Page 191 of The Counterfeit Lover

His lips tip up in a malefic smile.

"Then you can leave. Tell everyone I'll be unavailable for the rest of the day."

"Yes, sir."

Some more noise and the door closes shut.

I'm disoriented, but I try my best to root myself in the present and keep my consciousness from slipping from me.

"I'm Armand," the man introduces himself, forcing me to look him in the eye. "And from now on it's going to be just the two of us."

There's something about his tone that rubs me the wrong way. I can't put my finger on it, my thought processes too slow and sluggish. But something inside of me screams to run away.

It's just that I can't.

Physically, and mentally. I am bound to the spot.

His hand trails up to my face, his fingers caressing my skin as he gazes down at me with…tenderness? Or something akin to wistfulness.

"W…" I try to speak again, but my mouth seems to be forever broken.

There's only his smile—that smile that gives me the chills. And that's the last thing I see before I open my eyes again, this time finding myself facing a wall.

My breathing is labored, my muscles tense yet relaxed from the effect of the drug.

Still, there's the unmistakable feeling of being naked. It takes me a moment to realize that I'm wearing a dress, but the skirt had been bunched around my hips, leaving my entire backside revealed. Then there's still that underwear-belt and the fact that I feel hands trail down my back until they reach the string of the contraption, pulling backwards and releasing it to slap against my skin.

I flinch at the slight pain, and a chuckle permeates the air.

"You're going to be a good little slut for me, aren't you?" His breath is on my nape, his voice making my vision swim.

I can't move. I can't even jiggle my wrists anymore because the cuffs had been locked to the table—all to ensure I would be laid out like an offering.

Fear accumulates in my gut, everything inside of me telling me to run, agony suffusing my being at knowing I can't.

The only thing I can do is keep my head down and not engage. Hope for everything to be done quickly—as it usually is.

Every time I want to fight. But every time I arrive at the conclusion that fighting will only make it worse. After all, Armand loves it when I'm disobedient. It gives him a reason to do a show of strength and put me back in my place.

Even though I'm nother, he treats me as if Iwerehis wife. And that means that I am to sit quietly in a corner, never speak or argue, andalwayslet him have his way with me. It's not as if I have much of a choice for any of it since the drugs make me so lethargic I can barely speak, let alone move or be disobedient.

And as that knowledge pours inside of me, so does the fact that I know what's next—what'salwaysnext.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I can only pray I can hide away in that corner of my mind I've built specifically for these situations.

It's a tiny little corner, but it's clean andmine. There, I am free to do as I want, think, speak and dream. There…I'm still a person. One who has aspirations and hopes for the future instead of just a doll to be adorned and abused. My body is still mine—only mine and that person I'll choose to share it with.

Yet even as I try to cling to that tiny space of mine, the pain still has a way of penetrating my mind, making me want to howl in agony—not only at the physical torment but also at the little bits that chip away at my sanity.

Armand continues to laugh, an insidious laugh I'd be able to recognize anywhere. Not only for who owns it but also for what it signifies—the defilement of my soul.

Trailing one finger down the crack of my ass, he pulls the string to the side as he spreads my cheeks.

My cuffs make my position permanent—unchangeable. And as he kicks at my feet, pushing them apart to fit between them, I can't do anything to stop this from happening.

Not as he lowers his zipper and certainly not as he pushes himself inside of me.

The pain is immediate, and he derives pleasure from it. After all, it's all he wants. Heneedsto hear my cries of pain, or the way my lashes coat with tears when I can barely take it anymore.

---