Page 111 of Depravity

I just need a moment. Five minutes max.

Ingrid’s eyes drop to see where my hand is. “Are you okay?” She asks.

I nod back. It’s okay. It’s all okay.

She lets out a low breath, like I’m acting crazy. “How about a nice dress?” She says, going to what I assume is a wardrobe.

I don’t watch her. I don’t look. My hand slips under the covers and I’m there, touching myself, relieving that need now that it’s screaming in my head.

It feels so good. It feels so necessary. My body thrums, I come alive as my fingers move in that same way my husband touches me.

Conrad.

“Oh my god, Brynn. What are you doing?” Ingrid shrieks.

I open my eyes, staring back at her.

“You, you...” She pulls the duvet back and there, between my useless legs, we can both see where my hand is circling my clit.

“Conrad likes this.” I state. “He wants…”

Her hand slaps my cheek, and it sends a jolt through me.

“He’s not here.” She says angrily. “You’re not his toy anymore. You don’t have to do anything he says anymore.”

“But he’s my husband.” I state. Husband. Husband and wife. He put me in a pretty dress, he took me down an altar, and he married me. Not my aunt, not my horrid, horrid aunt. He wanted me.

She slaps me again, harder. “Enough.”

I don’t understand. This doesn’t make sense.

The other maid appears and looks between us with that same hard expression.

“Let’s get her dressed.” Ingrid says, taking charge.

They lift me up, pull me out of the bed by my arms and place me on the end of it. And I sit there, quiet, and behaved. Like a robot. Like a doll.

I’m in a wheelchair. It’s so smooth. It glides over the polished wooden floorboards and makes me feel suddenly invincible.

They dressed me up all pretty in a nice lace white dress, then they brushed my hair and left it hanging loose.

My legs are propped up on little steps, and my pink toes sparkle back at me. But still, they refuse to move.

As we come to a stop, I look up and see I’m in a room. It’s just as fancy as the one I woke up in. The same panelling is on the walls. Only, there’s a great stone fireplace here, and the windows are on view so I can see they’re made of stone too. The glass is diamond shaped, all put together like a puzzle and held with black bits of metal. It’s pretty, so pretty.

“How’s she doing?”

“She ate all her breakfast.”

“Good.”

“And then she tried to touch herself again.”

“Excuse me?” That’s a different voice. A stranger.

I look up, staring at the stern bald man who’s caught between outrage and amusement.

“She tried to touch herself.” Ingrid says again.

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