68. Conrad
I scoop her up and carry her out, past the doctor, past my brother who’s clearly still not convinced that I shouldn’t just put her down like a stray dog.
As if I could.
She hangs compliant enough in my arms as we make our way through the main house to the east wing. She still stinks, and I know it’s not mud covering her body.
I kick off my boots at the door to the suite and carry her through to the bathroom. From the window, I can see the sun is rising, but I’ve no intention of doing anything else beyond washing and sleeping.
I place her down gently onto the stool. She watches me warily as I turn the shower on and wait for the water to heat.
A noise comes from her throat. I know she’s trying to say something, but I don’t have the energy to figure it out right now.
She looks skinny, emaciated. In the bright light of the bathroom, I can see how bad of a state she’s really in. I’ll need to fatten her up, build her back up. Make her nice and plump again.
Question is, will she let me pamper her, or will she return to being a little bitch again? Has her time with her father poisoned her mind, or made her realise how good she really had it with me?
I grab another stool, plonking it in the shower. Good thing it’s so big because with her sat down, she takes up a lot of the floorspace.
The water cascades down over her and she hangs her head, staring at where it drips down.
I let out a sigh, pulling my dirty clothes off, and I toss them onto the marble floor before I get in beside her.
She instantly freezes. Her body obviously locks up at my proximity. I narrow my eyes, daring her to try anything and reach for the loofah and some body wash.
I can see her breath hitch. I can see her chest rising and falling rapidly.
In silence, I drop to my knees and I foam up the loofah before I start scrubbing. Bit by bit I wash the dirt off, the grime, the evidence of where other men’s hands have been. She sniffs but beyond that, she doesn’t do a thing to stop me. As I toss the loofah and grab the cloth, she shuts her eyes.
I push her back against the tiles,then open her legs, scooting her arse right to the end of the stool so she’s at a better angle.
Again, I expect some sort of resistance, some attempt at a fight.
And again, I’m more than pleasantly surprised. I wrap my hand around her now clean waist, and I run the cloth right up between her thighs. This is where she’s most dirty, this is where the greatest offence took place. I wonder if I could have accepted the mutilation of her tongue better if they hadn’t fucked her.
I guess it’s a moot point, isn’t it?
But as I blink I can see it, that video, that footage. Of her being held down, of her being fucked over and over. Of her cunt opening up and swallowing someone else’s cock like she wanted it. Like she enjoyed it.
It doesn’t matter that she was crying, it doesn’t matter that she was fighting. Her body still did that. Still allowed that.
I snarl, slamming my hand into the tile and she jumps in shock.
“Who?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Of course she doesn’t fucking answer, they stole her damn voice. Even if she does know, she can’t speak the damned words.
I shake my head, slamming my fist into the tile again and this time, I hear the crack as the ceramic gives way. There’s a circular fracture now on the tile, a perfectly neat representation of what they did to our relationship, how they fractured it into tiny little pieces.
Her hand reaches out, she touches my arm and I jerk, shoving her away.
I don’t want her touch right now, not when she’s still dirty. Not when she’s still tainted.
I rub the cloth harder, covering it in more soap. I scrub away all the muck, all the marks that cover her. Her skin is a nice pink shade now. All flushed and pretty.
Her cunt needs a shave. Her armpits need a shave too, but I don’t care right now. Besides, I don’t think I could keep my hand steady enough to do it without cutting her, and I don’t want that. She’s lost enough blood as it is.
The towels are hanging up too far to reach and I step out, yanking them roughly off the rails. As I turn back, I can see she’s reached up, turned the water off and she’s just sitting there, facing me, clearly waiting for something.
I dry her off and then carry her through to the bedroom. It’s not fair to take my anger out on her. It’s not right. She’s a victim in this, and yet I dump her on the bed, leaving her there while I go back and mull it over.
In silence, I dry myself off and then I stand there, just breathing, just taking it all in.
I could give her up. I could just walk in there, snap her pretty little neck and end this bullshit.
But what would be the point then? What would all my fight to get her back be for?
No, even damaged, even destroyed, she is still my doll. My plaything. I’ll have to patch her back up, stitch her back up. But she’s worth the effort, she always has been.
I wrap the towel around my waist before walking out to the bedroom.
She’s on the bed. Sitting, facing the bathroom door. She looks up and meets my hard gaze, and her eyes look forlorn. Perhaps she understands this, perhaps she understands my pain.
I open my mouth to speak but she shakes her head slightly and then lays back, on her elbows, spreading her legs wide.
“Brynn…”
She makes a growling sound, one of defiance and then she moves her hand, running her fingers right down her centre.
I take a step, then another and before I realise it, I’m on my knees before her, staring at her cunt.
I don’t want to touch her, I don’t want to do anything to break this spell. For the first time, I’ve not had to ask, not had to manipulate.
She’s touching herself. But she’s doing it for me, for my entertainment.
Can this really be happening? Or have I smacked my head? Imagined this entire scenario while I’m out cold?