Sicko

“The bed. We’re not done.”

I move to the bed as he sets the camera up to the side of us. “Look to the left and don’t look anywhere else. If you don’t listen, I’ll bring out the pole again. Understood?”

I nod, tears streaming down my face as I keep my eyes fixed on the wall. I let my mind wander. Who was here before us? A pamphlet is folded on the bedside table, with a newly married couple smiling back at me. You’ve got to be fucking joking. This room has probably seen love at its purest, being the honeymoon suite, and yet here we are. Painting the walls with evil.

He moves over me and shoves my face farther into the mattress as I feel the tip of his cock push on my entrance. The pain has gone past my threshold, to the point where my body is in survival mode. He enters me and I flinch, but I don’t move. He pumps into me continuously, relentlessly. Groaning, but coaxing me softly. Patting my hair. Kissing me softly.

“I love making love to you, Bunny.” Telling me that I’m the most beautiful girl in the world. He pumps inside of me, thrusting as intimately as lovers. I swallow the vomit that raises up my throat. I will never like to fuck like this. He continues touching me gently. He continues until his groans spill into my ear from his hot breath and his sweat slicks over my flesh. When he climbs off me, I remain still until he tells me I can finally move.

“Remove your mask and go and have a shower. Make yourself presentable for your brother. Don’t want him knowing you’re fucking someone else that isn’t him.”

I ignore the pitiless words, dragging my tired, broken soul to the bathroom. I turn the shower on hot, without looking at myself in the mirror. Afraid of what I might see. Nothing should surprise me, considering the evil I have witnessed over the years, and I should be used to it, but it still impacts my spirit every time he takes me. Sexual abuse is not something that the human mind or body can be conditioned with. Survivors find coping mechanisms until they find a way to either escape or it kills you.

Slipping into the shower, I pour shampoos and soaps into my hair while finally allowing the tears to roll down my cheeks. I scrub all the dirt away with my hands, but don’t know what to do about the filth that stains my soul. Placing the bottles back onto the counter, I turn the faucet off and wrap a cotton towel around my limp body, wiping the condensation off the mirror and finally taking a look at my reflection. If I show up to the clubhouse like this, Royce will for sure know something is wrong, and if he misses it—which he won’t—I know that Wicked will for sure. My eyes are sunken in, dark circles lining my eyes. My lips are swollen from the stolen kisses, my cheeks red from the salty tears. I know why James did what he did tonight. He destroyed me from the inside. Why hurt someone physically when you can mutilate their soul from the inside.

Reaching for the makeup mirror on the counter, I flip it between my legs, studying where I’m swollen. No bleeding. Whatever I felt must have been whatever James used to lube the pole with. The pain is still raw, though I’m aware it could be more psychological. I gather up my lace panties and slip them over my legs before sliding on my high waisted black pants. Securing my breasts back in the cups of my bra, I shuffle on the tiny lace crop top. My heart beats with fragility now, tender and sore. I need a drink. A strong drink. Searching through the cupboards, I find the hairdryer and a straightener and begin on my hair, while taking this time to mentally talk myself down from the cliff I’ve climbed. Memories. Memories help.

“What are you doing?” Royce asked, grinning at me from the other side of the room. It was Christmas day, and we knew how much I liked to keep the angel off the tree until Christmas day. My reasoning was that if the angel was up too early, that demons might steal her. So I waited until Christmas morning to put her up and took her down that night.

“I’m putting the angel up.”

Royce was shirtless with gray sweats fastened around his lean waist, a bowl of granola in one hand and his other gripping a spoon, a smirk on his face. “I’ll help.” He put the bowl down on the coffee table and came closer to me. Since hitting my teen years, it was as though my body’s reactions became heightened anytime he was near me.