Possession(52)

As he pounds inside of me, he calls me names as if I wasn’t the one here. I’m not his Evelyn anymore. I’m just a girl with a hole he can fuck.

The hurt pushes through me as I lean my head back and take every thrust he can give me. I feel the tears slide down my face, but I also know an orgasm’s coming at the same time. How fucked up is that?

Again, like last time, I try to hold it in. I try to fight it from coming, but the more I do, the more violently it reaches towards the surface. As if Drake’s sensing that it’s coming, he pounds faster inside of me. “That’s it. Fucking take it. Take all of me.”

I blow, screaming out his name as he comes with me. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t kind. Yet, somehow, he forced his way inside me just like he has always done.

He pulls out, stumbling back, but doesn’t let me go. He doesn’t even look at me. He turns, walks into the bathroom and slams the door.

As I hang there—feeling the drips of his come down my leg and the fading orgasm—the tears come again, and this time, they don’t stop. How is it that I’ve gotten to this? How is it that Drake has gotten to this? This is isn’t him … this isn’t us. A part of me wants to think he feels some sort of remorse for what he’s just done and what he keeps doing. Is that why he walked away?

That and a million other things crawl through my mind. Drake was always a mystery that needed solving. Will I ever solve it? I don’t know. Do I really want to know?

Hopefully, one day, I won’t have to.





Drake kept me down in that basement for four whole days. Eventually, he brought a bed in for me to sleep in, but I was never let out of my restraints. I was either pulled up above the floor, or let down to the ground.

He repeatedly raped me. Sometimes, I came. Sometimes, I didn’t. I got lost in an alternate reality—not knowing whether I was dreaming or living the experience. Unfortunately, my subconscious knew it was the latter. Once the four days were up, I was brought to our bedroom where he kept me under lock and key for an additional three weeks. Every day, he would force me and then tell me not to move for at least ten minutes afterwards. I knew why. He was desperately trying to get me pregnant.

A week ago, we got married, but it wasn’t what I thought it would be. The priest came to the house, and all that were there were a couple of guards as witnesses. No friends or family. Just me and him, the white dress, and a black tux. I said I do because I knew that if I didn’t, I would be forced into that basement again. Drake knew I never wanted to go back down there again and played it for all it was worth. He told me that once he knew I could behave, then we could have a proper, lavish wedding with a honeymoon.

His mood swings were constant. He went from evil rapist to adorable, caring Drake whispering sweet nothings into my ear. He constantly told me he loved me in one breath and then called me his whore in another. It was like he was battling something inside him every day, and it scared the shit out of me. During the night sometimes, I would wake to find him watching me sleep. He would have the saddest expression I have ever seen sprawled across his face. In those times, I would go to him … give him the comfort he needed. He would wrap me up in his arms, kiss my head, and tell me that he loved me—that I was his sweet Evelyn, and he would never let anything happen to me. Strange considering he was the one to fear. Not the outside world. Him.

I had even started to submit to him. I battled inside my head all of the time. I’m still stubborn, but the fact that I knew he would keep pushing and pushing until I relented made me compliant. Compliancy was better than the alternative I was sometimes subjected to.

“What is the fucker up to?”

Drake is on the phone, and he’s madder than ever. Someone’s royally pissed him off.

“I don’t care that he’s gone silent. The mere fact that he’s still close by makes me think he’s up to something. In fact, I know he’s up to something. Find out what the fuck it is before I break this fucked up treaty we have and go down and shoot them all to kingdom come.” With a press of the button, he ends the call and throws the phone onto the bed. “Fuck!” he screams, running his hands through his hair. A part of me wants to ask what’s wrong, but another, bigger part tells me to hold back. If I make a sound, he might aim his anger at me.

With a huff, he storms out, slamming the door behind him. I’m so engrossed in looking at the door and wondering what on earth has gotten into him that I fail to realise he’s left his phone on the bed.

Hurrying, I run towards the bed and pick the phone up. I light the screen up, but it asks me for a pin number. Fuck! This is all I need.