"Yes, yes. But I'm sure he could attest better than me," She answered.
George Reaping could hardly contain his grin. He stood, pivoted, and faced the judge.
"Your honor," He smiled, "I would like to question the witness."
"You may precede, Mr. Reaping," The judge approved.
"Thank you, your honor," George Reaping replied with the utmost respect. Then, he shifted focus to Emma, "What were the diagnoses of Sweeney Todd, Miss Balm?"
"Nightmare disorder and schizoid personality disorder," She replied, with the same monotone, mechanical voice.
"And what are some of the diagnostic criteria for schizoid personality disorder?" He questioned, innocently enough.
"Introverted qualities, few close friends, emotional coldness, detachment, flat affect, little desire for sexual relationships—" She responded, but was intercepted with another question.
"And you wanted to personally examine that last criterion?" George Reaping interrupted.
"Excuse me?" Emma Balm counter-questioned, a mask of mock confusion covering her features.
"You tried to initiate a more intimate relationship with Mr. Sweeney Todd—more intimate than a client and therapist should be. And furthermore, you bribed him. Sex for salvation." He deduced.
"Oh, is that what she told you?" Emma spat, cocking her head at Mrs. Lovett, "Did she also tell you about the nice game of gory dentist we played?" She added, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"So you do not deny your actions?" George Reaping pushed, ignoring her clever addition.
"No," She huffed, arms crossed over her protuberant chest.
"Why did you lie to Sweeney Todd?" He continued.
"That's none of your damn business," She hissed.
"Actually, it is. Now, answer my question," George Reaping mused aloud.
"I refuse," Emma stubbornly replied, nose up-turned.
"Miss Balm," The judge offered, "You are familiar with the rules of Fortune City. We have never replaced a harvested individual, but if you do not give reason for your transgression—"
"I know, I know!" She loudly sniveled, before whining, "I know the consequences. But it isn't fair."
A grown woman, whining like a little one what got her lolly stuck in the sand, Mrs. Lovett thought, sadly shaking her head. It truly was a pathetic sight, but she felt no remorse.
"Why do you question the fairness of our system?" The judge wondered. "You've served as witness to several cases. Why the sudden change?"
Emma exploded suddenly without warning, "I won't give that woman the satisfaction of knowing anything about my past," Her acrylic fingernail dangerously pointed at Mrs. Lovett, "I don't want you hearing any of it!"
"You do have some choice in the matter," The judge reassured, "You may speak now, or you may speak during the trail tomorrow, with Mr. Sweeney Todd present."
Her face paled; she whispered, "Those are awful choices."
"Or you could be re-harvested," The judge mentioned.
A wave of sickness swept her face; her pained voice broke the silence, "I would rather do this in front of Mr. Todd."
"Very well," The judge concluded, "This trail has gone long enough; this court is adjourned until tomorrow afternoon,one o'clock. I expect everyone to arrive promptly, excluding Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Stone."
Emma Balm dashed from the bench, abruptly brushing past Thomas and brutally knocking his shoulder out.
"Ooh, what a rude thing," Mrs. Lovett commented, watching her exit and leave the courtroom door wide open.
"I-I just can't believe it," Thomas squeaked, stuffing a few papers in his briefcase.
"There, there love," Mrs. Lovett smoothly replied, "She ain't worth all this grief."
"But Mr. Todd is?" He questioned, looking her directly in the face.
"That's a different matter," She quickly rationalized.
"No, no it isn't. We're both the same, Mrs. Lovett," He observed, "We love those who cannot love themselves, and thus cannot love us."
Mrs. Lovett was speechless; she strained to keep her mouth from faltering agape. She never noticed, never thought Thomas would be so combative and confronting! It was disturbing. Even now, she watched his animation and rosy features wane. His cheekbones withered; his eyes reflected darkness, an infinite hollow to complement the black circles under his lids.
Although her hatred for Emma was insurmountable; Thomas pained her, his words were defeated and shriveled. She didn't like him this way.
Oh sure, he was an annoying little twit. But he was different. He gave remembrance of still being alive. And in such a dismal, dreary place his impish beacons of hope were strangely comforting at times.
