by Cerise Noble
My aunt saw me looking, and her facial expression was one of pain.
I understood why; she hated that her no-good husband was denying me even a taste of something that delectable, while the woman he lived with now kept house not far from there.
Once again, I felt pity—and anger.
It must have been the anger that flushed my cheeks and sparkled my eyes; nothing else would have made me pretty. Or maybe they weren't after pretty. But two soldiers stopped in front of me, recently off duty, it looked like.
"Ho, there, lass. You fancy a bit of stew?"
He mimed a rude gesture, and I raised my eyebrows before I turned away haughtily. I might have been hungry, but I had standards.
Suddenly he was in my face, his hands on my arms. "Oh? You're too good for me, are you? Dressed in rags and filth as you are." He spat in my face. "Probably a poxy whore, aren't you? Did your daddy give you the pox, you little slut?"
I turned my head, keeping my eyes down. I knew enough to realize when I would not be happy with the level of pain being offered. He slapped me across the face, and my aunt began to rail at him, but the other held her back, laughing.
"Answer me, bitch!"
His spittle hit my burning cheek, and I raised my eyes to his.
My voice froze over. "You are scum. You are not worth the dung on my shoe, the fleas off the dog who lives under the whorehouse. You are a microbe, a bit of slime, a whiff of noxious nothing." He stepped back for a moment, startled that his prey fought back. I took a step forward, pressing my advantage. "You are a diseased sore on a rat's ass. A puss filled pimple on a tick."
I saw it the moment rage clicked in and took over his thought process. I braced for the backhand as he wound up, but it never came. Another pair of soldiers dropped him to his knees, the governor behind them. The soldiers who accosted us, seeing who it was, scrambled out of the way and disappeared. I wiped my face on my sleeve as my aunt stood silent. The governor clapped, slowly, his gloved hands held high in front of his face. Slowly, he dropped them.
"That, my dear, was an altogether foolish, but impressive, show of false bravado."
There was nothing false about my bravery. I knew the risk, and I took it. My pride demanded no less. Tobin and Roy talked sometimes, when they didn't realize Jessica or I were listening, and they bore the governor, Ken, no love or loyalty. Newly ascended, he bought the allegiance of his soldiers by allowing them to prey on young women in the village. It was said that he was the worst of the predators, keeping young women captive, raped and beaten until they broke and died.
I keep my chin high, my voice icy. "My thanks."
"Do you wish to break your fast with me? You and your—mother?"
I curtseyed. "No, thank you, sir. We have business to attend."
He shrugged, but his eyes glittered dangerously. His reputation as a snake was well deserved.
"As you wish. Another day."
I nodded and took Aunt Jolene's hand, walking down the street. The entire way, my shoulders burned with the weight of his gaze. I suddenly hated everything—this village, this governor, this life, the customer whose insistence had brought us out of the safety of the slum where everyone knew each other and looked out for each other.
We turned a corner, and I faltered, crumpling into the shade of a brick wall and giving in to a gasping sob. I covered my face with my hands, using my tears to scrub the rest of the spittle from my face. My aunt hovered, patting my shoulder awkwardly, murmuring comforting words, rusty with disuse. I brushed her away. Fumbling, I cut my fingers a little on the ceramic blade in my pocket. Drawing it out, I held it, stroking the smooth side. It was a piece from a broken bowl; the curved, thick rim of the bowl was what I used as a handle. The rest was roughly rectangular, having broken with a fine, sharp edge opposite the rim. Once it was in my fingers, my breathing steadied.
"Stephanie! You can't—don't—you aren't thinking of doing that here!"
I took a deep breath, my thumb running over the thickness, a tiny smear of blood from my fingers coloring the tan pottery.
"No, Aunt Jolene."
I continued to stroke it, my breathing finally settling. Just knowing that I had it was a comfort, and the tiny smarting cuts from my first grasp did their work. She hovered, lifting her skirts to block me from view of curious passersby. After a long moment, I pushed myself upright.
