Take a drink. A deep one. Maybe two.
You’ll feel every eye on you as you enter the room. The collective turn of their heads will sound deafening to you. You’ll curse every Norwegian gene in your body that makes you flush choir-boy red. You’ll think you hear snickers—some sniggering gossip being spouted behind you as you move.
You’ll see them together, sitting as they wait for an open space. She’ll wave at you—wave you over.
Your brain will stall. Your lip will curl as your body literally revolts at the thought of sitting there while you all wait, the weight of your discomfort and the suffocatingly crowded space pressing all three of you tightly together.
Take another sip. Then suck it up and sit with them.
But you won’t. And you know it. Instead, with a casualness that fools only you, you’ll shake your head and stand far off.
She’ll frown again—her lips better suited for a smile or a kiss will wilt. You’ll wonder how to fix this.
But then he’ll whisper in her ear and make her smile again.
Take a drink.
The booze will buzz you enough to not notice as they step up to an open space. Even though nothing can dull the sound of her laughter—like bubbling joy—as he leads her forward.
The room will glow red as you see his hands on her as he pushes her—practically shoves her—down onto the kneeling bench, her slim, willowy waist connecting hard against the edge—stealing her breath.
About to step in, you’ll stop as her gaze—direct and denying—hits yours, her head shaking as her glorious curls shudder with the slight shake of her head. You’ll step back, even though it feels wrong.
You’ll do it because you love her.
Remember. You love her.
You’ll force your stiff muscles to stand down. You’ll force your ready feet to be still. You’ll tell your eyes that they’re seeing lies, watching a game—talked about and agreed upon. You’ll try to tell your heart and head that this is what she wants.
He will strip her. In a humiliating fashion, he’ll rip, rend and ruin her clothes from her, bare her beauty like trash to the room full of spectators. You’ll grimace as she’s roughly handled. Grabbed at with careless, hard paws that bruise and batter.
You’ll think it impossible that someone—anyone—could look at the goddess before them and abuse her.
But you’d be wrong.
He will strike her. Her shoulders. Her back. Her ass. Her legs. He’ll use his hands—those calloused and hardened slabs of meat—a long-tailed beast of a whip that bites at her beautiful skin, a long wooden paddle that mars the golden sheen of her flesh.
All the while, you’ll hear her cries. Her sobs. Her pleas. And, feeling bound, trapped, tied to the wall, you won’t be able to help her, held still by your word. You’ll see her tears and feel your own threaten behind unblinking eyes. You’ll peer closer, worried that things have gone too far—farther than you should have let them ever go.
You will regret this...
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