But now, he was like all the rest.
"Are you so certain 'bout her?" Mrs. Lovett asked, trying to provide some support.
"What are you getting at, Mrs. Lovett?" Thomas sighed, snapping his briefcase shut.
"How do you know she don't fancy you?" She implored.
"Were you listening before?" Thomas counter-questioned, exasperated.
"Yes, I was. All I'm sayin' love is don't take people so seriously is all. You examine people too close and you miss everythin' on the surface. Now, I think you know what should be done, Mr. Stone," She lectured, watching his mouth form a small smile.
"I need to check on Miss Balm, excuse me Mrs. Lovett," He straightened, picked up his briefcase, and hurried out the door.
On the surface, Mrs. Lovett gave an astonishing performance of motherly affection and nurturance. But inside, nestled deep against a silent heart, she did not want to share misery with Thomas Bertram Stone. She needed it out at once.
Sweeney Todd was standing behind the floured kitchen counter, idly turning a green bottle of gin on the surface. He really had no use for it. He didn't have a use for his razor that was flicked open and shut. He didn't have a use for the wooden rolling pin jumping between his hands.
He was restless.
After he carried Mrs. Lovett downstairs into her bedroom, his incessant mind was awakened with buzzing thoughts.
Slit her throat right 'ere Toddy-boy, put the poor woman out a her misery—Embrace her, rouse her, love the pain right out a her bones—But oh, she would just breathe again—But oh, you would just be in more of a mess. So what? So what? SO WHAT!
He gently placed her on the coverlet, careful not to wake her. Then, he pulled the covers down slowly, soundlessly.
She's asleep, sound an' dreamin'—probably of somethin' that could have been—what do you mean, could have been Toddy-boy? It would have never been. Never anythin' you could give, never anythin' that could make her happy.
He grasped the covers with both hands, pulling up now. He briefly stopped, studying those horrible wounds.
What an awful thing to have happened to you love, an' I thought me life was so much worse—Benny, Benny, Benny silly Ben-ja-min! Your life was a shit! Don't compare things with her! Don't get too close to this one, boy. Fuck her if you want. Fuck your anger right into her. That's what a woman like that is good for. She needs it, you know she does.
She needs it, you know she does. You know it. Know it. Do it.
His hands trembled; his fingertips smoothing over the thick black threads. They were coarse, tinged with brown, dried blood.
Benjamin Barker would never. But Sweeney Todd would. Benjamin Barker would never! But Sweeny Todd would!
She sighed. His eyes instantly darted.
Waking up me pet? Sweeney's got some surprises for you, good little lamb. Somethin' to turn those wild, pained screams to somethin' else—But you are better than this, Benjamin. An' you know it, now leave her be. Let her rest. She's exhausted.
An' you are too.
That was unfortunately true. He softly exhaled. His hands departed and grasped the sheets. He pulled them over her bare chest.
He watched her breathe, even and slow. Her face was relaxed but still moist with tears.
His fingers silently danced above her cheekbones. He traced her cheeks, lips, neck, chest, and breasts. But he did not touch her. He could not touch her.
Then, he quietly left. The floorboards made no squeaky protests. The door made no whiny disapproval; even the jiggled doorknob was silent.
He had dozed for a few hours in the den, sitting in a cushiony velvet chair. The break of artificial sunlight roused him. And the scurrying and slamming of doors made him jump. He stood perfectly straight and strode to her room with purpose.
But Mrs. Lovett was gone.
And without her around, there was little to do. He was left to his thoughts. He would never admit he missed her. Sweeney Todd did not miss anyone. That man was stoic and had an icy resolve—to miss someone implied softness, a weakness. And that was unacceptable. So, he reassured his pounding skull, she interrupts all these bloody jumbled thoughts. She don't have to say much, just bein' nearby is enough. And that is a good thing, certainly.
Her silence, it reminded him of the previous night. Of her complete submission. Her trembling thighs complemented those quivering lips. Oh, what would she have said if she could? Probably more begging and pleading. Or mumbling his name, or better yet screaming his name.
