9. Conrad
I t’s evening. Quinn, myself and a few of his buddies are in the smoking room, having a drink. I’m not sure why he invited them here, they’ve barely said a word to me, but they do keep shooting glances my way like I’m some sort of celebrity.
Now that the ladies have retired, I can relax. I can breathe, and I can think.
Giselle was especially clingy tonight.
And as usual, my little doll was a no-show.
I narrow my eyes, taking a long sip of whiskey. I’m starting to think it’s intentional, that they’re keeping her out of sight for a reason. Do they think I’m offended by her? She’s technically a bastard, but she is also a Monclere. Besides, she’s beautiful enough to not give a fuck about who her parents were or how she was conceived.
It turns out she has a speech impediment. That she wasn’t just stuttering through fear. It’s endearing, poor little thing.
There’s a timid knock at the door. I look up, foolishly hoping that this might be here, only it’s Paige. She glances about, looking more than a little uncomfortable and shuffles in like she knows she’s in trouble, and she’d do anything to get out of it.
Quinn fixes his gaze on her, before letting out a long, frustrated sigh. “You were late for dinner again, wife,” He says.
She bows her head, nodding quickly.
“What sort of impression do you think that leaves on my guests?” He asks, gesturing to me and his two friends.
In truth, I hadn’t noticed she was any later than the rest of us, but then Giselle was all over me like a rash, so I was rather preoccupied.
“I’m sorry,” She whispers. “I’ll do better, husband,”
“Yes, you will,” He says, sounding like he intends to drive that point home.
He gets up, strutting towards her and she visibly shrinks like she’s trying to make herself so small. Clearly, he’s not opposed to getting his hands dirty at home, is he? But then, most of us aren’t. We’re brought up to understand that as men, we are the dominant ones, the gender that matters. Women are only good for one thing, and oftentimes, you’ll find a slave is far more satisfying than a wife can be.
“My guests are upset,” Quinn states. “You need to make it up to them. You need to show them that you’re a good hostess, a good wife…”
He tears start falling down her cheeks, but she doesn’t make a sound as he reaches down and rips the delicate fabric right off her body.
My eyes widen and I sit up, realising what this is.
Her breasts are small, barely worth a bra – not that she’s wearing one. She’s skinny too, like she could do with a good meal. But that’s not what gets my attention; from where I’m sat, I can see her back, I can see her arse. And across her skin are so many stripes, so many scars from where she’s clearly been whipped.
“You beat your wife, Quinn?” I remark.
He glances at me, shrugging. “She needs to learn,” He remarks before slapping her hard enough across the face that she falls onto all fours. “All these women need to learn.”
His two friends get up and it’s almost practised, almost rehearsed. They prowl around her, like they think they’re two badass predators about to make a kill. My lips quirk as I watch them. It’s almost amusing, entertaining even. At least it would be, if she wasn’t crying too bloody much.
One of them undoes his trousers, yanks her thong aside and starts pushing himself into her. The other man grabs her face, saying something I can’t hear before he pushes his cock down her throat.
She’s clearly not up for it, but she doesn’t fight either. She just stays there letting them use her while her husband sits back down and watches the scene before him like he’s bored.
When they’re done, Quinn looks over at me and gestures. “If you’d like a go,” He says, like he’s offering up a biscuit. “She’s only good for one thing. Her face isn’t much to look at, but her cunt grips you quite nicely.”
I shake my head. Another man’s leftovers is hardly tempting.
Quinn pulls a face, muttering “suit yourself,” before he gets up and pushes her down onto her back.
She whimpers as he slaps her a few times and then he undoes his belt, wrapping it around her throat tight enough that her eyes bulge.
I’ve never been one who’s shy about sex. I grew up in Oblivion so I could hardly be that, but listening to his grunting, seeing his pale, wrinkly arse flexing as he fucks her makes my stomach turn.
Thank fuck this is my last night. Thank fuck I get to leave tomorrow.
I mutter some excuse and head out, leaving them all there. I don’t doubt they’ll continue the party, continue abusing the girl and I have better things to do than sit there and watch them fuck all night.