Page 32 of Penance

Draco

S he was a cantankerous little shit, I’d give her that.

She almost made me give in to her, with her big glassy eyes and her quivering lower lip.

I almost broke down and got to my knees, burying my face in her pretty little cunt until she exploded for me. But I couldn’t do that. I wanted to watch her squirm first. She had some kind of control over me that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. She had a hold on me that I hadn’t been expecting.

Why was I doing this, really?

Was it because I wanted to get my revenge?

Or was it because I loved her or something like that?

Nah, it couldn’t be that.

I doubted I could still feel that particular emotion.

I watch her from the doorway, my shadow stretching across the floor between us like some kind of metaphorical painting. The room breathes with shadows, even if it’s as bright as a summer day outside. She doesn’t notice them—not yet. She will, one day.

Maybe no one sees them but me?

Mercy’s fingers tremble slightly, working her hands up and down her arms like she’s trying to comfort herself. I hate to see her cover it up. She looks so good, covered in the bruises I gave her.

The pentagram tattoo on the back of my hand itches as I watch her. It always does when I’m close to getting something I want. Maybe it’s something about the rituals I performed on the night I sold my soul.

Who knows?

It doesn’t matter now.

I have her. She’s mine.

She’s laying in her coffin, I just have to hammer in the final nail.

It wasn’t difficult since I know her weaknesses—the loneliness, the longing to be special, the way the church taught her that she’s just a poor, fragile, innocent woman, and she’s nothing without a man like me to guide her.

I became what she needed until she stopped questioning what I needed from her.

I was there for her. I gave her everything she needed.

Now, I own her.

Body, mind, and soon, her soul.

“This dress?” she asks, touching the folded dress that I laid on the sheets. She seems unsure.

Good.

“That’s the one.”

I watch as she picks it up, studying it. It’s black, made of silk that will cling to her body in ways her usual clothing never would. Beneath it, a bright red bra and a lace thong to match, but not the one from before, one I got especially for her.

In a color I chose especially for her. The color of sacrifice.

I will slaughter my little lamb, and she will thank me for it.

“I’ve never worn anything like this,” she says, kneading the silk between her fingers.

She’s hesitant.

She’s… scared?

“You will now,” I tell her. “For me. Because you’re a good girl, right?”

She nods, turning the dress over in her hands. I close the gap between us and pull the dress from her hands. Tossing it across my shoulder, I grab the bra instead.

“Turn,” I say.

She does it.

He doesn’t even hesitate. She doesn’t think about it. She does it because I asked her to, because I have her right where I wanted her to be.

I help her slip her arms through the holes and pull it tight in the back, fastening the bra with only minimal effort. It looks good against her ghostly skin. It’s not lost on me that red is her color. It’s intense, like blood on snow.

I pull her back against me and kneel, crouching behind her. Clamping the panties between my teeth, I grab each of her hips, a thumb digging into each cheek of her ass and pulling it apart, hard.

I can hear her whimper, but is it from the pain in her raw asshole, or the way her pussy throbs for me?

I can see it, slick and glistening even now.

She wants to cum so bad.

I’ll let her, eventually.

I release her and she sighs, and I snatch the lace from between my teeth and help her step into them.

“Good girl,” I tell her.

She whines again, but it’s short and clipped like she tried to bite it back.

She doesn’t want me to know how bad she wants me.

Too bad.

I can smell it.

Stepping around the front of her, I grab the dress from my shoulder and gather the silk between my hands.

“Arms up,” I instruct.

She does as she’s told, raising her arms above her head. I slide the silk over her head, guiding it down her body, my fingers brushing against her skin just enough to make her breath catch, and her flesh rise into goosebumps.

I know what I’m doing, and that’s why I do it.

If she was a little bit braver, I know she’d climb me like a flag pole, but we aren’t quite there yet.

The fabric settles against her, clinging to every inch, every soft curve and angled plane. It takes everything in me not to throw her down on the bed and rip it off of her body.

Fuck, this little shit has a hold on me, and I can’t ignore that.

If I’m not careful, she’s gonna make my dick explode like a hot dog in the microwave.

“Why are you watching me?” she asks suddenly, her voice small but direct.

Her eyes meet mine for a moment before darting away.

I feel my lips curve into something, but it’s not quite a smile.