Sweeney frowned.
Why is it, when I think of her, all me thoughts are clear? He wondered.
But he didn't have to wonder much longer, that jangling kitchen bell ruptured his question. And she stood there, a ruffled mess. Her chest was awkwardly heaving, puffing her cleavage out more than necessary.
And of course his eyes were fixated there. And of course she wasn't wearing a corset again. And of course he was very content the counter just barely covered a certain jutting appendage.
She practically leapt over the counter, white streaks of flour smearing her dress. She slammed him against the wall; her warmth pressing him down.
It was startling; he could not even speak, for her mouth was feverishly claiming his at once. His hands coiled around her shoulders; he pushed her back quite some distance.
"What are you doin'?" He panted, searching her features for something, anything.
She smiled. It was a sly, catty smirk full of mischief and mirth. She pressed a steady finger to her mouth, and kneeled on the floor, inching closer to him.
She curled her hands around his pant leg, gently massaging his inner thighs, and delicately brushed over his bulge.
He roughly grabbed her chin in one hand. He twisted her neck up, as he pierced her heavy, lacquered eyes. His other hand drummed against his holster.
"You didn't answer me question, love," He purred, but it was far from passionate.
"The last time you didn't want me speakin'," She confessed, "So I figured I would still be a quiet, good little girl, just like you want Mr. T."
What a clever little vixen! But not quite clever enough!
"An' what makes you think I want this, me pet?" He hissed, turning her face askew.
Her eyes fluttered down, then quickly up to him, "I can see how much you want it, an' you deserve it, love," She whispered, tugging his belt.
"An' what if I want more?" He hungrily questioned; his fingers indenting her flesh.
"Whatever your pleasure, love," She replied huskily, firmly biting his belt buckle and yanking it out.
It was very surprising, her assumption. She was finally making decisions. His grasp went lax, his fingers opting to play with her wild tresses.
She spat the belt out; it made a defiant clang against the floor. Her fingers were expedient, unfaltering. His buttons flew against her fingertips. She forcefully pulled his dark pants and breeches down.
And here she stopped, admiring. Her smile grew wicked, wider.
A smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth too. He grasped fistfuls of her silken hair, pushing her close enough so his sex rest on her bottom lip.
She gave a tiny, teasing lick. Just one, and opted for giving hot trailing kisses down his length. Then, her kisses were replaced with quick, darting licks as she worked up again.
Sweeney grumbled against his clenched teeth. She was making this so torturous, yet so delectable. And he knew his little slave would not disappoint.
Her lips parted, and she enveloped him completely. Her movements were slow, steady. Her tongue would occasionally flicker against him; then, her teeth would lightly graze that wet trail.
Oh, you maddening woman, his thoughts moaned. His fingers tightly curled her hair. He wanted to push her faster, harder. He wanted her choking, gasping for air. But his thoughts were muddled deep in fervor and lust.
She was pumping him now, with both hands. Her fingers made tightening and relaxing circles, as her practiced wrists twisted. He received a wriggling lick at his slit-opening.
He loudly groaned, feeling gratifying throbbing and feverish twinges. His hands circled around her head. He pushed her down so deeply, her nose tickled his pubic hair.
But much to his surprise—and pleasure!—she did not gag. She sucked harder, her cheeks tightening and relaxing much like her hands had previously done. Her busy hands were now gently massaging his scrotum; her thumbs deeply indenting his thighs for leverage.
His howl was feral, reverberating in his throat. She was coaxing him closer and closer. Soon, very soon, he would be lost. He intently watched her, so proficient, so powerful …
Sweeney abruptly clutched her throat, removing her from his aching sex. He hoisted her up by the neck, studying her coughing and heavy gasps. Her eyes were a sea of confusion and dread.
Just how it should be, he triumphantly thought.
"What-what's t-t-the matter, love?" Her voice cracked, as he violently crushed her windpipe.
"That's enough, now," He commanded, "Did you really think I would let you have it?"
"Have what?" She sputtered, struggling under his grasp.
