In the quiet solitude of her city apartment, Holly Dawson often found herself drawn to the window overlooking the bustling streets below. At nineteen, she possessed a presence that seemed to command attention, her chestnut brown hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders, framing a face adorned with striking brown eyes that held a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. It was a gaze that hinted at depths yet unexplored, a soul grappling with the uncertainties of independence and the allure of the unknown.

Raised in the confines of a traditional suburban upbringing, Holly had yearned for escape even as a child. The rows of manicured lawns and cookie-cutter houses had never quite felt like home. She sought something more, something that resonated with the fire of her spirit, something beyond the predictable rhythms of a conventional life.

Her sanctuary was this modest apartment, a space she had carved out for herself amidst the large buildings that defined the cityscape. Painting had become her refuge, a means to translate the turbulence within her onto a blank canvas with strokes of color and shadows that whispered of hidden depths.

Yet, beneath her seemingly serene exterior, Holly harbored a fear that gnawed at the edges of her consciousness—an unspoken dread of failure, of never quite living up to the expectations she had set for herself. It was a fear born from the weight of familial expectations, from the well-meaning but suffocating guidance of her parents who had envisioned a more conventional path for their youngest daughter.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed, jolting Holly out of her reverie. It was a text from her dad. “Holly, we’re having issues with the Wifi again. Can you swing by this weekend to help us out?”

She sighed, knowing this meant a trip back to her family’s house in the suburbs was inevitable. Her parents, despite their best efforts, never quite grasped modern technology. It was always something—Wifi troubles, printer malfunctions, or mysterious error messages on their devices.

With a resigned nod, Holly glanced around her small, cluttered apartment. The city buzzed outside her window, a stark contrast to the quiet streets and neatly trimmed lawns of her childhood home. She loved her independence, the freedom to paint late into the night or lose herself in books without anyone questioning her choices.

But family was family, and despite their differences, she knew her parents cared deeply for her.

The next morning, Holly woke to the faint glow of dawn filtering through her bedroom curtains. She blinked sleep from her eyes and swung her legs over the side of the bed, feeling the chill of the wooden floor beneath her feet.

She dressed quickly in jeans and a comfortable sweater, her mind already preoccupied with thoughts of the day ahead. The recurring nightmares from the night before lingered in her thoughts, a whispering reminder of unsettled emotions.

Grabbing her bag, filled with sketchbooks and a well-worn paperback, Holly left her apartment with purposeful strides. The hallway outside was silent, save for the distant hum of an elevator. She locked her door and descended the stairs to the street below.

At the bus stop, she found herself among the usual early morning crowd: commuters lost in their phones, students with backpacks slung over their shoulders.

Each street sign and storefront blurred into the next as the bus carried her closer to her childhood home. Holly’s thoughts drifted back to her dad’s text from last night. She wondered, not for the first time, if her parents sometimes exaggerated their home issues in order to have an excuse to spend more time with her.

As Holly stepped off the bus, the familiar sights of her childhood suburb greeted her with an unsettling nostalgia. The neatly trimmed lawns and cookie-cutter houses stood in stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of the city she now called home. She adjusted her backpack and began the ten-minute walk to her parents' house, her steps echoing softly on the meticulously maintained sidewalks.

Each house she passed was a mirror image of its neighbor. It felt suffocating, this illusion of perfect normalcy that had once confined her spirit.

Suddenly, a deep, masculine voice interrupted her thoughts. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you.”

Startled, Holly turned towards the voice. On the porch of a nearby house stood a man, his features obscured by the morning shadows. He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties, dressed casually in a faded blue shirt and jeans.

Holly hesitated, her hand tightening around the strap of her bag. “Uh, hi. Can I help you with something?” she asked cautiously, taking a step closer but keeping a safe distance.

“I've got a bit of an embarrassing problem. I injured my hands a few months ago, and I can't open a pickle jar. Could you possibly help me out?"

Holly hesitated for a moment, her instincts tingling faintly, but she quickly brushed it off. Suburban encounters were supposed to be neighborly, right? After all, she was used to the big city, where actual dangers lured.

Smiling, she agreed to help as she stepped closer. As she approached, Holly took a better look at him. He was of average height, with a plain face that didn’t catch her eye in any particular way—a man she wouldn’t give a second glance under normal circumstances.

“I bought them this morning. I thought I’d be able to open them at this point. Silly me!” the man said in a joking way as they entered the house.

