Page 6 of Penance

Draco

I sit in my armchair, unmoving, watching.

Mercy’s apartment plays on the screen in front of me.

My favorite show.

She looks so small, collapsed on the floor of the shower, staring at the bruises that paint her creamy thighs. She’s crying again. I can see the frantic, jerking rise and fall of her chest, and hear it in the audio that plays through the speakers.

The sight of her distress sends a warm rush of satisfaction through me.

“Why is this happening?” she whispers to herself.

I lean closer, turning up the volume to catch every tiny sound. Her suffering is a symphony that plays just for me.

It’s perfect. Amazing.

Exactly what I wanted when I climbed into her bed with her last night.

Her fear of judgment will keep her silent.

It will be our little secret.

She’s a bird trapped in a cage, too frightened to sing out her pain. Her precious, restrictive faith has taught her to suffer in silence, to bear her cross with quiet dignity. And it’s that very faith that will keep her isolated, ashamed…

…and mine.

“Please, Lord,” she begs. “Please help me understand.”

I smile.

Her pleas fall on deaf ears. There’s no divine intervention coming for her, no white knight coming to save her. There is only me.

I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled, as I survey the screens before me.

Mercy’s apartment is mapped out in flickering frames, each camera placed in just the right place, thanks to careful planning.

The bedroom, the kitchen, the cramped little dining room that she used as a library—all exposed to my hungry gaze.

There was one tucked behind the potted plant in her living room, offering a prime view of her couch, where she often curls up, praying, and sometimes crying.

Another lived among the dusty books on her shelves, peering down at her bed to watch her sleep.

That one was a challenge; I had to be silent, stealthy, while she slept just a few feet away.

But the risk only made it that much more worthwhile.

I could have done it while she was gone, at church, but where was the fun in that?

I had a way to watch each and every interaction, even the one from last night.

I had watched the footage earlier, before she woke up.

I watched as she lay there, hair fanned out on the pillow like a dark halo.

Her lips parted softly, whispering secrets only I could hear.

My heart was a steady drumbeat as I stood over her, savoring the moment.

She was vulnerable, exposed. She was mine for the taking.

I could have done anything I wanted to her, taken everything away from her.

I could have cut her into tiny pieces and eaten each and every one, but no.

It was her soul I craved, her heart I wanted to own.

She barely stirred as I flipped her onto her back, gentle but firm. Her eyes fluttered open, confusion and fear swimming in their hazel depths.

But she didn’t scream.

She wouldn’t.

Not Mercy.

Not my pure, pious Mercy.

To her, it was just a nightmare.

I shook her just enough to rouse her, but not enough to fully wake her up. She wouldn’t even remember it the next day, and judging by her performance this morning, she hadn’t.

Thanks, Ambien.

“Please,” she had whispered, voice hoarse with sleep. “Please, don’t.”

But I did.

I claimed her, marked her, left my imprint on her.

Fucked her so hard my cock still hurts.

It wasn’t the soft, slow strokes I normally gave her.

No, I wanted her to feel it.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you, Mercy?” I say out loud to the screen, tracing the outline of her figure as water pours over her, and she cries her pain out in the shower. “Because that’s not who you are. You’re the virtuous one. You bear your crosses quietly.”

She won’t risk the shame, the scandal.

She’ll suffer in silence, bear her torment like a martyr.

And all the while, I’ll be here, watching, waiting.

Then, I’ll do it again.

A shiver of anticipation vibrates through me. I’ll mold her, shape her, guide her until she has become my perfect little toy.

I’ll break her.

Reaching over, I snatch a small carved figure from the desk beside me and twirl it between my fingers—a grotesque parody of an angel, its wings twisted and face contorted. A fitting symbol for Mercy.

My broken angel.

I lean forward, eyes scanning the screens. Mercy has left the shower, a towel wrapped around her, and now she is curled up on her couch, phone clutched in her hand, hesitating.

“Come on, Mercy,” I murmur. “Who are you going to call? Your precious friends from the church group? They won’t believe you. Not after the rumors I’ve started.”

Her thumb hovers over the call button, but she doesn’t press it. I can see the war raging within her. To call out for help would be to admit defeat, to acknowledge the stain on her purity.

She won’t do that.

Not yet.

But maybe…

Maybe eventually she will.

Maybe when she’s scared enough.

I look down at the angel in my hand, at the painful grimace on her face.

My eyes flick back to the screens. Mercy’s hand trembles, and she drops the phone, burying her face in her hands. I zoom in, capturing the moment of despair, savoring it. She’s a lamb separated from the flock, vulnerable and alone. Perfect for the slaughter, and ripe for the picking.

My mind wanders, straying to the dark fantasies that have become my obsession.

I imagine Mercy, her eyes wide with fear and realization, as I step out from the shadows of her bedroom.

Her breath hitches as I trace the line of her jaw, her body trembling under my touch.

I can almost feel her heart racing, her pulse quickening as I lean in, my lips brushing against her ear, her neck, and then her throat.

And I bite down.

I picture her, bound and helpless, her cries muffled by the gag in her mouth. Her eyes, once filled with warmth and faith, now show me her fear. I can see her, writhing in pain and ecstasy, as I carve my mark into her flesh, branding her as mine forever.

My gaze drifts to the screen again, watching as Mercy curls into a fetal position, her body wracked with sobs. The sight sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine. She’s breaking, piece by piece, and I’m collecting each fragment, molding her into my own Greek goddess.

I put the angel down, and absentmindedly spin the snake ring on my finger.

“No one will believe you, Mercy,” I say, as if she could hear me through the screen. “Not your precious family, not your friends, and certainly not the judgmental whores that go to your church.”

A sudden thought slams into my head, and I sit straight up, staring at the screens.

She’s so scared.

She’s terrified.

She’s crying so loud that I could hear her this morning, laying in bed with all the curtains pulled tight, stroking my dick to the sound of her fear.

I could hear her crying.

Jumping up out of my chair, I snatch my jacket off the back of it and hurry to the door, shrugging it on as I step out the door and yank it closed behind me, not bothering to lock it behind me.

It doesn’t matter.

I won’t be long, anyway.