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It's not the first time, nor is it the last.
"My sweet little slut. You thought to escape me, didn't you, Gloria?" His voice turns savage, and my body tenses as I wait for the blow.
What is he using this time? A cane, a metal bar? I can't tell anymore.
The pain mingles together. It's coming from all sides—all directions. Even so, I'm grateful that my body cannot localize it anymore, for then I don't have to withstand the perpetual knowledge that I'm being violated—that my body is being used in the most foul way against my will.
I attempt to retreat to my hiding place, yet just as I feel as I'm close to reaching it, my reality shifts again.
The pain this time is unimaginable. There's nothing thatdoesn'thurt. Even though my breathing is constricted, and as my brain is slowly trying to feed me information, I realize it's likely my ribs.
It takes Herculean strength to open my eyes, but even as I do, I can barely see anything. The room is devoid of light, of warmth, and anything a human might require to survive.
There's only bleakness—so much fucking hopelessness. And it's all around me, enveloping me like a fine glove and keeping me in its clutches.
I don't know where I am. In fact, I'm barely aware of myself.
There's only pain and a drowsiness that makes me titter between a state of semi-consciousness and one of a complete shut-down of my entire being.
As I waver between those two states, I feel something—or, rather, my body detects warmth.
Since coldness is all I know, that hint of warmth threatens to undo me.
And as it slowly seeps into my body, I gain a little more awareness of the situation—maybe a long-lost hope is rearing its head at a hint of light.
But as my consciousness gets a boost with an aching flare ofwant, of thinking not all is lost, all my hopes are dashed as I get a better grasp of the situation I'm in.
I'm on my back. Cold and laying against even colder ground.
Naked.
There's not one inch of clothing covering my body, and I find I can't move any of my limbs. Like being trapped in my own body—caged by my own flesh—I'm only a spectator, not an active participant.
I try to focus on that bit of warmth, but the more I become in tune with it, the more I realize something is wrong.
Something is seriously, seriously wrong.
Hands run up my stomach, reaching my pecs before going back down. It's a soothing caress, but so very wrong. I'm already intimately familiar with this type of dynamic and it's enough to make me want to break out in a sweat—yet I can't.
I want to slap the hands away, anything to avoid this invasive touch.
I have to wonder if it's Armand, but he would never be so gentle, nor would heevertry to touch me from the front. Then, his illusion about Gloria would be shattered.
And as this new person touches me lower, grabbing my dick, I realize there's no way this could be Armand. Heabhorredthat part of me, and would always go out of his way to convince himself it wasn't real—that it was merely an accessory.
My muscles are stiff, perhaps too stiff. When I feel those hands getting bolder, touching and caressing me until my dick reacts, I experience a moment of pure panic as I don't know what's happening to me—or that this could be happening at all.
Terror engulfs me as this person can somehow get me hard and touch me in the one place I'd thought was still mine.
Yet I can't move.
I can't. Fucking. Move.
All I can do is stare at the darkness, feel that accursed warmth as it permeates my skin, every little touch bringing me closer to something—an undefinable something.
Whoever is playing with me must be satisfied when my dick is rock hard, and shock erupts inside of me when lips touch the underside of my shaft before a mouth engulfs the head of my cock, sucking on it.
I blink, my heart jamming in my chest.
