Page 69 of Degradation
I hesitate, a small act of defiance that I know will cost me later.
Gunther’s eyes narrow, his lips curling into a snarl. “I said, kneel.” he growls.
I lower myself to the floor. The smell of alcohol is overpowering, mixing with the coppery tang of blood in the air. I can feel the heat of Gunther’s gaze on the back of my neck, the weight of his expectation pressing down on me like a physical force.
“Lick it up,” he orders, his voice laced with cruel amusement.
A wave of humiliation crashes over me, threatening to drown me in its intensity. I can feel the eyes of the guests on me, their gazes burning into my skin like brands. I can hear their laughter, their jeers, their whispered comments.
But worst of all, I can feel Devin’s gaze, steady and unyielding as he witnesses my degradation. I don’t know why but that fact shames me more.
I lean forward, my tongue touching the cold amber liquid. The taste is bitter, burning my throat as I swallow. I try to block out the sounds around me, the laughter, the jeers, the cruel comments that are steadily rising. I try to pretend that I’m somewhere else, anywhere but here, but the reality of my situation is inescapable.
Gunther’s laughter rings out above the noise, a harsh, mocking sound that grates against my fragile nerves. “That’s it, pet,” he says, his voice now dripping with malice. “Lick it all up like the good little bitch you are.”
Tears sting my eyes, blurring my vision, but I blink them back, refusing to let them fall. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I won’t give any of them the satisfaction.
Finally, the last of the liquid is gone. I sit back on my heels, my head bowed, my breath coming in ragged, nasty little gasps. I can feel the weight of Gunther’s gaze on me, the smug satisfaction radiating off him like a physical force.
“Good girl,” he says, his voice dripping with condescension. He turns to his friends with that cruel smile still playing on his lips. “Isn’t she a good little pet?”
His friends laugh, their eyes gleaming with amusement as they look down at me. I can feel the heat of their gazes, the weight of their mockery, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to flinch away from them.
Gunther grabs my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh as he pulls me to my feet. I stumble, my legs weak and unsteady, but he holds me upright, his grip like a vice. “Time for the main event.” He says, his voice laced with anticipation.
A shiver runs down my spine as I realize what he means. The beating and murder were just the warm-up, the appetizer before the main course.
Now comes the real entertainment, the part where I’m always the star attraction.
Gunther leads me to the centre of the room, his grip never wavering. The guests part before us, forming a circle around us. I can feel the weight of their gazes, the intensity of their expectation of what’s to come.
But I know better than to try and run. I know that there’s no escape, no reprieve from the nightmare that’s about to unfold. I know that I’m trapped, that I’m nothing but a plaything for my husband’s amusement.
And so I stand there, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps, as Gunther begins sliding the bra straps off my shoulders, down my body, exposing me to all those nasty eager eyes.
In my mind, I try to slip away, to disappear, but I can’t do it.
He slaps my breasts, one after another, hitting them enough to make me hiss.
“Founder.” He mutters, like it’s an insult.
I don’t say anything back.
I don’t do anything but take his abuse.
He takes his belt off, forcing me to my knees and wraps it around my throat, like I’m a dog. With one hand he tears the thong from me then he slaps my arse cheek so hard I hiss.
“Crawl.” He orders as his friends all start to laugh.
I know doing it will expose more of me, will expose all of my most intimate parts but I don’t have a choice, do I? I drop my gaze, staring at the polished tiles, focusing on the pattern of them as my face burns with the humiliation.
He makes me do three rounds, three nice big loops of the room. I’m cheered on, jeered at, my arse is slapped by various different hands, and I’m called a ‘good bitch’ over and over and over.
I’m so close to tears, so close to collapsing, but I don’t want to give my husband the satisfaction.
“What do you say?” Gunther says, “Doesn’t she make a fine wife?”
Enough of the men seem to agree with him. Even a few of the women join in. I wonder if they only do it to make themselves more amenable, so they’ll be spared some torture.