Holly felt obliged to compliment the man’s decor, though the words caught in her throat as she surveyed the neatly arranged decor and the polished surfaces. “Your home is so cozy,” she offered with a hesitant smile, her eyes skimming over the perfectly aligned frames on the walls and the impeccably tidy furniture. In her mind, however, she couldn’t help but disdain these cookie-cutter houses that lacked any semblance of personality.

“So…where’s the jar?” Holly asked as they entered the kitchen.

Turning back to the man, she saw his brow furrowed in concentration, his hand holding a small, silver bell. Curiosity flickered in her eyes as he gave the bell two brisk shakes. In that moment, a strange tension filled the air, and Holly felt a shift, as if something imperceptible yet ominous had awakened in the tranquil kitchen.

Confused, the 19 year old wanted to ask what he was doing, only to come to a horrific realization: She couldn’t move.

Her mouth refused to obey her thoughts, just like the rest of her body. It was as if she had been buried in invisible cement. She even lost all control of her eyes, which remained glued to the mysterious man, despite Holly’s efforts.

The man’s face twisted into a devious smile as realization dawned on him that his plan had worked flawlessly. With deliberate calmness, he set the small bell back down on the kitchen countertop. The room seemed to hold its breath as he circled Holly, his gaze unnervingly intense as he inspected her frozen form.

“You see, I spent some time with a tribe in South America,” he continued nonchalantly, his words slicing through the air like a cold blade. “They used this bell for healing and spiritual guidance. But then I discovered its more… intriguing applications.”

Holly’s heart hammered in her chest as she struggled against invisible bonds, unable to tear her gaze away from the man’s calm, calculating eyes. His demeanor shifted imperceptibly, his smile widening fractionally as he circled her like a predator assessing its prey. “It’s quite fascinating, really,” he mused, as he looped a few strands of her hair around his fingers.

“You’re completely at my mercy now. This bell, it's not just an object—it's a conduit of control. You won't move, you won't speak and you’ll only be released if I shake the bell again.”

Holly's chest tightened, her consciousness trapped within an immobile shell.

“You're not in a state of coma, you see. Your mind is wide awake, but your body... your body is under my complete control." His voice oozed satisfaction, relishing her terror. "You can feel every sensation, every touch, every breath, but you can't lift a finger to stop me." He leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with a disturbing mix of fascination and dominance.

She wanted to scream at him, to demand answers, but her voice was silenced, her body a mere vessel under his command. Fear consumed her, amplified by the helplessness of her situation.

“Ah, but I haven't even told you the best part," the man said with a chilling smile. "Raise your arms." Holly, who’d been perplexed for a second, suddenly felt her arms lifting involuntarily, a sense of dread creeping over her as she realized the extent of her helplessness.

This was all too much to handle. What was happening? Was this some sort of nightmare?

"Ah, and we can't forget this party trick," he remarked casually before commanding her, "Say, 'I'm a dumb cunt.'" Holly's heart raced as she found herself obeying, her mouth unwillingly forming the humiliating words as her own body betrayed her. “I’m a dumb cunt.”

The man's laughter echoed through the kitchen at Holly's involuntary compliance. Glancing at his watch, he fixed his gaze on her and calmly instructed, "Meet me in the living room in precisely six minutes. Oh and keep those arms up while you’re at it.”

Holly stood frozen, her mind racing as she watched him leave the kitchen, carrying her backpack. Every fiber of her being yearning for escape from this nightmare.

Her mind raced in a frenzy of fear and disbelief as she sat immobilized in the kitchen. Panic welled up inside her as she struggled against the invisible bonds that held her limbs captive. She felt violated, powerless, and utterly vulnerable to this stranger's whims. She would’ve cried, if her body had allowed it.

After exactly 6 minutes, Holly's body sprang into action as if controlled by unseen strings, walking mechanically towards the living room. She couldn't help but feel like a helpless passenger in her own body, her mind screaming against the surreal obedience forced upon her by this sinister stranger.

The living room was bathed in the soft glow of afternoon sunlight filtering through lace curtains. Cream-colored walls adorned with framed family photos created a facade of warmth and familiarity, juxtaposed with the unsettling presence of this creep. His figure loomed over the couch, methodically rifling through Holly's belongings spread out on the coffee table—a snapshot of her life now invaded and scrutinized.

Her heart sank further as she watched him pick up her cherished sketchbook, a labor of hundreds of hours. His eyes scanned its pages with cruel curiosity before tearing it in half with a vicious motion. The sound of paper rending echoed in the room, each tear a painful reminder of her lost autonomy and violated creativity. He callously tossed the ruined sketchbook into the nearby trash bin, where it landed with a final, heartbreaking thud.

