Finding Beauty in the Darkness
Once we get to my office, I don’t bother to remove her clothes. She’s been getting too emotionally attached lately and needs to remember she’ll never be anything more than a fuck.
Pulling her dress up to her waist, I push her underwear to the side and stick two fingers inside her to make sure she’s wet. She quickly undoes my pants, pushing them to the ground, then she reaches into my briefs to pull my dick out.
Grabbing her by her hair, I turn her around and bend her over the edge of my desk, her face pressed against the wood, her ass up in the air. I rip open a condom, roll it over my hard length, then shove my cock into her cunt, fucking her relentlessly until we both find our release.
Once we’ve both come, I tuck myself back into my briefs and pull my pants up. Cecilia turns around with hearts in her eyes. At some point, I’m going to have to stop fucking her. She wants all types of shit I can’t give her. Shit I’m not willing to give her.
“I need to get back to work.” I open the door, making it clear it’s time for her to leave. Money doesn’t get made on its own after all.
Chapter Two
ARIA
The room is dark and quiet. Even though I know at least one person is home, it’s calm. I try to stay relaxed, but it’s hard. It’s during quiet moments like now, my heart starts beating erratically and I know if I don’t get what I need soon, I’ll have a full-blown panic attack. You would think I’d welcome the quietness, but the problem with the quiet is, it’s like the calm before the storm. My brain goes into overdrive, wondering what will happen once the storm arrives. With each storm, I’m destroyed little by little, and one day the storm will be so strong, it’ll leave nothing but destruction in its wake.
Lying in my bed—which is nothing more than a mattress on the ground with a single sheet and pillow—with a worn-out copy of my favorite romance novel open, I try to focus on the words, but I can’t. My hands are shaking and my heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest. It’s been quiet for too long.
I read the same line three more times and give up, closing the book. I remember when I begged for the book, saying I needed something to do down here in the quiet isolation. He forced me to earn that book in ways I can’t bring myself to think about. Now I can’t even concentrate long enough to finish reading a book I have read dozens of times. At first, I lived in fear, my brain conjuring up the worst-case scenarios. Now that I’ve lived them, it’s hard to switch my brain off.
The drugs help. I know I’ve become addicted to them, but when it’s the only way to shut your body down, the addiction doesn’t matter. Survival is all I know now.
I hear the front door slam shut and know he’s home, and by the way he’s stomping around there’s a good chance he’s pissed about something. I close my eyes and pray he won’t come down here. There’s nothing he can give me that’s worth the consequences of him coming down here.
His assistant, Derek, is the only person I need. He gives me the drugs I crave to calm my nerves. He’ll make my hands stop shaking, my heart stop thumping, and my body and mind shut off. Derek gives. Weston, on the other hand, takes. He takes and takes from me, and at this point, I feel like I have nothing left to give.
The door creaks open and a bright light shines through. I quickly cover my eyes, unable to recall the last time I saw light other than through the small slats in the windows that give off just enough natural light for me to read my book. My world, which used to be a bright canvas, has been stripped of all color. The heavy footsteps make each step creak as a shadow makes its way down. When I see it’s Weston, my heart plummets.
Take.
He’s here to take.
Not give.
“Spread your fucking legs.” He stalks toward me. Then roughly grabbing ahold of my ankles, he pulls my body toward the edge of the bed, my head hitting the cement wall then getting dragged down.
“I-I need something.” It’s stupid to beg for what I need, knowing he doesn’t care, but I’m desperate. He only drugs me to make me stop screaming, stop fighting him. He prefers me almost comatose so he can do whatever he wants to me.
“You need to shut your fucking mouth!” He backhands me so hard I almost blackout. “I can’t wait until you turn twenty-two so I can get rid of your fucking whore ass!” Twenty-two seems to be the magic number. For what? I have no clue, and while I have no clue how long I’ve been down here, I imagine I have at least another year or so until I turn twenty-two.