Judgment II: Mercy (9 page)

Her every muscle protested having to get up. Walking was sheer agony, but Mercy felt the pain almost as though it were someone else's. He needed her. He needed her the same way Richard had, to exorcize the fury inside. For the first time in a long time, she—not China, not Mahogany—was actually useful to somebody. She almost burst into tears all over again.

"Don't forget your tunic," he told her. "I'm not your damn maid. I'm not picking up after you."

Mercy picked up her uniform. She hugged the coarse, pea-green fabric to her chest as she limped back to her tiny closet and her bed on the floor. He shut the light out and closed the door immediately behind her. She had to feel her way along the edge of her bed with her toes and fit the sheets to the mattress in the dark.

Lying down was impossible in any position but flat on her stomach. She couldn't even bare the slight weight of the blanket upon her incredibly raw backside. But Mercy went to sleep for the first time in two years feeling needed. Wanted.

Loved.

* * * *

Mercy jolted into wakefulness. Judgment days started at six every morning, though her burning eyes told her it had to be much earlier. She rolled onto her side, sliding the inch or 78

Judgment II: Mercy

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so off the narrow mattress and onto the floor. The first shock was the cold of the stones against her flesh, which made her gasp out loud. The second was the sharp stab of pain the instant her horribly bruised bottom touched the cool, grey rock. The cry was past her lips before she could bite it back and she scrambled to get back on her stomach.

"Oh!" She reached back with gentle hands to touch and soothe her battered flanks. That one slight brush against the floor reignited the full burn and ache from the night before.

Her bottom throbbed, and beneath her hands, her flesh felt very strange. Stiff, almost as hard as wood.

"If I have to drag you out of bed," Shipe called from beyond the door, "you'll be reacquainted with the paddle before breakfast."

She pushed herself up on her knees, muffling the groans that were wrung from her at each aching movement by gasping them into her bedding. She crawled into her tunic, quickly making her bed as was proper, and shuffled to the door.

"Stiff?" he asked, when she limped out of the closet. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, pulling on his boot. He'd donned pants, but hadn't fastened them and his shirt was still lying on the mattress next to him. A smattering of dark hair decorated his hard chest, trickling down his abdomen in a black line that disappeared into the 'v' of his open fly.

From his glaring expression to the terseness in his tone, he was every bit the angry man that Tane had introduced her to the day before. Mercy lowered her eyes respectfully. "Yes, sir."

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"Exercise is good for that." He stood up without his crutch to fasten his pants. "Give me fifty jerks and twenty push-ups.

You can do them balanced on your knees if you have to. But by the end of the month, I want at least half that count done off your toes the proper way."

Ignoring his shirt, he went into the bathroom. "And you can take your tunic off. You don't get dressed in the mornings until I say you can."

Mercy couldn't remember the last time she'd done jumping jacks. High school, maybe, more than a decade ago. But she obligingly took her tunic off and lay it over the back of a chair by the table. As her bottom clenched and her thighs stretched into the first half of the jump, she squeezed her eyes shut and grit her teeth. Her wounded buttocks flared with heat as her battered muscles fell into the rhythm of the exercise.

"I don't hear counting," he called from the bathroom.

"Start over."

"One," she mewed, and her hands clapped out the count as she obediently jumped all fifty times. She felt silly doing it.

Her breasts bounced and flopped uncomfortably, and it was a little embarrassing—about half way through—to feel trickles of sweat winding down her back and hear the moist slapping as her thighs came together.

Master Shipe came to stand at the open bathroom door around forty, wiping his newly shaven face on a hunter-green towel. In a moment of uncharacteristic kindness, as she reached the end of her count, he asked, "How are you feeling now?"

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Her bottom still hurt, but strangely enough some of the stiffness had retreated from her limbs. "Better," she admitted, half expecting him to order her into another count of fifty.

"Good." He turned his back. "Drop your skinny ass to the ground and start doing push-ups." He disappeared beyond the doorway again, and Mercy slowly lowered herself to the floor.

"One." She began in the up position, starting her count on her toes rather than her knees. Her arms shook as she pushed herself back up, a testament to how out-of-shape she really was. "Tw-wo."

At three she had to switch to her knees. It was easier that way, but not by much. She'd never been good at push-ups.

By fifteen, she was red-faced and panting quite hard. He came back out of the bathroom and leaned in the doorway to watch her do the last five.

"Twenty," she groaned out and collapsed on the floor.

She lay there panting for almost a minute before he drawled, "You've rested enough. Get up."

He remained in the bathroom to brush his teeth while she made her morning use of the toilet.

"Get in the tub," he said, when she flushed, and he bent his head over the sink to rinse his mouth.

She reached a hand back, idly brushing her fingers over the lower swell of her bottom, the sorest place on her left buttock. It felt as though the skin had broken there. She wished she had a mirror so she could see for sure. She wouldn't have minded seeing the bruises, the blues and purples marking her skin like darkly colored jewels.

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"Hands on your knees," Shipe said and he walked up to the edge of the tub to take down the removable shower head.

"I want you squatting down, heels together, in the middle so I can get at you."

"I don't mind washing myself," she said as he turned the water on.

"Did I tell you you could speak?" he asked, glaring at her.

"No, sir." Mercy put her hands on her knees and eased herself into a squat. Keeping her balance was difficult, and she wobbled unsteadily as he adjusted the water temperature before setting his crutch aside and sitting down at the edge of the tub.

"Keep your head up," he said, then doused her under the warm spray. "Too hot?"

"No, sir."

He soaked her hair first, spraying her down with no more care really than a man might bath his pet. He didn't spray her face deliberately, although she closed her eyes to keep the occasional splatter out of them. When she was thoroughly wet, he half-turned around to shut off the water. He shampooed her hair twice, his hands feeling almost gentle as he worked the suds through the entire length. He used conditioner to remove the tangles and a finishing rinse, which he massaged into her scalp.

