks through my body like a flash fire as the first blow lands, but I keep my mouth closed and choke back the urge to scream. I fix my eyes on the bag on the table. The second blow falls and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

I hate Kennelmaster's laugh. "Tried to warn you. Twenty from old Kennelmaster doesn't sound so bad anymore, does it?"

I know now what he meant. His warning had been genuine. The second blow fell precisely where the first one had. I want so badly to reach behind me to cover my bare buttocks. Instead, I close my hands around a bar, squeeze tightly and make a promise to myself that I pray I can keep.

I will not scream.

"Three," Thirty-Seven says, placing another swat with artistic precision. "And here's four."

The pain is so extreme now that it spreads through my body. Even my hands sting. I will not scream. My every instinct rages for me to cry out, to protect myself, to do anything other than lie still and take one more blow from this woman.

"And one last one... to give your groomer something on which to hone his craft," she says.

I will not scream!

I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for an impact that doesn't come. The room is silent aside from my own quivering breath. The fear of the coming blow builds inside of me until I can no longer stand it. I turn my head to look and my eyes meet Thirty-Seven's.

I will not scream! Oh Master, help me! I am so hungry!

She smiles and then strikes in a flash, her eyes never leaving mine, swinging blindly and yet still hitting her mark, this time harder than ever.

I will not scream! I will not scream! Oh Master, but I cannot be silent!

The sound coming from behind my closed, quivering lips is like the whine of a motherless puppy. My face streaked with tears, I lie motionless. After a moment, the urge passes.

And I do not scream.

I unclench my hands and discover I've dug my nails into my palms hard enough to draw blood. My eyes and hands aren't all that weep. I feel a wetness creeping down my backside, the telltale sign of a burst blister. A large one.

Thirty-Seven kneels beside me. I cringe and close my eyes when her hand nears my face, fearing a slap, but it never comes. Instead, she gently strokes my cheek.

"Now I see why Master is so fond of you," she says. "Of all the Tithes I've spanked, you're the first who has held still and silent their first time. You've been a very good girl, Two Hundred and Seventy-Six."

She pushes a strand of stray hair from my face. "Such pretty eyes. It's alright, love. You can cry now."

And cry I do. I wail like a frightened little girl who has lost sight of her father in a festival crowd. All the while, Thirty-Seven whispers words of praise and consolation in my ear as she strokes my face and wipes away my tears. Though Thirty-Seven is much younger, her caress reminds me of my mother's touch and of the gentle woman who I will surely never see again. Thirty-Seven is my mother now.

"Kennelmaster," she says softly, "your services are no longer required. Go about your duties."

"Yes, my Prime," Kennelmaster says, sounding a little defeated.

It is a small victory, but it is mine and it takes my mind off of the pain. Suddenly, Thirty-Seven's words come crashing back into memory with a force greater than any blow could ever be, and I cry harder, but these are tears unlike any I've ever known:

Now I see why Master is so fond of you.

These are good tears, and I never want to stop shedding them. But I must, for Thirty-Seven is commanding me again.

"On your knees, Two Hundred and Seventy-Six."

I kneel upon the cold flagstone, my head down, still crying until I feel her fist in my hair and my head is yanked back.

"That's enough, girl," she says firmly, but without malice.

I sob only once more then look to Thirty-Seven for instructions. She releases my hair.

"That's a good girl," she says. "Your Prime is proud and Master will be very pleased, but there are many rules with which you are not yet acquainted."

"Yes, my Prime," I say.

"You've just proven my point," she says. "You're breaking several right now. First, you are only to speak when asked a direct question and you are to answer immediately. Second, unless you are specifically told to, you are not to make eye contact with anyone of a higher status. Your eyes are to stay fixed upon the floor. Understand?"

I do understand, and I lower my gaze. "Yes, my Prime."

"Your kneeling is unacceptable," she says. "When commanded to kneel, there is a specific way you are to do it. Follow my directions to the letter."

Thirty-Seven circles me, issuing commands. "Lower your backside until it is almost resting on your calves, but do not sit on them. Knees shoulder width apart. Feet are to be pointed behind you and as straight as possible. Back straight. Head back, eyes down. Hands clasped behind your back. Thrust your chest forward, Two Hundred and Seventy-Six."

She squats beside me. "Is that the best you can do?"

"Yes, my Prime," I say. My eyes flit to the bag on the table.

"Eyes down," she says, snapping her fingers in my face. She runs a finger over my ribs and then cups my left breast in her hand. "You've pathetically small tits. We should put you to use in the laundry as a washboard until we can get some meat back on these bones. Are you hungry, Tithe?"

"Yes, my Prime," I say, perhaps too quickly.

She walks to the table and reaches into her sack. Steam still rises from the bread. This must be what Heaven smells like. She also removes a small tin cup and a wineskin. I can smell it as she begins to pour. A red. I hadn't even noticed how thirsty I had become. She breaks off a piece of bread and holds it before me.

"Here you are, Two Hundred and Seventy-Six."

I reach for the bread and am rewarded by a slap in the face from her free hand. I yelp and look up at her. She draws her hand back for another blow.