Invasion (24 page)

My heart whooshes, ears ringing as adrenaline fills me up, stimulating my sympathetic nervous system to encourage me to fight. The agony felt in my joints and muscles is soon suppressed.

I pull, convinced I am stronger than a gladiator fighting a death match. My jaw clenches, grinding my teeth to assert my strength and guide me to safety. I tug harder, trying with all my might once more to pull my arms to the center while simultaneously attempting to pull my knees to my belly, but the leather straps around my limbs keep me captive.

Mark bellows loudly, his macabre laugh stroking his ego while his cock grows larger. Violence makes him hard. Spitting derogatory terms my way makes his harder.

“Tsk, tsk, Carly girl. Relax. It’s no good for your body to fight this. You don’t want me to punish you for acting out, do you?”

He strokes my face as I inadvertently lean into his touch. I am a burden, his burden. A burden to myself. A failure, his failure. A failure to myself.

No! I can’t let him succeed! I jerk away, snapping my neck to the opposite side. My short locks are taut in his grasp, tugging back as he forces me to stare into his black eyes.

“You will take this douche I made for you like the good whore you are, Carly. It will cleanse your dirty cunt. Then I’m going to put this tablet in your twat, then fuck you hard until my seed shoots into your womb. No running either. I have a plan for that too.”

He laughs wildly, his chest heaving like a hyena feasting on bush-pig. The once attractive lawyer, wealthy and mysterious, kind and soft, turns cunning and ruthless. His lips press on mine, forcing mine open.

I lay here while he starts his assault. I don’t want this, but he is my husband. I have to consent. I have to give him what he wants. I promised to love and obey him. I regret those words.

My disapproval begins to show. The warm wetness pools beneath my disheveled eyes. It is then that I understand what true humiliation feels like. Mark withdraws his mouth, putting a free hand over my neck as I balance on the edge of consciousness. He knows I enjoy it. He’s figured out how to make me want this, despite the tears streaming down my face. He knows I can never say no to him.

Warmth gushes up my vagina, the scent of lemon thick while my vision blurs. Mark lessens his grip, watching my reaction as he pushes the citrus douche up my canal, the warm liquid invading and filling, a feeling I hate. It feels like I just pissed myself without control, like I have incontinence. That alone buries me in shame. As I continue to be dominated under his gaze, he kisses me again, letting go of my neck and placing his hand over my belly as he whispers gibberish. I ignore it as I try my damnedest to do one simple thing.

Survive.

After the warmth stops, Mark reaches over and grabs a white capsule, studying it with a smile.

“This will instill normal flora in your cunt. It’s acidophilus.”

I pull with minor effort as he places it between his teeth, going between my legs as the liquid starts to seep from my vagina down to my asshole.

He licks me, flicking my clit, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying in an ill attempt to once again shut my legs. My body listens to his words, his actions, craving it, living for it even while being disgraced. It might come at a high price, but then he is loving me, being tender and affectionate.

His mouth divorces me, abandoned I lie, and his finger enters my asshole, the other inserting the capsule far up into my canal. He waits, ensuring the pill will stay as he assaults my catholic hole.

“Open your eyes and cum for me, Carly. Cum for me or I’ll beat you.” There it is, his fingers manipulating the area between places that send me riding on the cloud of euphoria. I don’t want him to win, to revel in this sickness, but I have no choice as I constrict, hugging both of his fingers, squirting over him from my snatch. I gyrate my hips for more, to let myself ride through the black bliss. I concede. I lose.

I am a whore. I’m not better than this.

I scream, pulling again uselessly, to escape this hell with Mark.

“That’s it, Carly. She’ll be good to her man like you, won’t she? A cute little whore with her Momma’s lips. And not the ones on your face.”

I gasp, consumed with disgust as the bile rises in my throat.

Sickened with my reaction, vomit leaves me quickly, splattering next to me.