“Just making sure you’re a good girl,” I say. “You’re not allowed to cum without me.”

A flush creeps up her neck, spreading across her cheeks. She looks away again. Her eyes flick to me and then immediately away again. There’s fear there, yes, but something else is there too.

She likes it.

She likes being my little plaything.

“You will,” I promise. “As soon as I’ve paraded my little puppet for the whole public to see, I’ll make your little pussy drip allover my tongue. Understand?”

She looks down at the floor, quiet.

“Say you understand,” I say, sliding my hand between her perfect tits and wrapping my hand around her throat. “Mercy?”

Mercy.

Such irony.

I have none for her.

“I do,” she says, her fingers wringing in front of her when she finally looks up at me. “I understand.”

I lean down to her, my hand still around her throat, and pull her closer. I place a single, soft kiss to her neck just below her earlobe, breathing hard and long to ensure she feels my breaths across her flesh.

She shivers.

“Perfect,” I whisper, allowing my lips to brush against the shell of her ear.

I pull away from her and turn around, tightening my tie, glancing into the mirror beside the door to ensure its straight. If I want these people to believe I have the millions I say I do, I need to look like it.

“Where are we going?” she asks, her hands moving to adjust the dress, fingers working nervously at the hem, the sleeves, the collar—anywhere to keep them busy, to distract from the tension.

Maybe to distract her from the feeling between her legs.

“It’s a surprise,” I tell her.

She glances toward me again, then away, reaching for a button at her neckline that I’ve deliberately left undone. I catch her wrist, my grip firm enough to make her freeze, and she looks over at me with wide-open doe eyes.

“Leave it,” I tell her, and my voice is firm. “Everything is exactly as it should be.”

She looks down, and I know she can see it to—the neckline of her dress is open just enough that if she moves just the right way, you can see her bra beneath it. A peek of crimson in a void, symbolic.

It’s like a gash in her flesh.

“But you can see my bra.”

“I know,” I say simply. “Let’s go.”

I release her, but the impression of my fingers remains, faint red marks on her pale skin.

Mine.

I walk ahead of her. I expect her to follow, and she does, like the good little lamb that she is. When I make it to the front door, I pause, turning to look at her.

She is a vision, my own little twisted, distorted Virgin Mary.

From here, I can see all of her, the way she moves, the tremble in her hands, the rise and fall of her chest with each shaking breath, the way she keeps her body slightly angled toward the exit, the quick glances toward the window, the tension in her shoulders.

Part of her is still looking for escape.

I see it, and I can feel the rage trying to rise in me.

She can’t leave me.

Not after everything I’ve done for her, for us.

It won’t matter.

By the time the week is over, she won’t be able to leave me. The best traps are those you don’t realize you’re in until it’s too late, until they are sprung and the door slams shut.

I force myself to turn away and pull the door open.

When she follows me out into the hallway, I close the door behind us, locking it and then shoving the key into my pocket. I have my keys, my wallet, my phone.

Mercy has nothing. No way to escape.

Just the way I wanted her.

Mine.

Mine to corrupt. Mine to consume. Mine to sacrifice.

I guide Mercy down the hallway with a firm hand against the small of her back, feeling the warmth of her through the silk, the blood rushing beneath her flushed skin.

The flickering hallway light casts our shadows in distorted shapes against the wall.

Mine seems to stretch, to swallow hers completely, while hers flickers and then disintegrates, becoming nothing.

It’s a sign, an omen, and for a second, I wonder if she sees it, too.

I gently force her down the stairs, and when we pass it, I watch as she tries to avoid looking towards her apartment door. I feel her shiver, and why shouldn’t she?

Her waking nightmare happened there.

I happened there.

Outside, the air is thick with the scent of coming rain. We step down the sidewalk and towards the parking lot. My car sits waiting in the shadows of the building—black, low to the ground, with windows tinted far beyond what’s technically legal.

I’m gonna fuck her in it one day, in plain view of strangers walking by on the street. They won’t be able to see us, but we will see them.

Maybe I’ll do it today?

I open the passenger door, watching as Mercy hesitates for just a moment before sliding inside.

“Seatbelt,” I instruct, closing her door with a click before stepping around to the driver’s side.

By the time I’ve pulled open the driver’s side door, she has already done what I told her. I start the engine, and when it growls to life, she jumps, just like she always does.

Jumpy little church mouse.