She’s silent as I lead her into the bedroom, her long, sleek legs drawing my attention as we walk. I suppose I’ll need to get her some clothes of her own soon, but for now, I like seeing her in my shirt, as baggy as it is on her slim frame.
I know that by the moral standards of my childhood, what I’m doing to her is wrong. She’s my prisoner, and I’m not giving her any choice in this. I’m coercing her into a relationship she may not want, despite her physical response and seeming willingness to accept my touch. It would be tempting to justify my actions by telling myself that her job makes her fair game for such treatment, but I know better.
She was forced into this life by circumstances beyond her control, and I’m a cruel bastard for taking advantage of her.
As I strip off Yulia’s shirt