Mark rams into me, his thick but average shaft unapologetic as it tears through me, in and out, over and over again. A punch to the face pushes me closer to the precipice of blacking out, but Mark is smarter than that. He wants me to suffer through it to remember I will always be beneath him, indisposed and inept, unable to concede.

Harsh hilts of his hips leave me paralyzed, emotionally shredded as my mind is stuck with the insight that I will become pregnant with his child. One innocent being that will inevitably be subjected to his torment, tangibly, cerebrally, and maliciously.

I presume, between his impenitent thrusts, that my time with him will soon cease and he will devise a plan to rid me from his life after I birth the daughter he so desperately craves. He is a modern-day King Henry XIII, wanting a daughter to teach instead of a king to rule the world. He is too narcissistic to share his space with another male.

My belly contracts, appalled with the hallucinations which flee my head like a raging river, indignant with the considerations and what-ifs. I make the decision while he sits here, raping me of my resolve, my self-respect, my fucking love, that I will find a way to leave him - or die.

Despite my selfish need for a child, I don’t think there is a way for me to birth one of his, looking into its eyes every morning without the traumatic cues of what he has done to me. I will have a strategy if his plan is efficacious. I can’t let him inflict anguish on another. I’m not sure I can survive another year of him either.

I am wilted, an unfortunate slave as he persistently fucks me, callously, every prod of his cock full of ferocity and scorn. My ears become deaf, his usual huffs and derogatory comments during any of our sexual interactions ware too much for me in this moment. I always thought I was strong, but then I turn pathetic as I sag in the hands of a man while he crushes me, sluggishly, distressingly so.

His shaft pushes the douche-liquid further into my womb, a made up concoction to increase my likelihood of conceiving his ineffable sperm. It will never be mine. Nothing in my life belongs to me anymore. My heart, my body, my womb. I have converted into a possession, owned and paraded, disciplined, invaded by the master manipulator, a man cloaked in ignominy and masquerading as a decent, caring human.

As I slump here, debased by his rape, his fingers pry my eyes open.

“Look at me you fucking whore. Look at me. This moment is special. Never forget it. Never forget it, Carly!”

My eyes, forced to be exposed by his skinny, abusive fingers, gawk at his expression. His mouth, parted and frowned, puffs in unison with each forward hilt of his hips while he attempts to reach the vehement release to plant his seed deep inside me.

Unable to blink, my eyes burn and beg to be lubricated, soon becoming sandy and dry. I’m unable to shed tears. He has that power over me too. He rejoices in that, gathering my piqued sorrow and sadness like a miser. He drinks up my anguish. He feeds off it.

His eyes, squinted, scrutinize me as my soul is smothered by his actions, confiscating any levelheadedness or plans I made up in my mind before. Mark knows how to gain control over me, no matter the situation.

Whispers from his mind transfers into mine, making me understand he will always have leverage and superiority. I will never belong in a world without him. I simply exist because of the devil who feels nothing more than revulsion for me.

I am skin and bones. A vessel. A chalice for his holy agenda, the one ruled by ego and legacy. I am no more than a breathing sepulcher.

My heart was destroyed the day I said I do. Love is a fallacy. It is made up, etched into diaries by little girls who are promised the world from fairytale books that were never real. Deep connections and love simply don’t exist.

I comprehend, as filth preys on me further, that love is merely a four letter word to manipulate women. It is a word that will eventually turn into a spell, strayed from the realism of hatred and heartache.

“You are mine. And she will be mine too.”

Mark tears into me, pressing his cock so deep I can feel it inside my belly. He grumbles vociferously, so loud I am certain the walls resound in response. He violently claims me, convinced he will be successful and the fruits of his labor will be bountiful, leaving me saturated with the life he wants to sculpt.

Mark’s body is sweat-misted and spent, but he is a man who will never stop until the job is done. He never leaves a task undone. His shaft, half-flaccid, stays inside my annihilated opening, throbbing from his forceful plunges.

