Page 104 of Deliria

“Scarlett?” My voice is deliberately soft, almost... kind, though the words taste foreign on my tongue.

Her eyelids barely flutter in response. I can almost hear the gears grinding sluggishly in her brain, trying to comprehend her situation but failing tragically. She doesn’t answer, of course. Her consciousness is a fractured thing, fragmented like the bones of her leg, weak and unreliable.

I reach out, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger there for a moment, cool against her too-warm skin. “Don’t worry,” I murmur, “I’ll take care of everything.”

And I will.

With a sharp jerk I pull the blanket from her torso. The flimsy hospital gown she has on has gathered up enough to show most of her pale legs.

Her eyelids flutter again, a weak groan slipping from her throat as if she’s trying to form some sort of a protest. I know there’s a part of her, buried somewhere deep beneath the cocktail of drugs, that senses something is wrong.

“Come on now, wife,” I murmur as I undo my belt. “What sort of a husband would I be if I didn’t fuck my bride on our wedding day?”

There’s no response. Not that I expected one.

I clamber onto the bed, noting the way the metal creaks and protests. I’ll need to be careful then, and not fuck her too roughly, otherwise the nurses will hear the commotion and I’ll have some explaining to do.

I shove her left leg out the way. With the cast on, it’s a damned nuisance. I yank her right leg up, positioning it at an angle so that her cunt is wide open and exposed for me.

There’s a tube in her, a catheter so she doesn’t piss herself. It’s not sexy to look at. Nothing about this is traditionally sexy, and yet, the power I know I have right now, the fact that I have total control over her, yeah that’s a turn on. A fucking big one.

“Mrs Forster,” I murmur as I push myself into her. She’s dry. Not that I expected anything else.

Maybe I should have given her a shot of GHB for old times’ sake. She certainly reacted well to it the last few times I dosed her. My lips curl as I start thrusting into her, remembering her behaviour, remembering her at the party, how she tried to fight it before the drugs took her completely, and she became the slut I knew she truly was.

I’d stood back that night, watched as the board had their fun. Of course we’d needed to do it, offer them a little piece of the pie, because our situation was precarious back then. We needed something to keep them onside, something to ensure they behaved. A dirty little sexy tape was enough to buy their loyalty in the short term.

But today, today I secured our future. I secured my family’s future. Once this woman is gone and it’s all nicely dealt with, then I’ll see to them. The witnesses. I’ll have them all quietly removed, taken out, eliminated. I won’t have any whispers, any gossip, any chance that this can come back and bite me in the arse.

A whimper escapes my wife’s mouth. It sounds pitiful. Pathetic. Just as I’ve made her.

Maybe it’s my weight, maybe it’s my body as I slam into her. Either way, I don’t give a fuck if I’m hurting her, and I certainly don’t stop. She’s my wife now, I can use her as I see fit.

“Don’t try to fight it, Scarlett,” I say more to amuse myself than anything else. She’s not in any position to fight anymore. I’ve made sure of that. She’ll take what I give, and she’ll be helpless to stop me.

Once she’s recovered enough to be moveable, I’ll have her sent to my family’s estate. I’ll give her the space she needs to breathe, to heal, to remember just enough of what her life used to be to see how drastically it’s changed.

Afterall, a cage is only effective if the bird knows it’s caged.

Right now, amidst the haze of her drugged sleep, she has no concept of the bars I’ve already drawn around her.

But she will.

I can keep an eye on her there, I can make sure her every movement is filtered through my decisions.

She’ll be kept comfortable... docile.

I’ll let her believe that this is all in service of her recovery. That everything I do is for her own good. She won’t question it because, well, why should she? By the time she regains even a semblance of her former self, if she regains that, it will already be too late.

I’ll have systematically stripped away whatever autonomy she thought she had, piece by piece, until compliance is the only path left for her.

And that thought, that concept of her, trapped and isolated is enough to send me right over the edge. I growl out my release, forgetting that I should be quiet. Forgetting that I should be careful.

And then I get up, readjust my clothes and leave her for the nurses to clean up. They can think what they want, I pay them enough to keep their mouths shut anyway.

He’s there.

With her.

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