Judgment 2: Mercy

by Hall, Denise

  “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?”

  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.

  “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.

  “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, once more leaving her 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.”

  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?”

  “Will the strap 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.

  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 b
rutal 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 and 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 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.

  Mercy couldn’t breathe. Her hips convulsed wildly, even though the spray now beat its fury down upon her battered buttocks, pummeling the bruises without mercy. She grabbed between her legs with both hands, and like a dying flower, wilted into the bottom of the tub.

  Pooled around her, the water caught at the wet strands of her hair, pulling them as it raced towards the drain. For the longest time, all she could hear was the pounding of her heart in her ears. The warm liquid heat that surrounded her mingled with the warm liquid heat within; she couldn’t tell anymore what she felt upon her fingers—rivulets of water from the shower as it rolled down between her buttocks and spilled across her hands, or the liquid of her arousal, priming her cunt to welcome Shipe into her.

  Very briefly, his hand settled on her back between her shoulder blades. Then he shut the water off for the last time. “We’ll do this again tomorrow. Dry yourself and get dressed. I want to be in the dining hall having breakfast in twenty minutes.” He pulled himself up and, leaning on his crutch, left the bathroom.

  Chapter Five

  “The majority of your days will be spent here,” Shipe said as he led her into the common library.

  The room was positively huge. There were two fireplaces in one wall, both so large that a pair of grown men could have walked into them upright and, standing side-by-side, stretched their arms far apart and still not have touched the opposing walls or each other. Sofas and chairs made that area a cozy place for sitting and chatting, while in the center of the room, a study area had been erected with six rows of tables and benches and extra lamps for reading.

  Literally dozens upon dozens of bookcases stretched from floor to ceiling in neat rows throughout the room as well as along the walls. There wasn’t an empty shelf anywhere that Mercy could see. The quantity of books had to number in the tens of thousands.

  “The Lessers are allowed in here three times a day: for a half hour each mid-morning and afternoon break, and for two hours after the dinner bell.” Shipe motioned her to the huge, archaic catalog-card filing system and the small desk that had been set up for her beside it. “The instant a Lesser enters this room you are to drop what you’re doing and I want you there,” he swung an arm around to indicate the corner behind her desk, where a tall stool waited. “From the time the first one enters and until the last one leaves, you will face the wall. You don’t so much as glance sideways and at no time will it ever be acceptable for you to converse with the Product. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mercy nodded her head for good measure. She could still feel the effects of the shower. Her body still hummed and throbbed, and when he gave her that stern look—his dark eyes narrowed, his frowning mouth firm with stern authority—it made her stomach quiver, her nipples peak, and her sex pulse with an arousal she wanted so badly for his touch to assuage.

  “Your job will involve keeping the library neat and in order,” Shipe told her. “Pick up any stray books and put them away. The rest,” he waved one hand to indicate the whole of the library, “hasn’t been catalogued since the initial purchase some twenty years ago. We’ve added a few since then, so you’ll need to go shelf by shelf making a list of what we have. It’ll likely take months and it’s hardly exciting, but at the end of each day I’ll check your progress to make sure there is some and to motivate you if there isn’t.”

  Mercy turned in a slow circle, counting the bookcase. The job was immense. She would need a ladder just to reach the books on the top shelves, and she wasn’t that fond of heights.

  “Books are not allowed to leave this room,” Shipe continued. “Which no doubt accounts for why I find them all over the damn mountain. If a volume catches your interest, you may keep it on your desk—so long as your desk is kept neat—and read it on your breaks while you’re facing the corner.”

  As Mercy gingerly lowered herself to sit on the wooden seat at her desk, she asked, “If I see someone leaving the library with a book, what should I do?”

  “I assume you mean a Lesser,” he said, his tone even but his eyes growing glacially cold, “since I know you would not dare presume to tell a guard or master what he may or may not do within these halls.”

  She flushed. “Y-yes, sir. I-I mean n-no...I—”

  “If you see a Lesser thieving a book, then you report it to the nearest guard,” Shipe snapped. “And then you ready yourself for the thrashing of your life. I’ve already told you, if Lessers are here then you are...where?”

  “In the corner.” She flushed even hotter. “Facing the wall.”

  “Do you need help remembering that?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir.”

  His grunt held a note of disbelief. “An hour before lunch, you may excuse yourself to the Crater. Do your running and be ready to meet me in the dining hall for lunch at twelve o’clock noon. I expect you to be standing at your table by twelve sharp. At twelve and one second, if you’re not there, I will hunt you down and blister your ass. Got it?”

  She nodded hastily. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He swung around to leave, waving his arm back at the library. “Get cataloging.”

  * * * *

  “Who is she?” Mercy heard one girl whispering.

  “I don’t know. She must be important, though.”

  “Maybe a Personal,” a third girl softly added.

  “No, Personals wear white. Their tunics are as soft as silk. Look at that ugly green thing she’s got on. It’s longer than even a Primary’s!”

  Mercy sat on her stool, facing the corner and listened to the curious whispers. There was only ten minutes more to the mid-morning break, and she could hardly wait for the bell to ring and the Lessers to all just go away.

  “Maybe she’s a guard’s Personal,” yet another girl whispered.

  Mercy didn’t know how many Lessers were sitting at the table nearest her, but so far she had counted five distinct voices.

  “Even the guards’ Personals wear white. Besides, I’ve seen her with Master Shipe.”

  Six.

  “Maybe she’s a pet,” the first girl whispered with a giggle. “She certainly followed Shipe around like a dog. Yesterday, he made
her crawl through the halls on a leash.”

  Mercy felt her cheeks grow hot with anger. That wasn’t true! Oh, she would have loved to turn around and tell them a thing or two. But she bit her lip and kept her hands tightly locked together in her lap. She glared at the wall so hard that it made her eyes hurt and her ears buzz.

  “Shipe!” another scoffed. “That settles it! She’s definitely not a Personal, then. He’s too mean and hateful to want a woman.”

  Mercy almost fell off her stool she jerked around so hard. “He isn’t either hateful!” she hissed at them, her eyes crackling angrily. “Shut up over things you know nothing about!” Then she jerked back around and faced the wall again, seething in quiet.

  There was a stunned silence behind her, then the table erupted in giggles.

  “Psst!” one of the girls whispered at her back. “Hey, green!”

  “What’s your name?”

  There was an abrupt shushing and the whispers suddenly ceased. A few seconds later, the slow tromp of booted feet on the stone floor approached Mercy’s corner. Making his round, a switch-toting guard passed between her desk and her stool. He stopped just behind her and her heart flip-flopped as she heard the rustle of paper. Without a word, he began to write. There was a soft tear, then a white slip appeared before her face. It said:

  RECOMMENDATION FOR DEMERIT

  NAME:..........................Mercy............................

  OFFENSE......................Talking to Lessers..........

  SIGNED.........................Halloe...........................

  APPROVED........................................................

  Mercy took the slip with trembling fingers. “Thank you, sir.”