The man picked up Holly's ID, his eyes narrowing as he examined it. "So, Holly Dawson, 19 years old. Perfect," he said with a twisted smile. "My name’s Mark. You don't know it yet, but I'm going to be your future husband," he declared casually, sending a wave of terror through Holly as she screamed internally, forced to watch her biggest nightmare unfold.

He approached his victim, her arms still raised as instructed. With deliberate movements, Mark slowly removed her shirt, revealing the 19 year old’s bra beneath. Each touch felt like an invasion, chilling her to the core as he encroached upon her personal space with unsettling calmness.

"Ah, Holly," Mark murmured, his voice dripping with condescension as he moved behind her, his hands lightly gripping her sides. "We can definitely work with that." His eyes scanned the patchwork tattoos on her arms with thinly veiled disdain. "Although I'm not a fan of tattoos," he remarked casually, a hint of mockery in his tone, "we'll find ways to improve your appearance together." Holly's heart sank further.

“Okay then. Strip, girl,” he commanded. Before Holly’s mind could grasp what this sick freak just said, her body sprang into action. Within seconds, all of her clothes were removed from her body. The sight of the 19 year old’s firm breasts seemed to excite Mark especially.

“Definitely even better than I thought. Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for such a quality slut to walk past my house, honey?” he asked as he inspected her further, not shying away of delivering a few hard slaps to the unrestrained captive’s ass, enjoying the jiggle it produced.

Holly wanted to crawl away, to hide in a hole far away and to never come back. Instead, she was on full display, naked and vulnerable to the groping hands of this suburban pervert.

“Jumping jacks!” he suddenly shouted, resulting in a completely absurd spectacle in front of him.

Holly’s boobs bounced up and down as she did the short workout routine he instructed.

After a few minutes, Mark commanded Holly to stop, laughing as he did. "That was fun," he remarked with a smirk. He retrieved her phone from the coffee table and brought it to her, placing it in her hand. "Unlock it," he ordered. Holly's fingers moved involuntarily, complying. "Now, go to settings and remove the password," he continued. She obeyed, her heart sinking further with each step. The realization of his control over her intensified her despair, while Mark’s amusement at her obedience highlighted the chilling reality of her helplessness.

Mark looked back up at his soon-to-be wife, his eyes cold and calculating. "So, honey, what were you about to do when you passed my house?" Holly's heart raced as her lips moved against her will. "I was going to my parents' house to help them with their Wi-Fi." Each word emerged unwillingly, a truth she was powerless to conceal. As soon as she finished, silence enveloped her, her voice once again stolen. The realization that she could only speak to answer his questions—and only with the truth—filled her with a profound, suffocating dread.

Mark's voice was calm but commanding. "Put your clothes back on and go to your parents' house as planned," he instructed, his eyes never leaving her. "Act normally, and don't mention anything about what happened here. Once you've fixed the Wi-Fi, come straight back. Leave your clothes at the door and kneel in the living room." He smiled, a chilling reminder of the control he wielded over her. "Do you understand?" Holly's body betrayed her with a nod, her mind a whirlwind of fear and worry.

As Holly walked to her parents' house, she appeared perfectly ordinary to anyone who glanced her way. Yet, inside, she was a whirlwind of turmoil. Outwardly, there were no restraints; she moved freely through the suburban streets. But beneath the surface, she remained trapped by the unseen, omnipresent control of a man who wasn’t even with her. Every step she took was a mockery of her freedom, a bitter reminder of her invisible chains.

As she reached the front door, Holly longed to steal a few deep breaths, to steel herself mentally for the impending charade. Yet her body obeyed Mark's commands without pause. She entered the house with a facade of normalcy, concealing the turmoil within.

Entering the kitchen, Holly found her parents in their usual morning routine: her dad absorbed in the newspaper, her mom bustling with the coffee maker. "Morning, sweetie," her dad said with genuine warmth. Holly managed a hello, her lips curling into a smile that didn't reach her eyes, hiding the trauma she had endured moments earlier. She longed to confide in them, to break free from the invisible chains that bound her, but Mark's command held her voice captive, forcing her to play the role of their daughter with every involuntary gesture.

Her visit only lasted a couple of minutes, as the Wi-Fi issue turned out to be very easily solvable. Her parent’s had absolutely no suspicion that anything could be wrong, as their daughter acted as she always did; making jokes and talking about the newest gossip.

