Page 2 of Depravity

I shake my head even though I know he’s right.

“I’m still a Breth-ren Lady…” I gasp and Conrad reaches down, gripping my arm so punishingly I think he might just snap the bone in half.

“This priest doesn’t give a fuck who you are or what you want.” He states, hauling me to my feet.

I shouldn’t cry. It’s useless to cry, but those tears fall anyway, and all I can do is let my helplessness consume me.

The Priest steps up to me, his eyes finding mine, but there’s no compassion there. No empathy.

“Lay her on the altar.” He orders. “So she can be examined.”

More fear strikes me because I don’t know what those words mean exactly, but I can certainly imagine. There’s only one expectation for a Brethren Bride. One test we must all pass. And I know I’ve already failed it.

“No need.” Conrad replies. “I’ve claimed her already.”

The Priest pauses, and for one pitiful moment I pray that statement might be enough to halt this entire nightmare. But then he just grunts, as if he’s disappointed that he won’t be able to do whatever he had planned.

“This is most untoward.” He murmurs. “A Lady cannot be married unless she is proven to be pure.”

“And she was. She bled all over my cock.” Conrad says, obviously more than proud of that fact.

I screw my face up and shut my eyes, but my cheeks still burn with the shame of that admission.

“As you wish.” The Priest replies, moving to pick up the red ribbon and as he starts chanting, he begins wrapping my left wrist up, binding it with Conrad’s.

With horror, I watch as he ties the knot and then reaches for the knife.

“No,” I whisper as he wrenches my fingers back, forces my hand open, and as he drags that blade right down the centre of my palm. Bright red, livid blood bubbles up while I hiss at the pain.

He drags that same knife over Conrad’s hand and then he clasps our hands together, entwining our fingers so our palms and blood mingle.

“Ashes to Ashes. Blood to Blood.” The Priest says loudly. “This ribbon represents the tie your souls now have to one another. The wound on your palm is a reminder of what sacrifices Christ made for you and in turn, what you will make for one another. The mingling of your blood means you are now one person in the eyes of God.

The ring is pushed onto my finger. It’s tight, enough so that I can feel the pressure, and it makes me wonder if that too was intentional. Did Conrad ensure mine was a size too small so that it would be a constant reminder, a form of slow torture for me?

“What God has put together, no man can put aside.”

Those words echo in my head, and I hear the lie in them. That I am bound to my now husband, that we are united under God’s gaze. But overstep, piss him off, push too hard and I know, as a Brethren Lord, he can toss me aside. He can break this marriage and have me condemned.

A crucifix is held in front of my face. It’s solid gold, covered in what must be priceless jewels and all those years of training, of conditioning, of brainwashing make me act on instinct. I shut my eyes, and let my lips find the cold surface, planting a chaste kiss right in the middle.

Conrad follows, his lips landing right where mine had left a mark.

“And now the consummation.” The Priest says, announcing it as if a whole congregation were here, sat in the pews, and ordinarily they would be. I guess I should count myself lucky that only he is here to witness this further degradation.

Conrad steps behind me. Our hands are still bound, so my left arm is pulled to an angle and in one foul motion, one far too quick motion, he rips the dress off me, shredding it right down the back.

I scream, even though I don’t want to. Even though I told myself I wouldn’t, that I’d be brave, that I’d make a point of showing him that I’m not as weak and pathetic as he clearly thinks I am.

My free hand clutches at the ruined fabric like it might grant me some dignity.

He shoves me down onto the altar face first. Evidently while I was being stripped naked the priest laid a white sheet, and though its purpose has already been rendered redundant by my now husband’s earlier abuses, I guess there must still be some ritual significance to it.

Conrad doesn’t strip, he doesn’t even undo his shirt. While I practically freeze from the chilled air, he simply undoes his belt and loosens his trousers enough to pull his dick out.

I know there’s no way out of this. I know he’s already overpowered me, outplayed me, beaten me in every conceivable way and yet it still feels like I’m the one to blame, I’m the one that failed. That I should have done something, should have been smarter, tougher, braver.

He holds my left arm far above my head, moving my right to join it and I’m pinned down, held in place while he yanks my leg wide enough that he can angle himself.

---