Page 147 of Depravity

I rub the cloth harder, covering it in more soap. I scrub away all the muck, all the marks that cover her. Her skin is a nice pink shade now. All flushed and pretty.

Her cunt needs a shave. Her armpits need a shave too, but I don’t care right now. Besides, I don’t think I could keep my hand steady enough to do it without cutting her, and I don’t want that. She’s lost enough blood as it is.

The towels are hanging up too far to reach and I step out, yanking them roughly off the rails. As I turn back, I can seeshe’s reached up, turned the water off and she’s just sitting there, facing me, clearly waiting for something.

I dry her off and then carry her through to the bedroom. It’s not fair to take my anger out on her. It’s not right. She’s a victim in this, and yet I dump her on the bed, leaving her there while I go back and mull it over.

In silence, I dry myself off and then I stand there, just breathing, just taking it all in.

I could give her up. I could just walk in there, snap her pretty little neck and end this bullshit.

But what would be the point then? What would all my fight to get her back be for?

No, even damaged, even destroyed, she is still my doll. My plaything. I’ll have to patch her back up, stitch her back up. But she’s worth the effort, she always has been.

I wrap the towel around my waist before walking out to the bedroom.

She’s on the bed. Sitting, facing the bathroom door. She looks up and meets my hard gaze, and her eyes look forlorn. Perhaps she understands this, perhaps she understands my pain.

I open my mouth to speak but she shakes her head slightly and then lays back, on her elbows, spreading her legs wide.

“Brynn…”

She makes a growling sound, one of defiance and then she moves her hand, running her fingers right down her centre.

I take a step, then another and before I realise it, I’m on my knees before her, staring at her cunt.

I don’t want to touch her, I don’t want to do anything to break this spell. For the first time, I’ve not had to ask, not had to manipulate.

She’s touching herself. But she’s doing it for me, for my entertainment.

Can this really be happening? Or have I smacked my head? Imagined this entire scenario while I’m out cold?

It’s the only way.

I know it.

Even if I don’t like it.

He’s rejecting me, he doesn’t want me anymore. I can see it in his eyes, I can feel it in the way he washed me.

I’m tainted now. Ruined.

I never wanted this man’s love. I never wanted his attention, or his touch, or anything from him.

And yet, without it, what am I? What purpose do I have?

My own father proved I’m nothing but a thing to own. A thing to use. My maternal family despises me. I have no value beyond what my body can barter, and Conrad, my husband, he used to want that, he used to crave that.

I have to make him remember. I have to use the one thing I have left, the one option open to me, if I’m going to survive.

“Conrad.” I whisper his name. Not that he realises that’s what I’ve said, since it comes out in a jumble of noise.

But my hands are doing all the work here. All the enticing.

I run my fingers up, being so gentle, partly because it hurts too much to do otherwise and partly because that is how I like it, how I touch myself. My face heats when I realise that it’s a habit now, that I masturbate. I’m one of those people. Those sinners.

But this man here, he made me into this. He’s just as sinful as I am.

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