"We have a customer, I believe."
Still darting wary glances at me, she led the way down another street to a big house.
The woman of the house was past the prime of life, but her backbone was made of iron. She let us in and discussed the terms of the laundry situation. It seemed her former laundress had finally aged past the point of being able to perform her duties, and she was in need of another. I only half-listened once it was clear that she didn't need weekly or daily work. She was looking for someone to live in the household. But not two. Only one. I knew Aunt Jolene would not want to move, and much as she and I had our differences, she wouldn't want to leave me alone.
We left with a bundle of the woman's stinking laundry to clean and return the next day, as a test. Once home, we got straight to work. Aunt Jolene ran the elderly lady's first, even though she was unlikely to take the job. I touched my ceramic blade, washing it covertly with the spilled suds, and found comfort in the thought of Tobin's hands marking my skin for every cut. Need made me frustrated, and as soon as the laundry was hung, I hid on my bed. Thankfully, my aunt let me alone.
I took out the blade. Just holding it in my hands steadied me. I looked for an unmarked spot. This was difficult. Turning my arms over, I decided to cut the back of my arm instead of the inside; it had been a horrible morning. Laying the sharp edge against my skin, I sliced down at an angle, pulling the blade up to avoid cutting too deeply. It welled immediately, and I moaned to myself, rocking and sucking the cut. Chest heaving, I murmured as my tongue found the edges of the line and traced it. I began to cry. The blade slipped from my fingers, and I curled around myself, sobbing and rocking. I remembered the man, the nasty way he smelled, the fear his hands touching me evoked. I remembered his spitting on me, and I yelled, nonverbal disgust ripped from my throat. Eventually my tears slowed, and I sat up, wiping the smeared blood off my arm with a damp cloth, wiping my mouth. A few more waves of crying hit me, and I doubled over, letting my tears wet the cut, the salt burning. The clean pain soothed me, and eventually I settled down, hiccupping and whimpering to myself.
When I emerged, a fresh bandage tied around my arm, the blade wrapped carefully in a cloth and tucked in my pocket, I was shocked to see Tobin in our hut. He had to have heard everything. Why was he here? And then I saw the stern look on my aunt's face and realized she'd stopped him from interrupting, letting me have my chance to cleanse the poison from my system. I sank onto the stool beside her and touched her hand, grateful beyond my inadequate words.
"Thank you, Aunt Jolene, for everything."
I'd already realized that if Tobin were present in our home in the middle of the day, my whole life was about to change. Into what, I did not know. I just wanted her to understand that I forgave her all her faults, and appreciated all her virtues.
He stood up. Looming over me, he grabbed my arm and stared at me, his thick fingers hurting as they pressed the bandage. I dropped my head back so I could see his face better. My voice was soft.
"So hit me."
He raised his hand, and then let it drop. Disappointment welled in my heart.
"Not now." Curiosity piqued, I watched him take a seat on the chair again. "You have to leave here. You have to come with us."
"Us?"
"The governor wants you. Gerard heard him order it. They'll come take you tonight. He'll rape you, Stephanie, and I cannot allow that."
My blood ran cold. It was always a possibility, a fact of life. Every fifth woman I knew had been raped, and more than that, nearly all had been accosted at least once, as I had that morning. But I'd always imagined rape happening in some
dark alleyway, where I could kick and scream and maybe cut some of them with my blade.
I'd never imagined it quite so brutally forced, soldiers coming to my home, taking me to the man who would do it. Would they hold me down for him, too? I was revolted, so I focused on the piece that didn't make sense.
"Why can't you allow it?"
Tobin stood up again, nervous energy making him pace. "Because I love you, Stephanie; I have since you were a girl."
I watched him, curious and comforted. So it wasn't so one-sided as I had imagined.
"Where will we go? Even if we hide, they'll eventually find us. This village is only so big. And he has soldiers everywhere."
"We're not going to hide. Gerard and Simon will leave their stations tonight and help. We're getting out of here, out of the village."
