Page 24 of Decimation

Just cold, calculated penetration that my body has no choice but to accept.

He always fucks me first, ‘breaks me in for the day’ as he puts it, then ties me up and continues my daily training with this machine. It doesn’t matter if I want it. It doesn’t matter if I’m on my period either.

“You’re still fighting it,” Isaac observes, his voice carrying across the room with that same infuriating calm. His aura pulses faintly, muddy brown with flecks of grey, like he’s bored but mildly entertained. “I can see it in the way you hold yourself. The tension in your shoulders. The way you’re grinding your teeth.”

I don’t respond. What the fuck would I even say?

He moves closer, his footsteps deliberate against the polished floor. His aura shifts again, the brown deepening, the yellow streaks becoming more pronounced. It’s subtle, but I see it. He’s enjoying this.

“You need to learn to crave this. To need it. Sex isn’t just something that happens to you, it’s a weapon, and you’re going to master it.”

The machine adjusts its angle, and I can’t stop the gasp that escapes.

My body betrays me, responding even as my mind recoils further into itself.

I hate it.

I hate him.

I hate that some traitorous part of me is starting to anticipate the rhythm, to find a sick sort of comfort in the predictability of it all.

“There,” he says, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. His aura flares, the yellow intensifying, and I feel bile rise in my throat. “That’s better. Your body understands even if you don’t yet.” He reaches down, cradling my breast, holding it as it rocks back and forth with each brutal thrust.

“Fuck you,” I manage, though my voice sounds weaker than I want it to. Hoarse from hours of this.

He laughs, twirling his fingers around my nipple. The touch, the delicateness makes my skin crawl. His aura swirls lazily, the yellow now dominant, and I want to scream. “You keep saying that like it means something. Like your defiance matters.” His hand trails down, tracing the curve of my jaw, my throat, lower.

“But your body tells a different story, doesn’t it?”

I want to spit at him again. I want to headbutt him, to hurt him but I’m strapped down so completely that I can barely move, can barely do anything except endure this mechanical violation while he stands there and narrates my degradation.

“Our holy prophet,” Isaac continues, moving back to his observation post, “is a man of particular tastes. He likes his woman responsive. Eager. He wants someone who can match his appetites, who craves the pain as much as the pleasure. That’s what you’re going to become.”

“This is insane.” I grit out between thrusts. “You can’t actually think…”

“Can’t think what?” He tilts his head, as if genuinely curious. His aura flickers, the brown momentarily clearing and I know he’s telling the truth, or at least believes he is. “That we can’t teach you this? You have five sister wives, five other women who have gone through this exact training and are now perfect spouses for Ezekiel…”

The machine speeds up and I arch involuntarily, my body seeking some angle that might make this more bearable. Only, there isn’t one.

“Stop overthinking it. Stop believing you have any free will in this, because you don’t.”

He moves closer again, and this time he reaches out to adjust something on the machine. The angle shifts and suddenly it’s hitting somewhere deeper, somewhere that makes my vision blur. His aura pulses, the yellow intensifying, and I know he’s enjoying this moment of control.

I shake my head, or try to. The restraints limit even that small rebellion. “You’re fucking delusional.” I spit, saying the nastiest words I can think of, words I would be punished severely for uttering back home.

“That’s what your sister said too.” He sounds almost patient now, like he’s explaining something simple to a child. His aura shifts, the brown momentarily clearing and I know he’s telling the truth, or at least believes he is. “But you will break just as she did. You will cave in and you will submit. You will be made perfect for our prophet and this time, I won’t fuck up and let you die, I won’t fuck up and let you escape the way your whore of a sister did.”

Those words linger in my head, repeat in my head.

You will submit

You will be perfect for our prophet.

You cannot escape the way your sister did.

I can’t think, I can’t process it. The machine’s rhythm is too relentless to focus on anything else, and I can feel something building despite myself. My body doesn’t care about the horror of what he’s describing. It only knows the mechanical stimulation, the forced arousal that’s been demanded over and over for hours now.

“No,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if I’m refusing his plan or refusing the orgasm I can feel approaching. My face flushes, and my body feels so impossibly hot. “No, I won’t…”