I flinch again, but he laughs. “You like that word? Parasite. It fits you.”
He presses his hips against me, and I can feel he’s hard. I want to scream, but I know better. The last time I screamed, he locked me in the bathroom for two days. No food, only tap water, and the smell of bleach. My only company was his voice through the door, telling me over and over what a burden I was and how I should have just let him do what he wanted.
He slides his hand up under my shirt, fingers cold and rough. “You want to earn your keep for once?” He squeezes my breast so hard it hurts.
I shake my head, but he ignores it.
He pushes me forward, so my stomach hits the edge of the desk. The wood digs into my skin, hard enough to leave a mark. He keeps one hand on the back of my neck, pinning me down, while the other pulls at the waistband of my pants.
“Stop,” I say. My voice is small, weak. “Please.”
He laughs again. “You don’t get to say no. You’re my wife. You’re mine.”
Heyanks my pants down, rough and fast, and I hear the snap of elastic. My legs go numb.
He bends me over the desk, presses his full weight on me, and whispers, “You should thank me. At least I still want you.”
The video on the screen keeps playing. The woman is still on her knees, her face a mess of tears and spit. I stare at the monitor, at the green progress bar moving across the bottom, and try to pretend I’m not here.
I’m trapped, and he’s not going to let me go.
He pushes my face into the wood, the surface smeared with breath and tears. His hands are everywhere. Yanking my shirt up, pinning my wrists behind my back, pulling my panties down with one hard, angry motion. The air is freezing against my skin, but his grip burns.
I try to squirm away, but he just presses harder, grinding my cheek into the wood until I taste blood in my mouth. He fumbles at his waistband, curses when he can’t get them down with one hand. He lets go of my wrists long enough to pull his sweatpants down.
I think about running, just for a second, but before I can even move he grabs me by the hair and slams my head down so hard my teeth clack together. He’s breathing fast, heavy, like an animal.
“You think you’re too good for me?” he spits. “You think you’re fucking better?”
He forces my legs apart with his knee, wood biting into my thighs. I hear the wet slap of his hand on my ass, then the scrape of his nails as he spreads me open. I’m shaking so hard I can barely stand. My knees buckle, but he holds me up.
I start to sob, quiet and helpless, and he laughs.
“See?” he says, voice low. “You’re just like the rest. Let’s put on a good show.”
He spits in his hand, rubs it on me. I know that’s not going to be enough lubrication. I know this is going to hurt. Then rams himself inside me, tearing me open in one brutal thrust. The pain is blinding, white-hot, and I scream before I can stop myself.
He clamps a hand over my mouth, muffling the sound, and hisses, “No screaming. You want the viewers to hear what a whore you are?”
Viewers? Tears stream down my face. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I just focus on the wood grain on the desk, the cold, the way my breath fogs and fades, fogs and fades.
“Look right there,” he shakes my head toward a camera set up on a tripod on the other side of the room. Right across from the desk with a full view of my body.
Put on a good show.
He fucks me with short, vicious thrusts, each one punctuated by another insult.
“Fat bitch.”
“Ungrateful cunt.”
“Fucking parasite.”
With every word, he slams into me harder. The edge of the desk cuts into my hip, the hardness of it biting through the thin cotton of my shirt. My skin will bruise, I know it, but I don’t care. All I want is for it to be over.
I try to go somewhere else. I stare at the photo on the wall in front of me, the only personal thing in the office. It’s from our honeymoon, before the money, before the house, before he started hating me. I’m smiling in the picture, standing in front of a courthouse in a white dress. Eli is next to me, his arm around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder.
In the photo, he looks happy. I look happy. I try to remember what that felt like, but the memory won’t come.