My tone was firm. "We can't leave Aunt Jolene."
Her tone was firmer. "You can, and you will. I have a position tomorrow in the house of an upstanding woman on a well-to-do street. They won't beat me there."
I looked at her and wondered. Would she really be all right? By herself? I realized that the brittleness I saw in her was her bones—strained and cracked, but still bones. Not dust yet. She would survive.
I turned to Tobin. "Jessica. I won't leave her."
"It's already arranged."
"What is?"
"Roy and Jessica are the ones that planned this. It was Jessica's idea."
I sat, gape mouthed, as I was reminded again of Jessica's angelic nature.
"She did?"
"Yes. She and Roy will lead the way out of the village at the southwest entrance."
"Why tonight? Why not now?"
"Gerard and Simon can't get away now," he said. "You're safe until they send the men for you. And there are more soldiers at the gates during the day. I need you to get ready. Take any supplies you can carry easily. Take any food Jolene can spare. Extra shoes, if you have them."
I looked around our one room hovel, my bed a mat on the floor blocked by a hanging sheet on one side, Aunt Jolene's the same on the other side. The little fire pit, the single chair, and two stools. The dirt floor. And laughed. Then laughed some more.
"Extra? Anything? Tobin, you're mad."
He frowned at me, seeing how serious I was. I think it shamed him that we'd been living such a fine edge for so long, while he'd been rising in wealth, powered by his strength, and he'd never thought to assist. Which was fine. Aunt Jolene would have refused, anyway, and told him to save it for when he needed to care for a wife and children.
What was I now?
He spoke again before I could ask. "Fine. I'll get the supplies. You just be ready when I say the word."
He left without a backward glance, and my flesh ached, missing his painful touch.
I looked at Jolene, and she looked at me.
"You've much of your mother in you. I dare say you'll be fine in the wilderness."
I nodded. "I suppose we'd better get to mending. No sense you showing up tomorrow at that lady's house without everything perfect."
"No, no sense."
And so we sat and mended.
After a time, she told me again the story of my parents, how they had been flighty, restless, able to live as they willed in the forest and swamp. I didn't remember that part. I remembered little flashes—the boat we used, the tree my father had climbed with me. My mother's laugh. But I didn't remember anything at all about the day they drowned in the storm. They'd been coming to visit my mother's sister, Jolene. Nearly there, the skies pouring down, they had set me on the dock and started to unload, when the river snapped the moorings, and their boat overturned. Jolene had taken me in. Newly married to Colby, it was different, but safe, and loving. Until Colby left.
Then she told me everything she knew about love between a man and woman, not knowing I already knew about it. But I listened, understanding that she was doing her best to send me off with every bit of armor and supplies she could. She had never had her own children, but she told me everything she remembered from my birth, from helping other women bring babies into the world.
We took down the dried clothes, folding and packing them neatly. We couldn't deviate from our routine, couldn't let the soldiers know we knew. And so Tobin came, just as he always did, and traced the line on my arm. I sucked in breath, and he hit me. The slap rocked my head to the side, and I faltered, my fingers covering my cheek. He grabbed the back of my neck and pressed my unhurt cheek against the wall, his green eyes snapping. Raising his hand, he spanked me. Four hard slaps, until my bottom stung, and I gasped, desire blossoming inside me.
His voice was low and dangerous. "Do not disobey me tonight, Stephanie."
I whimpered. "No, sir."
We delivered the laundry, all except the lady's. That Aunt Jolene would take with her the next morning. A quiet word with her favorite customers let them know where to find her in the morning, and we started for home.
Home—what is that? This hovel had been my home for almost as long as I remembered, but I felt no grief upon leaving it.
They say home is where the heart is, and I realized it was true. Jessica held my heart, and Tobin and Roy might have a finger on it. The building was nothing at all. I heard her, then, her loud wail from a street away.
