Pregnant Mistress Can't Get Away

3. STELLA

I know what it means.

I close my eyes and lay my head down, hoping it would make the time go faster. I’m in no mood to sleep with anyone, especially when I don’t get to enjoy it, but Bastian never takes ‘no’ for an answer. He has always been the dominant one, the one in charge.

So I guess the next hour or so is going to be filled with nothing but pain for me.

A lot of pain.

I hear the soft sound of a door closing from the hallway and then a pair of heavy footsteps moving around the living room. I look at the time on my phone and almost groan.

God, did I really fall asleep?

I curse myself, then sigh and close my eyes as the footsteps get closer, louder. I guess the hour’s up.

The bathroom door opens, letting the light from the bedroom illuminate the room and Bastian walks in, a scowl on his face and an air of irritation surrounding him.

I’ve been with him long enough to know what that look on his face means, especially when his eyes seem to be taking in the length of my naked body and he’s undressing me with his eyes.

He walks up to the side of the bathtub and his scowl deepens, a flicker of irritation passing through his eyes as they linger on the hickey he left on my neck just hours before.

“How was your day?” I ask, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

I mean, who am I kidding? It’s not like I care. I’m not a stupid teenager who is still trying to impress her boyfriend. He doesn’t deserve it.

His eyes come to mine and they darken a little more.

He isn’t really my type. He’s handsome, sure, in that kind of rugged way women go crazy over. His dark brown hair is styled in a perfect side part, his jaw is lined with a well-groomed beard and he looks every bit of his late thrities. His suit is pressed to perfection and he always looks well-groomed and in control of himself. He’s the kind of man any woman would feel comfortable with. The kind any woman would dream to date and marry.

But if anyone knew him like I do, they would never want to be anywhere around him again. They would just see the man that he truly is. They would see that there isn’t an ounce of humanity left in him. That his soul is dark and ugly and twisted.

“You didn’t tell me you were going out?” he asks, taking out a cigarette and placing it between his lips, lighting it up. He inhales and exhales in a slow, controlled fashion. “You know that you have to ask me for permission every time you step out of the building, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Well, I forgot. Besides, it was just a small trip to a friend.”

His eyes narrow a bit, as if he doesn’t believe me. But instead of pressing, he sighs.

“Did you eat?”

I don’t think he’s really asking me as a person because I can tell from the tone of his voice that he’s not interested in knowing.

He takes in a drag from his cigarette, then offers it to me. I take it without hesitation. I’m going to need it for later.

He just watches me quietly, his eyes observing the way my mouth looks wrapped around it and then how the smoke drifts past my lips in a cloud, covering me and everything around me.

“I’m not hungry,” I finally respond, giving the cigarette back to him.

I turn back around, hoping to enjoy the warmth of the water and relax my sore muscles for just a little while longer but he doesn’t like that. He’s the one in charge.

I feel him grab hold of my wrist and twist it a bit, not enough to break it but just enough to send a message. I feel my heartbeat start to increase.

He can be so cruel.

He pulls me out of the bathtub and I let him, because if I try to put up a fight, it would just be worse for me. It’s always been worse for me.

I stand there in front of him, water dripping down my naked body, my eyes downcast and my wrist in his grasp.

“Why aren’t you hungry?” he asks. “Don’t you know that you’re supposed to eat?”

I know what’s coming. It’s the same old spiel every time he shows up here.

I’m not taking care of myself. I need to eat, sleep, and all that other s**t.

It’s a regular routine of his to check on me and make sure I’m not skipping my meals just to make things easier for him when it comes to f*****g me. He likes it when my ass fits just right into the palms of his hands when he takes me from behind and his d**k slides into me without a hint of pain.

That’s the only reason I don’t put up a fight when he starts to order me around. I have to take care of myself because my body is an investment for him and if anything happens to it, then my purpose to him is no longer there.

It’s simple.

I’m nothing more than a w***e. I’m being paid to take his c**k up my p***y every time he feels the urge to stick it somewhere and it’s my fault if my body isn’t good enough for him.

That’s what he says every time.

And I get it.

I understand.

But there are days when I wish he could see beyond my p***y and into the person that I truly am, that he could look beyond his desire and his greed and his anger and just be a good person to me.

That he could see that I was more than just an object. I have feelings too and sometimes they get hurt.

“Well?” he asks again, when I don’t respond to his first question, and this time his voice has taken on a hint of anger, irritation and a promise that the consequences of my silence are going to be worse than I expect them to be.

I shrug, my eyes still downcast and my mind not really there with him, even though my body is. “I don’t know.”

It’s all I can give him because I don’t really know why. Maybe I just want to be alone or maybe I just want him to stop caring and start hating.

I feel his hands come down on my shoulder and the touch burns a hole in my skin as his fingers dig into me, a bit of anger leaking out of him and into me and my breathing turns harsh, heavy.

“Look at me.”