Page 148 of Depravity

I stare back at him. He’s not looking at my face but the expression he has, it’s turning me on more. It’s making me continue, it’s proving everything I’m doing is right.

My body leaks out more arousal, my heart thumping loudly. I can feel myself literally throbbing as I work away.

And I’m moaning, moaning deep in my throat. Showing in every way that I can that I want this, that I’m submitting. That I can be what he wants me to be now, that I won’t fight him anymore.

My upper back arches, my breasts push out and I throw my head back as an explosion seems to go off behind my eyes. I scream, I push my fingers deep inside myself and I start thrusting, dragging this performance out.

“Fuck,” He groans, leaning in, planting a kiss on my useless left leg. “You’re so beautiful, so beautiful Brynn.”

Those words send me over the edge, they make me combust.

But I’m crying too, sobbing, hating the fact that this part of me was tainted, that it was ruined.

As I collapse back onto the bed he gets in beside me, pulling me up into his arms, and then drags the covers over us.

For so many months I hated the touch of him, the feel of him, the smell of him. And yet, now, I’m lying here, acceptingit. I don’t know if this is peace I feel, or disgust at myself, at my surrender.

But I can’t keep fighting. I’m too tired now. Too broken.

Conrad can help me. Conrad can protect me. I just have to sacrifice the parts of me that don’t want him, the parts that whisper of freedom and a life outside the Brethren. I have to bury those words; I have to burn them from my memory.

Fix me.

I have to fix myself now, I have to do the work that no one else can.

I can hear his breathing; I can feel the warmth of it on my skin.

For a second I think he’s fallen asleep, but then he moves enough to tell me he’s definitely still awake.

His eyes narrow, and I see that same flash of anger that I saw back in the shower.

“How many?” He growls.

For a moment I don’t understand what he’s asking me, what the hell he’s talking about, and then it hits me.

He wants to know who else fucked me. Who else has had me.

I gulp, grateful for the lack of emotion in this instance because it spares me feeling the revulsion I know should be there.

“Just him.” I reply.

He doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t. This conversation is completely pointless because I can’t fucking speak in any way that makes actual sense.

And then it hits me, what to do, how to explain it.

I make a gesture with my hands, and he moves quickly out of the bed, rifling through the desk in the corner before he comes back with the notepad.

He passes it to me, and I take the pencil before I hesitate. Because on some level, writing it, seeing it there on paper, feels even worse than saying the truth out loud.

“Tell me who touched you.” He says more angrily, like he’s going to hunt them down and skin them alive.

I scrawl the words, but I can’t look at them. I can still barely process what happened.

He snatches the pad, then stares at what’s written there.

“…the fuck?” He says and I can hear the disbelief. I can hear it loudly. Does he think I’m lying, that I’d make something as abhorrent as that up?

I grab the pad back, adding to the line that reads ‘Xavier and my father’ and I write, I scrawl, I scramble to try and explain what it was, what he did, and why.

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