"'Have what' she says!" He mocked, slightly loosening his fingers, "Control, me pet."
"No, no it's not like that," She quickly replied, "You've got it all wrong, dear. I'm servin' you. I always will—"
He jammed three fingers into her mouth, firmly pressing her waggling tongue down. He was finished with her games.
"If it's not like that, as you say, you wouldn't be teasin' me so. This is a warnin', don't do it again. Or I'll cut your pretty little tongue right out. Do you understand?" He growled.
She nodded once, 'yes.'
"An' another thing, pet. Sweeney Todd is never wrong. Your Master is never wrong," He emphasized.
She nodded again, 'yes.'
"Tho' it is nice to hear you sayin' you'll always serve me. Is that true? Speak," He commanded, removing his fingers.
She heavily gulped fresh air, after several trembling minutes her voice returned, "Yes."
"Ah-ah," He chided, "Yes, what?"
"Yes, Mr. T," She blushed a deep scarlet.
"In public you may address me as such, but not now," He instructed, "When we are alone like this, I am your Master and you serve only me."
"Yes, Master," She whispered.
"Good, good girl," Sweeney reassured, "Now, pick up me clothes. An' we can finish this mess you've started."
Mrs. Lovett did not remember sex as very pleasurable.
She did remember however, shivering naked underneath a white cotton gown. She remembered her eyes growing larger with fear, apprehension. And her prayers were feverish—Lord, if I am to die under the weight of me husband let the sufferin' be quick. But even Albert had some common sense, and she was always placed above him.
She never once transgressed in her marriage. She had thought of cornering a scruffy young sailor between the narrow abyss of a wet London alley. She could even hear the clanks of change against the pavement after her mind-deed was complete. But she was a dutiful wife. She even felt guilty pleasuring her body alone.
But this, this was so different.
The new man she loved, desired, cared for with every scrap of worthless bone in her body—he made things so sore but tender. Such an agony. Oh, but such a thrill.
She was nude. And she could only assume he was too, for her eyes only saw darkness. She was blindfolded. And her hands were tied tightly behind her. She was crouched, kneeling on the edge of her bed.
And she waited.
And waited, oh she tried to be patient, she tried to be compliant. But she whimpered.
One finger tapped against her lips. And she was welcome for any touch. Gentle, rough, passionate, wild. Anything.
"Be quiet, love," He hushed her, "I haven't given you permission for sound yet, but I will. Oh, I will."
She nodded, submissively bowing her head.
This action must have been pleasing to her beloved, for her breasts were being massaged. His calloused thumbs stroked her nipples, making them hard like small pebbles.
Her sex was already damp from his manipulation. She slightly squirmed.
That action must have been offensive, for she received twin smacks causing her breasts to slap uncomfortably together. She tightly clenched her teeth, and braced for another wallop. Two, three, four, five smacks in rapid succession pummeled her sore flesh. She could feel the burning warmth, it radiated to her cheeks. She was certain her chest was deep red.
But she was being good, even though her chest was raw and heavy with ache; no tears threatened her chance of a little reward.
"Open your legs," He commanded; and she did so, unfaltering.
"Wider," He ordered, but his voice sounded distant—too far away to offer her some release.
But she obeyed, until her inner thighs wobbled under the strain. Then, suddenly something lashed against her buttocks and tied hands.
She yelped too loudly, and wished her voice was silent. She received a second, harder thrash. This time something metallic clipped her flesh, for she felt wetness trailing down her bottom. She realized it was his belt.
And then they came, the violent punishing whips. Mrs. Lovett groaned and cried and sobbed behind her teeth. But her body was still, only jerking against each reverberation. What of resistance now? What of dignity now? She was his, as she had wanted. Her body displayed, every crevice, accessible to him.
"Is this what you are?" He questioned, pausing briefly, "Are you my impertinent slave?"
She dared not utter a word. She did not even breathe.
"You may speak," He replied with approval and a foreign pleasantness.
"Your loyal slave," She sighed, appreciative for the reprieve, and added, "Your loyal slave forever, Master Todd."
