Page 50 of Save You

He takes one of my hands and holds it inside of his before resting them both on top of the table, which only prompts me to look into his dark eyes again.

“You are to be submissive to me, Beth, no one else!” His smile is softer than usual, almost like he wants to earn my trust, “Apart from your grandfather, maybe. He is not someone to take a woman speaking back to him.” I stare at him, still lost, but unable to have this baffling argument with him. He simply winks before picking up his knife and fork to continue eating. “Eat!”

The following day, a small and robust team of women arrive to fit me for my ostentatious wedding dress. When the lead seamstress holds it out before me, I eye it with horror, wondering who the hell thought up such a thing and who told them it would be a good idea to actually make it. It looks like something a doily angel threw up at a Christmas party, mixed in with some toilet tissue frills and over-the-top bows. As the team of women beams up at me, waiting for me to say how beautiful it is, all I can manage is a half-hearted smile and a sort of shrug.

For the next thirty minutes or so, I play an excellent role of a statue as they pin, tuck, and poof the ghastly fabric that covers me from head to toe. The hairstylist talks about curling my hair and holding it up with white, silk flowers, together with pearls and netting, which is basically a nice way of saying they are trying to squeeze on every material known to man onto my small frame, all at once. I try not to grimace when they attempt to sell it to me but can’t hide my eye roll when I’m shown what the bridesmaids will be wearing. It’s so cliché eighties, I can barely hold my laughter in, and in peach no less!

“My bride-to be-is not happy!”

The whole room falls silent at the sound of Oliver’s voice, and their faces morph into a mixture of fear, awe, and lust. After all, Oliver Lawrence is a handsome man, and has a reputation for being quite the catch amongst the women of Mayfield. They must hate me. If only they knew how much I would give to trade places with any of them.

“Angela, darling, why don’t you tell the ladies, here,” he begins as he walks purposefully toward me, “what you would really like to wear, including your bridesmaids.”

“I don’t even know who my bridesmaids are,” I reply as confidently as I can, trying to defiantly hold his gaze.

We stay in this stance for a few minutes and the rest of the room seem to collectively hold their breaths, all waiting for one of us to break the uncomfortable silence and talk. Eventually, the corner of his mouth flickers up, as though a wicked idea has just passed through his head.

“Leave!” he orders all of them in a steady and calm tone of voice, one that has every one of them shuffling for the door, until I am eventually left alone with him and his dark, lusty thoughts.

I silently berate myself for trying to maintain some level of power with him, a stupid thought seeing as he more than knows he holds everything when it comes to me. As the last person leaves, the door clicks closed, and he momentarily looks to the side before returning his gaze to me. His hand reaches for mine, which then pulls at my arm to help me down from the small pedestal which I’m currently standing on.

As soon as I’m level with him, I’m spun around so that my back is to his chest. He begins to unzip the monstrous dress that I’m wearing, soon pushing it down into a mountain of tulle and satin around my feet. My skin scatters with goose bumps as the cool air hits my naked skin. I take in a long breath as I stand before him in nothing but a pair of full briefs, still with a small pad inside of the gusset, and a pair of white stilettos. He begins to turn me back to face him, so I instantly reach up to cross my arms around my breasts, desperate to cover them before he sees. Within seconds, he pulls them down again and stares unashamedly at them hanging loose and still engorged from pregnancy.

Oliver smirks to himself like I’m a toy he’s been waiting a long time to play with. His fingertips reach out and brush over my cold, hard nipples before looking back up to my eyes. Something in the way he’s looking at me tells me what he’s about to do won’t be pleasant.

“Oliver,” I whisper, “please, I’m still bleeding, please-”

His index finger shoots up over my lips to silence me, which given his stern gaze, I do.

“Don’t worry, Beth; you’re going to do something for me. I feel like I need to begin claiming you back as mine; to make you understand that you belong to me.”

I’m pulled along with him as he backs us up toward a large, uncomfortable, but flashy-looking couch that is sitting behind him. I watch him with terror as he unbuckles his belt, pulls down his trousers, and sits, all the while looking at me with his unflinching eyes, the ones that tell me not to argue.

When he finally releases his erection in front of me, I instinctively try to back away, but his hands are quicker than I am, and they pull me aggressively toward his waiting body. Fear must be written all over my face when he starts brushing my cheek with the back of his hand, softly but with a clear underlying threat.

“I think you know what I’m asking you to do, my beautiful fiancé,” he tells me.

“Asking or telling?” I whisper on another large intake of breath.

“I’m pretty sure you know the answer to that, Beth,” he smiles before pulling me into kiss him, all the while he strokes himself, slowly, making his penis harder with every passing second. His tongue slides into my mouth, getting more and more hungry for what he’s demanding from me. Eventually, he releases my face, but only to then push the back of my head down to where he is demanding I take him. When I make no move to open my mouth, he growls, making a sound like a rabid dog.

“Beth! There are other ways I can take you!” His words have me darting my eyes up to meet his. His smile delivers a cold shiver through me. “I either fuck your mouth, or I can fuck your ass. It’s your choice. Whichever, I’m done waiting, so make your decision before I do it for you.”

In sheer panic, I close my eyes and count to three before doing what he’s been trying to force me to do ever since he stepped foot inside of this room. My heart breaks the whole time, hating myself for cheating on Xander, even if it is against my will. I also hate this for me; this is a crime against me, my dignity, and my heart. Meanwhile, he noisily hisses, grunts, and pushes himself further down my throat, until eventually, he erupts without any hint of a warning. I feel the steady stream of tears spilling from my eyes and I know he can see them too, for when he wipes them away, his breathing seems to quicken, as though he’s getting off on it.

After he has fastened himself up without shame or any comfort for me, he grabs hold of my chin between his finger and thumb and forces me to look at his grinning face. He then leans in to brush his lips against my forehead.

“Well, Beth, I’m certainly looking forward to our wedding night after that performance. Good girl, I’m pleased with you.”

While I fight the urge to throw up, he picks up my robe and helps me to dress.

“Pru!” My sour-faced friend enters through the side door with a sugary-sweet smile for Oliver. “Tell the ladies outside that my fiancé will be looking over some bridal magazines and will tell them what she wants to wear within the next two days.”

“But your mother chose the dresses herself,” Pru tries to argue, but recoils when she sees his face morph into a scowl of irritation over being challenged. “Right, Mr Lawrence. Of course!”

She exits without another word, and I soon hear the front door open to release the collection of stylists, fitters, and whoever the hell else they are.

“Now, my beautiful-bride-to-be,” he purrs as he pulls me into his arms, “I want you to go upstairs, make yourself decent and take Leo with you to get some bridal magazines. Look them over and tell them what you really want.”

---