Page 31 of Depravity

It feels like God is here, that he’s beside me, applauding me, honouring me. That finally, after all these years, he’s granting me the honours I deserve. The rewards I’ve worked so hard for.

Of course, my little wife refuses to give in. She fights, she cries, but in the end it’s useless. Her attempts to stop me are as futile as her strength.

The Priest stands there looking on, bearing witness so that technically, by the old laws, this marriage is unbreakable. I lookup and meet his gaze and I can see it, the ghost of a smile on his lips. How many weddings has he officiated like this? How many brides has he witnessed cry and beg as prettily as my now wife does?

I lean down, taking a handful of her hair and I wrench her head up so that she’s forced to look at him, forced to meet his gaze.

You see, wife, you see? No one will stop this. Not even God himself will step in.

You are mine now. You can’t escape me. You can’t run.

Even the Brethren can’t separate us.

She lets out a wail; a pitiful sound that if anything, spurs me on more. I buck harder, driving myself more mercilessly into her delicious cunt. Her muscles protest; they clench, they try to fight me but my cock pushes through, my brute strength forces her to submit.

And then I’m roaring out, coming harder than I ever have before. My hands dig into her scalp, my nails tear into her flesh. It feels like an explosion goes off and I pump away, emptying my balls deep inside her.

As I pull out, I see the smear of something, and I wipe myself clean on her pretty torn up dress.

She keeps her eyes down, like she can’t even look at me and I lean in to grab her jaw, to force her to meet my gaze.

This woman here is bound to me for life. Good or bad, there is no way out from this.

I scoop her up, carrying her half-limp body out. She keeps her tear-stained face staring off into the distance as if she’s still expecting someone to come rescue her.

Only, I am her salvation. I am her beginning and her end.

I am her every reason for existence now and the sooner my new wife accepts this, the sooner I can stop hurting her and start showing her my love.

Imust have passed out in the car, I don’t remember how I even left the chapel; if I walked out, or if Conrad continued to carry me.

I’m back in bed. His bed, but it’s not the one I woke up in last time.

Everything feels different. The space feels bigger, the room feels stuffy, as though the walls hold too many secrets.

As I force my body to move, my eyes adjust to the light, and I realise it’s morning. That’s another god knows how many hours of my life gone, again.

The bed I’m in is a four-poster. It’s old, beautifully carved with an intricately carved tapestry pinned in place far above my head.

The room is far more opulent, far more tasteful than the penthouse was. Not that the penthouse had been lacking but this place screams history, heritage, bloodlines that go back right to when the Brethren began.

“You’re awake.”

My eyes dart across the room to where he is, where he’s sitting like some monster waiting patiently before they pounce.

The ring on his hand catches the light, practically taunting me as he reaches forward and takes a long, slow sip of his drink.

Around my own finger, I can feel that pressure, that reminder that all of this is real. This nightmare is real, and this man before me is both my salvation and my destruction all wrapped up into one devastating parcel.

My left hand is bandaged, strapped nice and tightly to ensure that my marriage mark doesn’t get infected, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the memory of it all. At the memory of the way that Priest leered at me, at how he enjoyed watching every second of my assault.

“Come here,” Conrad says, curling a finger at me to emphasise that command.

I don’t want to. I don’t want to get any closer than I already am, but staying in his bed doesn’t feel like a particularly safe option either. With what little courage I have, I shove the thick duvet off and I slide my legs out.

There’s a massive fireplace; the kind they call an inglenook, with a wrought iron grate in the middle and a pile of logs by the side, all ready to burn. In front of that is a massive, antique, Turkish rug with two couches positioned across from one another. Conrad is sitting like a king, watching my approach as if I were some sort of courtesan that he’s just added to his harem.

At the chapel he’d stripped me naked, but I’m dressed now, wearing what I assume to be his shirt. Just his shirt. I have nobra, no underwear. For all intents and purposes, I’m still very easily accessible.

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