She could not decipher if the belt was discarded. But she could pray it was. She bit her lip, waiting in anticipation and dread.
Maybe, oh no, maybe I gave the wrong answer, her thoughts alarmed.
But strong, firm arms were upon her waist now. And she would know soon enough.
He pressed her body tight to him, and their warmth mingled. Oh, damn him for tying her hands together. She wanted to feel him with more than her breasts and stomach.
"I know you are," He hotly whispered into her ear, "I was just testin' you, love. You may speak freely now."
"Thank you, Master," She breathed, relief flooding her voice.
But his warmth left, leaving her bereft and shockingly cold. She stifled another whimper, and hid it somewhere deep below her navel. But his hands remained rooted in her hips. He was guiding her, over something warm, ankles, knees, legs—
She gasped, he was beneath her now. And his erection was playfully tapping against her wet opening. She was hovering above such delectable pleasure. It was so close.
And she was impaled, brought down forcefully. She screamed, her sex stretching and engorged with him. His nails dug into her flesh, leaving half-moon crescents.
She wailed, coiled in a delirious place, a place of dual desire. He lifted her, almost completely withdrawn, and brutally crashed her down again.
Mrs. Lovett was crazed. She was thirsty, hungry, starved for him. She needed more. Her body was slick with sweat, her breasts bouncing roughly with each thrust.
"Harder, oh please Master, harder," She yearned, mouth wide open.
Sweeney grunted, releasing one hand from her hip, and grabbed her tied hands and pulled them down. Her back roughly arched, making her perfectly perpendicular to his pounding. This action pushed him deeper still.
The stabbing, shooting pain was intensifying her pleasure. She cried louder, carried on crashing waves of desire.
His throaty groans excited her immensely, and she involuntarily tightened. She enveloped him deep within her sex. And with that brief undulation, he violently throbbed.
His hands were gone, and she was feverishly grinding down as he viciously shoved up. Oh, she had sight! The blindfold drooped, making a large U over her vigorous breasts. She looked down, with thick, hooded eyes. Her love, her Master, her desired one. His eyes were piercing, absorbing her curves and hollows. His face twisted between concentration and lust. His teeth were barred, and he growled very low.
One hand was clasping, rubbing and stroking her stiff clitoris. The other circled under her bottom and squeezed hard.
She shook and trembled, longingly looking into his dark eyes. She saw nothing but that. Her hips lifted, rocking and unsteady. She could not contain her yearning and passion. She fiercely climaxed, madly shouting and screaming his name.
And then, his baritone groan reverberated over her rattled bones. She tensed as a hot liquid painted her womb in long, languid bursts.
They remained connected for some time, controlling their breaths, relaxing in a cold sweat. Then, he promptly withdrew and untied her burning hands. She collapsed near him, one hand placed over him, where a bounding heartbeat should have been.
"I love you, Mr. Todd," She sleepily mumbled into his salty skin.
"I know," He responded.
"I would do anythin' for you, Mr. Todd," She continued, with a droning yawn.
"I know," He repeated.
"I mean it, every word, anythin' so long as you were happy. I—"
"Rest now," He quietly directed, "Dream of me, if you like."
Oh my love, she drowsily thought with a little smile, I could never have any good ones now.
Author's Note: Oh man, oh man. What more can I say but this? My fans (and subsequent reviews) will either plummet to nothing, or rise to far reaches I never thought possible.
But, irregardless!
Oh! And sometimes I need a little help—and no I don't mean help as in what you think, perves :p—writing these more err, 'intimate' scenes so I turn to music! And in case you would be interested in the soundtrack for all the comings and goings (haha, such bad puns now) of Mr. Todd and his dear Mrs. Lovett here you go:
Lisahall – Is this real?
Lacuna Coil – Within Me
Lacuna Coil – Devoted
Nightwish – Wish I Had an Angel
Nightwish – Nemo
Type O Negative – Love You to Death
And as you can see, or listen, or both, I tried to incorporate appropriate songs for my story. And I hope I did not disappoint. :)
Until next time, faithful ones.