My heart hammered, anger filling my mouth with venom. Tobin chased me as I ran down the street, darting down between the little houses in the slightly nicer side of the slum until I found it. Roy's house. She was outside, bent over his knee, her bottom bare to the world, while he plied a switch against her skin.
I hit him.
My fist found his mouth, and then it was over. His head snapped back just as Tobin reached me and wrapped me in his arms, lifting me off the ground as I railed at him, spewing hatred.
Jessica was crying, and Roy gathered her up, tucking her in his lap and kissing her tears away. She saw the cut on his lip and cried harder.
That was when I realized I'd behaved exactly as they expected, exactly as they needed me to in order to not raise suspicion, in order to get me and Tobin and Roy and Jessica in the same place for the night—out of my hovel, with no one the wiser as to why.
I twisted out of Tobin's grasp, and he let me go. Dropping to my knees in front of Jessica, I begged her forgiveness.
That, too, was expected. She refused to look at me, and it broke my heart.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Jessica, I couldn't watch him whip you and not do anything!"
"He wasn't whipping me, Stephanie! It was a switch. It was just a spanking!"
"Why do you defend him? It hurts my heart when you cry."
I didn't realize I was crying, too. Manipulated or not, it had worked too well.
Roy grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. I flailed briefly, off balance. "Tobin, I believe this brat is in need of some discipline of her own."
"With pleasure." Tobin caught me up and put his left foot on an overturned bucket, dragging me over his raised knee. I protested, fear and desire sizzling along my skin. Would it hurt? I hoped it would. I wanted the pain so badly I could taste it, but I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I craved it. So I fought him.
It didn't last long. My sinewy strength was no match for his bulk, and he gathered my wrists together, pressing them into my back as my head dangled dangerously close to his ankle, my legs kicking air to his right.
His hand on my bottom was an explosion of pain. I gasped, the shock of it stilling me for once. Again and again it fell, giving me no respite. Relentlessly burning my skin, the heat and sting built until I was frantic, desperate to get away.
That was when I realized that my protestations and defense of Jessica had always been inadequate. There was nothing in the world like being helpless, dangling, as someone far stronger and harder spanked you like a child.
I resisted as long as I could, crying and kicking. It made not the slightest bit of difference. Tobin wasn't going to stop until he decided to. I'd lost track of the number
of spanks early on, but the sixteen he'd given me the day before, the four from earlier, were love taps compared to this.
I needed pain, craved it, adored it, drew comfort from it, and this pain blasted through my careful structure wherein I doled out little drips of pain to myself. I couldn't see through the blinding tears, couldn't breathe through the snot and screams. I was completely without recourse, and that scared me more than anything, brought home the horror he was saving me from.
I might have fooled myself into thinking that because I enjoyed pain, I'd be able to withstand rape and beatings.
This proved me wrong.
This was pain given by a man who loved me, who would never harm me, who was risking his life to give me freedom. And still it broke me.
I was limp when he stopped. I no longer struggled against his hold. I couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't stand. He set me down gently, and I curled up on the ground, my head resting on Roy's boot.
After a time, I realized Jessica was next to me, stroking the hair out of my face, wiping my cheeks with a soft rag. I realized I was still sobbing. She smiled at me, her own eyes wet with tears.
"Silly brat. You've never been really spanked, have you?"
She knew the answer. I turned to her, groaning when my swollen backside brushed the ground. She kissed my cheek and then my lips, soft as a flower petal.
"Come on. Let's get you inside."
Roy lifted me, and carried me into their house. There were packs on the floor, but most of what was in the house would be left. I wept at the thought of what they were giving up to protect me.
***
When I woke, it was dark, but I could see a candle flickering on the table in the other room. Jessica's voice, sweet and light, murmuring in the night. I shifted, trying to see her, and then I did. There were men around her, the flame flickering against their sweaty muscles, her laughter encouraging and pleased. I frowned. I recognized Roy's dark hair and his deep voice, caressing her with his words and hands. The other? I didn't understand for a long moment.
