Love. He calls this love. I am a prisoner. A captive.
But tonight is different.
I feel it the moment he lays me down. There's a tension in his movements, a tremor in his hands. His breathing is heavier.
"Adelaide," he whispers, and there's something in his voice that makes ice flood my veins. "I'm sorry. I know I said I'd wait. That I'd keep you safe and untouched until I woke you. But I can't. You're too beautiful."
No. No, no, no.
His hand runs down my body, over the silk, and I want to thrash, to fight, to run. But I can't move. Can't even make my breathing change to show my terror.
"It's going to hurt you at first. I know it will."
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
Please don't. Please. I'm begging him in my mind, screaming at him, but he can't hear me. He'll never hear me.
"Fuck," he pants. "You're so tight, Adelaide. So perfect. I know it hurts, baby, I know, but you're taking me so well."
I'm not taking you. You're forcing yourself into me.
Then he pushes forward, and I learn what real pain is.
"That's it," he groans. "Take me. Take all of me. Your body was made for this. Made for me."
No it wasn't!Another thrust, deeper, and I feel him stretching me beyond what should be possible. I feel myself tear again. There are ridges on his cock. I can feel them dragging against my inner walls, catching and pulling. The pain is white-hot, all-consuming.
"Good girl," he praises. "Such a good fucking girl, taking my cock. You're doing so well, Adelaide. So fucking well."
I feel him pull at my nightgown, and cool air hits my breasts as he exposes them. The humiliation adds another layer to the horror.
"Perfect. Everything about you is perfect."
"Look at you," he pants, and I feel pressure on my lower stomach where he must be pressing. "Look at how deep I am. How perfectly your body accepts me. You were meant for this, Adelaide. Meant for me."
I wasn't. I wasn't meant for this.
Then I feel it. Something that makes the horror so much worse. Wetness. My body is responding despite my terror, despite my screaming mind. No. No, this can't be happening.
"Almost there, treasure. Almost. Just a little more. I hope you're enjoying your first time. I can feel you getting a little wet. Hope you're moaning in there."
Shame crashes over me, hot and suffocating. My body is betraying me. Even as I'm being violated, even as I'm screaming inside, my body is responding to him.
I hate him. I hate him so much I can taste it, bitter and sharp on my tongue that won't move.
"Fuck," he breathes, and I feel his forehead against mine. "Adelaide. My Adelaide. You feel so good. So perfect. We were meant to be together."
Then he starts to move, pulling back and thrusting forward in slow, deep strokes. Those ridges drag against my walls, and to my absolute horror, my body responds. I'm getting wetter, making it easier for him.
"That's it," he groans. "Your body knows. Knows what it needs. Knows who it belongs to."
No. No, it doesn't. This is just biology. Just a physical response. It doesn't mean anything.
But the shame is overwhelming. My body is making this easier for him. Making it feel good for him while I'm trapped inside, screaming.
His lips find my neck, kissing, and I feel his breath hot against my skin. He kisses again, trailing along my throat, and each touch feels like a brand.
"Mine," he growls, and he's moving faster now, harder. "You're mine now, Adelaide. I'll keep you forever. Always protect you. Fuck you."
