Page 94 of Depravity

Ilie on the bed, a prisoner within the confines of satin and frilly damn lace. This room feels like a shrine to my own personal hell, and the tv screen across from me is a relentless tormentor, playing the same vile scenes on an endless loop.

I can't look away, even as each image sears itself into my memory, a brutal catalogue of my violation and shame.

I can see the imprints of his hands, the bruises like a morbid fingerprint on my skin. Each mark is a testament to the savagery he's capable of, as well as a stark reminder that my body is not my own. It's a vessel for his twisted desires, a marionette dancing to the cruel pull of his strings.

The stranger is mercifully gone, his presence a fleeting shadow against the backdrop of my ongoing, never-ending nightmare.

But Conrad remains, his silhouette a dark stain against the doorway.

I'm dressed up like his pretty little doll. His pretty little toy. The irony isn't lost on me—that I should look my best for the performance of my own degradation.

As he clambers onto the bed, he starts running his hands up my torso, feeling what he has no right to, and yet owns all the same. "Are you ready to pleasure your husband?" he asks, his voice so fucking smooth as he undoes his belt.

I shake my head in a silent plea for mercy, for reprieve.

But my resistance is met with the harsh rebuke of the collar around my neck. The shock is a violent jolt, a brutal reminder of my place in his world. God, he likes that doesn’t he? He likes using that thing to hurt me now, because evidently, he’s grown sick of all the bruising.

I whimper, the sound pathetic and small in the grand scheme of my suffering. I can’t even bring my hands up to alleviate the pain.

Another shock, more intense than the last, leaves me gasping for breath.

With a tenderness that feels like a cruel joke, he fastens a clit clamp onto me. The pain is immediate, a white-hot lance of agony that radiates from that single point of contact.

I don’t know why he does this, why he hurts me. But there’s a part of me that is grateful.

I need the pain.

I need the horror.

Now more than ever.

Because there's a traitorous part of me that’s starting to crave this attention. I'm starved for it, desperate for any scrap of affection, no matter how tainted it is.

It's a stark realization, one that cuts deeper than any physical wound—that I've become so conditioned to seek his approval, his praise.

Oh god, it is working. He is breaking me.That thought almost turns me catatonic. My breath turns to a rattle, and I fall apart as he lowers his mouth and starts tongue fucking me.

Stop. I need it to stop.

I need to think. I need…

He groans, pushing himself into me, not giving a damn that I’m doing everything I can to fight this.

And then he says the words I hate so much.

“I love you.”

It’s a lie. There’s no way he can love me. You don’t do the things he does to me when you love someone.

I screw my face up, feeling that burning on my chest, feeling all my anger.

“I hate you,” I spit. “I hate you. I’ll never love you.”

Pain, so much pain hits my body that it makes my eyes roll back, making me jerk so violently that I think I might dislocate my limbs.

“You will love me,” Conrad snaps back. “You will.”

On and on, he shocks me. By the time he’s done, my heart is racing so fast I think it really will give out.

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