The air is pungent, lemon and sweat permeating my nostrils as the stink of sex and cum intermingle in the wafting aromas. I am nauseated as my body permits his assaults. My arms and legs, stretch to their limits, ache and pulsate as my joints are tortured taut. The ligaments that protect them, usually pliable and supple, are like rubber bands near their breaking point. I don’t even remember when he removed his fingers from my eyes and their forceful stare, but they persist, gazing on the king of my world. I don’t dare look away from him as he basks in the moment, reveling in the cause that he deems necessary.

My breasts, tender and sensitive, rub against the hair on his chest. I want to crawl into bed and cover myself up, feeling defenseless and recycled like garbage, but I am still at his mercy as my tongue is tied to the idea of civility that will never come. My dreams are silent, never strong enough to speak their aspirations. All I seek is love. The only thing I desire is respect and adoration. I start to understand that perhaps every marriage is like this. Again, love is merely an illusion conjured by retail companies peddling a wish.

My vagina, stinging and mutilated, swollen and battered, still embraces his shaft and drinks up his seed. I can’t stand the thought of having his child, but once more his influence sways me as I daydream images of Mark pushing a little girl on a swing-set, watching from the kitchen window baking my famous cookie recipe. It will be nothing more than a daydream though.

My legs, pried open by tough leather straps, are greeting him, his untamed fuck leaves me deserted and tired, yet hungry for a life I will never lead. I have reached my lowest of lows.

“See, sweet Carly girl?” Mark pauses, gently stroking my face as he pushes me deeper into the grave of his fucked up methodology. As his fingers move over my face, he throws dirt over me and I die more. I will always belong to him. Then the sides of his mouth turn up into a smile, a false sense of goodness.

“You can be good. This is good.” He pushes his lips onto mine, the sweet movements make my heart cry and my soul splice open as I bleed for a love that will never be.

As Mark lingers inside me, his hands adroitly detaching the leather straps as if he is caring for a delicate artifact that is at risk of breaking.

“Carly, I want you to quickly sit up and untie the straps on your ankles.”

I swallow hard, waiting for him to pull out of me, but he doesn’t. His soft cock stays impaled. I discern what the repercussions will be if I don’t comply with his demands. I push up on my elbows, my body promptly cramping in protest as my stinging muscles struggle to fight spasm.

Mark continues to puff, and I swear in this moment I hear him laugh as my shaking hands mete the aged brown leather that is wrapped around my ankles. I unfasten the buckles, instantly feeling the cool air dance over the sweaty part of my ankles that was suffocated under the straps. Stark red ribbons mark where they were. I know I’m owned, it’s staring me in the face.

Our bodies are ensnared, stuck together at his will. Mark’s hand is entangled in my hair, snapping me back down to the uneven steps as the hard wood jars my spine, jolting my nerves and sending pain to my toes.

The thought crosses my mind that the force could have possibly broken my back as I become limp, but as time passes I soon discover that his detrimental hold is over both my body and mind. His insulting touch lures me into submission, keeping me here until he is a winner in his own rite.

Mark’s eyes are flat, full of fury and determination. He releases my hair, swiftly removing himself from my vagina, which has started to swell from his violent prods. He quickly moves to my ankles, throbbing in agony and desperate for liberation, and grabs them, turning me awkwardly until my head is facing the bottom of the stairs. His naked body ascends.

My feeble body endeavors to cushion my head from the blows of each step, but I can’t summon the energy to do so. My cells have been depleted of energy. My nervous system has been trampled, shocked, and beaten until I am nothing more than flesh for his midnight mass.

After reaching the top of the stairs, Mark continues to drag me atop the floor, which is carpeted upstairs. The fibers burn my skin, searing messages to my brain, branding this moment. The pain has become overwhelming, too much to handle. Mark effortlessly hauls me into our bedroom, my futile arms like amoebas, lax and useless.

As we enter the center of our room, my gaze dances over the exposed cedar rafters that are between the vaulted ceilings. A blunt-tipped metal hook is tied from heavy-duty rope. My heart doesn’t speed up. I simply exist during the torment. Putting up a fight, or showing any type of emotion, makes it worse for me.