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Finally, he turns my face toward him with two fingers under my chin. “You’re so beautiful when you pretend to hate me.”

Before I can answer, he kisses me. The kiss starts soft but quickly turns deep. His hands move over my body, pulling at my clothes. In minutes, he has my shirt off, and my pants pushed down to my knees.

“Yakov, stop,” I say against his mouth. “I don’t want this.”

He ignores me. He pushes me down onto the couch on my back and spreads my legs wide. His fingers find the bottle of lube he keeps in the side table drawer. He squeezes a generous amount onto his fingers and warms it between his palms.

“Relax for me, baby,” he murmurs.

He slides two slick fingers inside me right away. I gasp and grab at his shoulders. He doesn’t go slow. He fucks me fast with his fingers, curling them deep and hard, hitting that spot inside me over and over. My body jerks on the couch. Wet sounds fill the room as he pumps his fingers in and out quickly.

“Fuck… Yakov…” I moan even though I don’t want to.

He keeps going, fast and relentless, until my cock is hard and leaking against my stomach. Only then does he pull his fingers out. He flips me over onto my stomach in one smooth motion. My knees sink into the cushions, and my chest presses against the back of the couch.

“This is the last time,” he says, but his voice sounds like he doesn’t believe it. He slicks his cock with more lube and lines himself up.

He pushes inside me in one hard thrust. I cry out and grip the leather. Yakov groans and starts fucking me deep and fast from behind. His hips slap against my ass with every thrust. One hand holds my hip tight while the other reaches around to stroke my cock.

“You feel so good,” he growls. “This is where you belong. Right here with me.”

I bite my lip to hold back the moans, but they come anyway. The angle is too deep. My body rocks forward with every powerful thrust. Yakov fucks me harder, his breathing rough against my neck.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispers as he pounds into me. “Say it, Elias.”

I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. “I’m not… I can’t…”

He doesn’t slow down. He keeps driving into me, stroking me fast until I come with a broken cry, spilling over his hand and the couch. My hole clenches around him. A few seconds later, Yakov groans loudly and comes deep inside me, his hips jerking against my ass.

He stays buried inside me for a long moment, breathing heavy. Then he kisses my shoulder and slowly pulls out. “Good boy. See? You always feel better after.”

I stay bent over the couch, trying to catch my breath. My legs feel weak. “Now let me go home,” I whisper.

Yakov helps me stand up and pulls my pants back up for me like I am a child. He kisses my forehead and smiles. “It’s late. You’re staying here tonight. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

I try to walk toward the door, but he catches my wrist gently. “The door is locked, baby. For your safety. You can’t leave right now.”

My heart drops. “What? Unlock it. I want to go.”

He shakes his head and leads me toward the bedroom instead. “Tomorrow. Right now you need rest. Come to bed with me.”

That night I lie next to him in the dark, wide awake. The flat feels like a cage. I wait until his breathing slows, then slip out of bed and try the front door again. It doesn’t budge. Every window is locked tight from the inside.

I am trapped.

The next morning Yakov wakes me with a kiss on the cheek. “Good morning, wifey. Let’s make breakfast together.”

“I’m not your wife,” I say, sitting up fast. “Let me leave.”

He laughs softly and hands me one of his big shirts. “Put this on. It looks better on you than on me. Today you’ll help me cook. Then we can clean the kitchen and relax.”

For the rest of the week, the same pattern repeats. Every morning he makes me cook breakfast with him. He stands behind me at the stove, his big arms around my waist, guiding my hands while he kisses my neck. “You’re learning fast. My perfect little housewife.”

During the day, he has me clean. I wipe every counter, vacuum the carpets, fold his clothes, and make the bed exactly the way he likes. He follows me from room to room, his dark eyes never leaving my body. “Look how well you take care of our home,” he says. “I can picture our big family now that we are both slipping into our roles, wifey.”

And every single night, sometimes more than once, he fucks me hard from behind — on the couch, on the kitchen counter, bent over the dining table, in his big bed. He always uses plenty of lube, and he always brings me to shattering reluctant pleasure. “You’re mine. My wife. My good boy. You don’t need anyone else.” He whispers these words as he makes me see stars.

I try to fight at first. I beg, I argue, I cry. But Yakov never yells. He never hits me. He only smiles, treating my resistance as if it is a fit. “You’ll understand soon,” he keeps saying. “This is our life now.”