Page 32 of Degradation

“Stay.” He orders, like she’s dog. “Stay right fucking there, until I have a need for you again.”

Pailtyn

It’s quiet. Peaceful almost.

My husband has been away, on an urgent trip, at least, that’s what the maids tell me because it’s not like I’m privy to his diary, is it?

I’m grateful for the respite, but I know when he comes back, he’ll be wanting to make up for lost time.

The only consolation I have is that our plan is working. Giving him that medicine is working. No, I don’t like the way he degrades me, but it’s better that than him failing to get it up at all and pissing all over me again.

And if I can get pregnant…I let out a sigh. I can’t even believe that I’m hoping for that. Why the fuck would I want his child? But that would be the answer, that must surely solve this issue. And if I’m pregnant, there’s no way he’d hurt me as much. Would nine months of living a pain-free existence be worth the pain of childbirth? And the humiliation of having every Brethren Lord and Lady watching me as I do it? I’m not so sure.

The door bursts open behind me and I yelp, turning as Kora and the other maid come rushing in.

“He’s on his way back.” Kora says.

I don’t need to ask who. The fear creeping through my veins already tells me exactly who they are talking about.

They flit about, pulling things out, clearly having been given instructions to make me pretty, make me presentable.

I sit in front of the mirror, allowing them to do my makeup, my hair, to make me the very epitome of perfection.

Kora holds out a dress for me to put on and it’s sexy,toosexy. A sliver of something creeps down my spine and that old fear screams in my head to run again.

I swallow it down, force it down, as I reach for the thing and hastily put it on.

I’m barely ready in time when a knock at the door gets our attention. Gunther doesn’t knock. Gunther never knocks. I frown as a servant sticks his head around it and tells us to hurry the fuck up.

It’s curious how there’s no ceremony, no respect when Gunther isn’t around. It’s like we’re all in this together, we all know what a horror my husband can be, so we don’t waste time with bullshit. We all just do what needs to be done, we all help one another to ensure whatever happens, it doesn’t result in one of his fits.

I follow after him, following him through this Palace that I’ve barely had more than a few stolen glances of. The dress they’velaced me into is a confection of silk and lace, the colour a deep crimson that seems to drink in the light.

It’s beautiful. The kind of gown that should make a woman feel powerful, desirable. But all I feel is a steadily increasing sense of dread.

As we reach the bottom of the grand staircase, Gunther is there, stood beside a man, a guest, someone I don’t recognise.

My husband’s predatory gaze crawls over me, his lips curl into a smile that sends chills down my spine. I’ve learned to recognize that look, it’s the harbinger of some new humiliation, some fresh degradation he’s cooked up for his entertainment.

I’m led through to where drinks are being served. Gunther and his friend move to lounge in huge leatherbound seats and Gunther pulls me into his lap.

The pair of them exchange idle talk, non-consequential bullshit while they puff on cigars, and I have to turn my face away for fear my asthma will turn me into a choking wreck.

“What do you think of my new wife?” Gunther murmurs, grabbing my face, pulling me out of my daydream.

His friend smirks, running his eyes over me, focusing particularly on my breasts as if he has x-ray vision and can see right through the fabric.

“Very nice indeed.” He says back.

I shut my eyes, blocking out the rest of the conversation. The insults that the pair of them clearly see as compliments.

And then, abruptly, the man gets up, giving Gunther a pointed look, before he struts off, leaving us alone.

I don’t know what this is. What is happening but it’s clearsomethingis up here.

Gunther finishes his cigar like it’s the last one he’ll ever savour and then he gets up, holding his arm expectantly for me to take.

I don’t want to. I feel like I’m about to sign away my life, more of my life. He gives me a glowering look that makes me even more fearful, and I do as I’m bid, allowing him to lead me like a lamb to the funeral pyre at the alarmingly fast pace he sets off at.