Mercy

Davis and Matthew had some cursory conversations about current events, household issues, errands he would need to run. I just sat and ate, tasting nothing, wondering what the point was in this breakfast table charade. To show off his new lover to his household staff? The dancer he’d acquired, just like the paintings up in his room? He said nothing to me the entire meal, until the end when our plates were cleared away. Then he turned to me in full hearing of Mrs. Kemp and Davis and said, “Lucy, I’d like to set up a schedule for us.”

“A schedule?” I choked out.

“Yes, a schedule of times to see you. For you to come over and play in the basement with me.”

I blushed, but neither Mrs. Kemp nor Davis batted an eyelash.

“What is your schedule during the week?”

“I...I have rehearsals from twelve to four, Tuesday through Friday, and then shows from six to ten forty-five or so, and two shows on Saturday.”

My voice trailed off. He was thinking.

“So you’re off Sunday and Monday?”

“Yes, si—Yes, Matthew.” I couldn’t bring myself to call him sir in front of them.

He thought some more.

“I’d like to see you two weeknights, and then perhaps a day on the weekend. All day. How about Tuesday and Thursday nights, and then Saturday night and Sunday, until the afternoon?

Would that schedule suit you? We could try it, and add more time if we need to.” I ground my teeth listening to him schedule me, schedule visitation time with the little dancer he owned.

“It sounds okay,” I said unenthusiastically. I was so embarrassed that he would discuss all this in front of them. It was as if he did it precisely to humiliate me, in fact I knew he did. It was so draining being with him, an endless rollercoaster of highs and lows. He would kiss me, speak to me affectionately, and I would melt for him, and then he’d devastate me with heartbreaking ease.

“So you’ll come here then, next Tuesday after your show. Davis will pick you up by the stage door.”

“Why won’t you?” I asked rather crossly.

“I may or may not,” he said with a shrug. As in, I may or may not bother to come get you. I care for you so little, I may just send someone else.

But Jesus, he was just getting started. While Davis and Mrs. Kemp looked on, he continued to talk.

“You can leave whatever you want here, toiletries, clothes and personal items. I’ll have Mrs.

Kemp clear out some drawers. And of course I’ll expect you to be impeccably groomed whenever you’re here.”

“Of course,” I muttered.

I could feel his displeasure at my tone, just feel it in waves, but I didn’t look up. I was afraid he’d bend me over the table and beat me right there, in front of the strangers who were so obviously meant to witness all this, whatever this sick thing was going on between us.

He let it go. “I like your manicure,” he said. “It’s perfect as it is. Don’t change it.” I looked at my hands in confusion, at which point he laughed. Even Davis’s poker face betrayed a snicker. “Not that manicure. Your wax job. I assume you wax?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, hating him. “I have to, for work.” What were we going to do next, start discussing my period again?

“Your cunt looks nice. I don’t like hairless. Feel like I’m fucking a twelve year old girl.

You’re little enough as it is.”

I’m not little, I wanted to yell, you’re big! He was the one here with all the power, and I, the hapless one twisting and turning for his amusement.

Davis drove me home shortly afterward. I sat in the back seat, embarrassed beyond words. I had loved Matthew so much when he kissed me on my eyes, and then one conversation over breakfast had ruined it all. There was no way I was ever going back there. When Davis came to fetch me on Tuesday, he’d be returning to Matthew alone. I pictured that awkward conversation with injured triumph, imagined how embarrassed Matthew would be when Davis told him I wouldn’t come.

But yeah, that conversation never happened, because next Tuesday night I climbed into that black car, and Matthew greeted me with a broad smile when I arrived at his house.

“Hello, Lucy,” he said.

“Hi, Matthew.” I just couldn’t stay away.

I had wrestled with my conscience all week. I knew this would end badly, in a world of hurt.

I knew there was only one way for this to play out. But I longed to be near him, for him to put his hands on me. I craved his handling like a drug.

So on Tuesday, after the show, I had washed and dressed and put on no perfume, and got into that car, just as I’d sworn I would not do. Now I was in his darkened house trailing behind him through the kitchen. He looked back over his shoulder at me. Intent eyes, ice blue and possessive.

“Are you ready to go downstairs with me?”

“Yes.” Of course I am.

* * *

He took me downstairs and again led me to the center of the room.

“Take your clothes off.”

I fumbled with the buttons on my blouse, then jumped when he barked, “Yes, sir!”

“Yes, sir!” I parroted frantically. Had he asked a question? Was I supposed to respond to everything he said? He stalked back to me and ripped off my shirt. The buttons I hadn’t gotten to yet went skittering across the floor. He unbuttoned my jeans roughly and pulled them off me, berating me the whole time.

“Yes, sir! You’ll answer me respectfully! It’s not hard! Two words, you little slut!”

“I’m sorry!” I cried over his tirade.

“I’m sorry, sir!” He took my face roughly between his hands. “You will never interrupt me again. Never.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m just—I’m trying—”

“I’m sure you are, but you’ll be punished just the same.” He pulled me over to the nearest ottoman and pushed me down until my knees buckled and I fell over it with a gasp. My mind was racing. What was I doing here? Why was I letting this happen? I looked up at his determined face as he cuffed each wrist and buckled them to the bolts.

He stood and unbuckled his belt, pulled it from his pants, doubled it over.

“You’ll get fifteen, five for each offense. You’ll count each one out loud.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, already tearful.

“You may cry as you wish, Lucy. And yes, this will hurt.” With no more warning than that, he landed the first blow. And yes, it hurt, it hurt like hell. It hurt so much that all I did was cry, and I forgot to count.

“One!” he reminded me.

“One!” I sobbed.

“You just added five more.”

He whacked me again, and I managed a “Two!”

“You know, it really isn’t that difficult, Lucy.”