Page 97 of Depravity

When he comes, he slumps on top of me, and I’m almost grateful that his weight no longer crushes me now that I can’t feel the pressure on my lower body.

He raises his hand, cupping my cheek and that look, that joy in his face, it makes me feel sick. How can a man possibly do the things he’s done to me? How can he even think of them?

“You’re so beautiful.” He says softly. “So fucking beautiful.”

A tear escapes my eye, it streaks down, hot against my cheek and he brushes it away quickly.

“Don’t cry, Brynn. It’s all going to be okay now. This is how it was meant to be. It’s what God wanted for you.”

That’s a lie. How can anything be okay, and how can God possibly want this?

He doesn’t even tie me up anymore.

I’ve laid here for days, unmoving. Like a human statue. He lifts me up, carries me to the bathroom each morning and then puts a nappy on me like I’m a fucking baby when he goes to work.

When he comes home, he takes it off, washes me down and then fucks me.

And all the while he’s telling me that he loves me, that I’m so perfect now. That soon I’ll be fat with his child, and everything will be as he planned.

Every time he leaves, he makes sure the TV is on, thatthatrecording is playing. I may not be able to physically fight him, but he still clearly wants me to be a brainless addict all the same.

I hate the way my legs just lie there.

I hate the way I feel like a literal deadweight on this mattress.

And worst of all, I hate the way I can still feelthatneed.

You’d think that sensation would have gone. You’d think God would have granted me at least that small kindness, but no. I feel everything. EVERYTHING. Between my legs, inside, I feel every time his cock pushes into me, every time he touches me, and I can feel even now, that toy working away, trying to make me nice and needy for his return.

My hips no longer move, no longer chase that hateful ending. But I know that I’m wet, that on some level, I’m still so horrifically aroused.

I guess that’s the one kindness he has given me in not tying me up. I can sort this. End this. Alleviate this awful tension.

I reach down, grabbing the vibrator and yank it out. It shakes in my hand enough that I almost drop it, and it’s slick with my arousal.

I need to come.

I hate that I need it. But at least this way, I will feel something.

I circle the thing, focusing on that spot that my husband has caressed and tormented in equal measure. It doesn’t take long. My body thrums almost immediately and I swear I can hear my blood rushing in my ears, my heart pounding as I get closer and closer.

I’m disgusting. I’m fucked up. I’m everything he wants me to be.

But I can’t stop now. I have to do this. I have to end this, and in truth, I want to feel something other than pain, even if it is a sin, if it does damn me.

The shame of it all crashes over me in waves, each one more potent than the last. I sob, the sound of my own despair filling the room like a cacophony of sorrow that no one will hear.

I can see his face before me, I can taste him on my tongue, I can feel his lips peppering my skin with kisses.

I don't want this. I don't want him.

And yet, my body betrays me, responding to the phantom memory of his touch, the ghost of his presence haunting my flesh.

I can't let him win.I can't let him put a baby into me, to grow and fester into a person that would bind me to him for eternity.

The thought of it, of carrying his progeny sends me spiralling further into the abyss of my own mind.

I become feral, clawing at my body, my nails digging into the soft skin as if I could somehow reach in and tear out the very essence of my womanhood.

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