Page 10 of Depravity

Once we make it out past the massive wrought iron gates and onto the country lane, I let out a sigh of relief. No, I’m not exactly free but it feels freeing to be just out of that oppressive house and away from them, if only for a few hours.

“I’ll go as fast as I can.” He says.

“Don’t bother.” I reply. Although I’m grateful for this one act of kindness, it’s not worth the risk. “They’ll be watching still. They’ll know when I turn up. And besides, my grandfather is probably on the phone to the headmaster this very second.”

I’ve never had an issue speaking with the servants, at least, speaking with those who I know are friendly. It’s my family I struggle with. My family who put the fear of God into me. Whenever I see them, whenever they’re tormenting me, it’s like my entire body locks up.

Perhaps it’s a survival thing.

If I could actually form words I’d probably fight back, argue more, and we all know where that would get me. Thank God for small mercies then. Being selectively mute means I’m alive, being mute means that I’m not there, not locked away in Oblivion.

By the time I get to class, I’ve already missed the first one. It’s physical education so I’m not complaining that much, and it’s the only silver lining I’ll get.

I shuffle in and take my seat, wincing at the pain on my buttocks. Our headmaster delights in handing out corporate punishments, and I could practically see him salivating as he stood waiting for my arrival.

I know I’m bruised, that my flesh is covered in welts, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he drew blood.

I think he gets off on it, forcing us to drop our skirts and bare our flesh. Of course, he’s not allowed to be alone with us. At least, not with someone of my status. The School Matron stood,sour-faced, watching as I took each and every lash. She even had the nerve to tut when I yelped in pain.

I don’t want to think of what the lower ranking girls have to endure, they have no family name to protect them. I know most of them are being groomed for a far less desirable life than the rest of us, that they’re going to the whorehouses, to the pleasure houses. Or worse, that they’ll be used for breeding for those high-ranking ladies unlucky enough to be infertile.

“Nice of you to show up, Brynn.” Ms Doone says, staring at me over her thick, round spectacles.

I give a weak smile back because I’m done being on the receiving end of everyone’s wrath today.

On the desk, on all our desks are solid, banana like objects. They’re nailed into the wood so that no matter what we do to them, they won’t budge.

My nose wrinkles as I take mine in. Matrimony is the worst of all our classes. And it’s also the one we spend the most hours studying for.

This entire school’s purpose is to brainwash us, to mould us, to have us believe that our sole purpose is to provide for our soon-to-be husbands. That God intended for us to be vassals and nothing much beyond it. We’re not meant to have opinions. We’re not meant to have any thoughts of our own.

A perfect wife can cook and clean, is beautiful from sunrise to sunset, and she’s ready at any given moment to satisfy her husband’s every wish.

“Today, we’re going to practice deep-throat again.” Ms Doone says, “Now I know some of you were able to master it quickly, but others…” She fixes her disapproving eyes right on me and Clara, the girl next to me, “…were clearly not trying hard enough.”

It’s hard not to roll my eyes.

I’m twenty-one years of age, well past what would be classed as school-age by normal standards. Only, I know the Brethren make their own rules. That we exist within the tight confines of what they deem to be right and wrong. They like to keep us here, confined, sequestered. Like little lambs being prepared for the slaughter.

“Now, slip your covers on.” She says brightly.

I reach forward, grabbing the foil packet and tear it open. On good days, these are flavoured. On the not so good days they’re ribbed, or textured, or something else just as nasty.

As the rubber thing inside slips out, I can feel the weird liquid covering it, making it feel slimy. Officially, we’re only using these because the wooden models might give us splinters. In real life, with our future husbands, we won’t have need for such a device. Ms. Doone stated proudly before that once we try our husband’s cock, we’ll love it so much we’ll never want to stop sucking on it.

The thought makes my stomach turn.

As if that would be the case. As if we’d be so stupid as to believe that.

Only, most of the class does. The fact that I don’t is simply because I’ve read too many illegal books, and have snuck them out of my grandfather’s library.

The rubber thing slides down over the fake cock, catching the bright fluorescent lights above our heads.

“Right, lips apart, throats open…” She instructs before starting a timer.

I’m quick to follow everyone else, to open my mouth and put the thing in. I know better than to fight this. I know better than to object.

We’ll be here for hours, ‘training’ as they put it.

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