Despite herself, she almost lost her balance she relaxed so under his touch. She jerked and her eyes flew open when he caught her elbow.

"Don't do that again," he warned.

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"No, sir," she said, and did her best to keep her balance while he turned the water on again.

"Tip your head back."

She wobbled on the pads of her toes as he stroked his hand over her head, washing both the conditioner and snarls out of her hair, yet careful to keep the water out of her eyes.

He shut the water off again, this time to soap a washcloth. He started with her face and ears, and worked his way down her body with an almost impersonal hand. Was it her imagination, or did he perhaps linger overlong upon her breasts? There was no expression on his face, which made it hard to tell.

He soaped her torso to her waist, then rinsed her again.

"Hands on your head. Stand up and spread your legs apart."

Mercy's legs protested being made to hold that uncomfortable position as she slowly heaved herself upright.

She winced a little as she flexed her knees, then shifted her legs apart and laced her fingers on top of her head.

Her nipples tightened into peaks when he touched his bare hand to the flat of her belly. He didn't even seem to notice, but instead soaped her body with the washcloth from her waist to her toes. He shaved her legs, and the copse of blonde stubble that had begun to grow upon her mons he again made bare.

"Turn around."

Mercy put her back to him, closing her eyes again as the warm water washed over her skin, carrying the soap and shavings away.

His hand touched the small of her back. "Bend over."

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The command quivered in her belly, chasing all remnants of ease out of her. She bent slowly, dread crawling along the skin of her bottom. Had she done something? Was he going to punish her again; surely not so soon! She lay her hands flat on the wall as she pushed her hips back toward him, holding her breath, completely vulnerable to whatever whim he decided to appease.

Her sex clenched just a bare instant before his washcloth-covered hand pressed up against it. Mercy lay her cheek to the shower's tile wall and bit her bottom lip.

"Spread your bottom cheeks."

She stopped breathing all over again and her eyes flew open. She hadn't heard that right. She squeaked, "Sir?"

"Perhaps a dose of the strap will improve your hearing."

Leaning her forehead against the wall, Mercy reached back. She gingerly cupped her swollen buttocks and, wincing and mewling, pried them gently apart. He soaped her and she froze when she felt the scrape of the razor moving carefully around her labia, baring her sex all the way back to her anus.

A flow of warm water tickled over her bottom, the heat of it stinging the battered flesh as he rinsed her clean.

"Turn around. Hands on your head."

Mercy's legs trembled, but she turned to faced him. When he adjusted the head of the shower to change the water from a fine spray to a gentle, massaging pulse, her lips parted and she licked them nervously. Her eyes found his as his fingers combed through her labia, parting them. He found the sensitive nub hidden within and, circling it with the tips of two fingers, spread the folds to reveal it.

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Her stomach tightened as the pulsing water struck her belly before he moved the head downward. Her legs trembled; she closed her eyes.

"Look at me," he said, and her eyes flew open again. They locked on him almost desperately, then the water touched her and the sudden intensity of pleasure was very nearly beyond her bearing. Every muscle in her clenched, including her bottom and the shock of pain that caused made her cry out.

She grabbed fistfuls of her own hair, yanking as she fought to hold herself together.

"Aah!" she shouted, and her whole body shook. "Oh no!

No!"

He watched without pity, holding the water in place, letting the steady pulse batter her clit until her hips began to thrust and Mercy threw back her head and screamed her need, guttural and raw, to the ceiling.

He took her right to the brink of coming, before he pulled the shower head away. Every nerve inside her was aching and alive. Her body sang, thrumming as though it could still feel the pulse of the water beating between her legs. She sagged against the cold tiles, almost crying the pleasure humming inside her was still so intense.

"Look at me," he told her again.

She forced her eyes open, fixing on him, desperately needing an anchor to keep from falling apart. He adjusted the head on the shower again. Now the water was a single thick, solid stream, a jettison with a force that was ruthlessly hard.

Her whole body convulsed when he touched it to her belly.

He punished her breasts, circling each nipple with the brutal 85

Judgment II: Mercy

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spray, drawing from her cry after cry, and more than once he admonished her, "Hold still."

"Stand up straight," he said. She hadn't realized she'd wilted against the shower wall, shoulders hunching in a vain effort to protect her naked breasts.

The spray hit her belly again.

"No!" she begged, shaking her head wildly an grabbing her hair again to keep from slapping his hand away as he again caressed between her thighs, parting the narrow folds of her sex.

He kept the spray of the water hard, and she sucked a pain-filled breath when it moved down into position. The hard massage caressed down the inner slope of one thigh, then up the inside of her other. While Mercy pulled at her hair, gasping and sucking at the air, struggling to brace herself for what she knew was coming, he circled her vulva. Each time he came close to her throbbing clit, her hips bucked in response and she cried out anew.

He moved the shower head back between her thighs, letting the pulse beat up along the crease of her buttocks, and with every bruise the spray struck, it felt as though he were spanking her all over again. When it passed over her anus, she let go of her hair and grabbed onto her thighs.

They almost snapped shut anyway.

"Haooow!" she wailed, but he didn't linger there. The punishing blow of the water moved back around to her front.

"Oh God," she whimpered, watching his hand through half-closed eyes. She grabbed onto the smooth tile wall, just 86

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needing something—anything at this point—to hold onto. "Oh please oh please oh please...!"

It struck her clit full on and her body sang.

She screamed. She knew she did, not because she wanted to or because she heard her own voice, but because when her knees gave out and she collapsed into the water pooled in the bottom of the tub, her already scratchy throat felt as though it had been scrubbed raw with sandpaper.