On her way back to Mark's house, Holly became acutely aware of the one part of her body the sinister man had no power over: her heart, pounding forcefully in her chest as she strode down the sidewalk, a relentless drumbeat of fear and resolve guiding her toward an uncertain fate.

As she entered Mark's house, her body mechanically dropped all of the clothes to the floor and proceeded to the living room, kneeling as instructed.

“Oh, there you are, honey," Mark's voice greeted her casually. Nothing could’ve prepared her for the moment when he stepped into her field of vision…he was naked. The shock hit her like a physical blow, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and disbelief. Seeing him so confidently and unapologetically move into position in front of her, his average sized cock already standing proudly, made her sick to her stomach.

“I figured we should start our relationship the right way. I’m not a fan of waiting for the 3rd date, you know? I want my girl right here and right now,” he insisted as he grabbed her head.

“Open your mouth, tongue out.”

When Holly, who couldn’t pretend to not know where this was going, complied, he continued: “Give the head a few welcoming licks.”

Holly’s mind screamed at her body not to obey, to refuse the command. But she was totally helpless as she leaned forward and lapped at Mark’s cock.

“By now you’ve probably noticed that you can also taste everything…” Mark joked.

After a few enthusiastic licks, he ordered her to stop, as he took a seat on the couch behind him.

He let a few moments pass to savor the sight of the young woman before him, her mouth obediently open with her tongue extended, exactly as he had commanded. Her helplessness thrilled him, and he relished the control he exerted over her every movement.

“Alright Holly…,” he said, leaning back as he closed his eyes. “…give me the best blowjob of my life”.

In that surreal moment, Holly's predicament defied all reason. Typically, one would expect screams of protest, a run for the exit or a desperate fight for freedom. Yet, an eerie silence enveloped the room, broken only by the rhythmic sound of Holly's controlled body obeying Mark's commands. She found her body in an almost desperate state, trying it’s best to give her “boyfriend” what he wanted. Every time she felt as if it couldn’t get any more disgusting or depraved, her mouth produced more and more spit as she slobbered all over his dick, licking his shaft from top to bottom before once again inviting it deep down her throat.

Subconsciously, she found herself mirroring the movements she’d seen a few times in porn videos, fluidly switching up her approach to appease Mark.

In her mind, she yearned to lash out, to sink her teeth into his disgusting cock and bite it right off. But instead, she struggled against the stark reality of appeasing the very person who had stripped away her freedom.

Mark, clearly enjoying himself, momentarily took hold of his hard cock and pulled it upwards.

“Now the balls”, he commanded.

Holly's tongue reluctantly grazed his testicles, the sweaty taste triggering a wave of nausea as saliva pooled in her mouth.

She couldn't believe it. Just hours ago, she'd felt like a free woman with endless possibilities ahead. An open globe to discover and all the time in the world. Now, she found herself kneeling, licking the balls of this middle-aged creep, appearing as if she relished every moment, all while trapped in her own personal nightmare. The contrast between her inner turmoil and the facade she was forced to maintain was a cruel reminder of the control Mark held over her.

Amidst the sound of Holly's lapping tongue, the man chuckled softly. "You know, when I first discovered this hypnotic ability, I never imagined using it for anything good," he remarked with a twisted grin. "It's kind of funny, really. My mind immediately pictured this—a beautiful young woman going to work on my nuts." His amusement was evident.

As the blowjob session continued, Holly noticed the man’s breathing getting louder and louder.

“Okay honey, time for your first gift. Ballsdeep now.”

Immediately, the 19 year old’s head launched itself deeper into Mark’s crotch, until she felt her nose touching his skin, with the entire length of the cock resting in her throat.

Since Holly was still able to feel anything that happened, the position was pure torture and she prayed it would stop soon.

Without warning, Mark reached his breaking point and unleashed what felt like gallons upon gallons of hot cum into his “girlfriends” throat.

Holly desperately wanted to wrench her head away, to expel the vile, salty liquid from her mouth. Every fiber of her being revolted against the taste, the sensation of helplessness overwhelming her. She yearned to scrub her teeth raw, to erase the flavor lingering in her mouth for what felt like an eternity. But she couldn't move; her lips remained glued to the back of his cock, forced to endure as the final drops trickled into her mouth.

Mark took his sweet time as his dick slowly went limp inside of Holly’s warm mouth. He knew that, even though she must’ve hated it, he could keep her there for as long as he wanted.

Eventually though, he commanded, still breathing heavily: “Slowly back away, whore. And show me the result.”

He couldn’t help but smile at his own luck as he looked at this 19 year old beauty queen, seemingly proud to display her open mouth with his cum in there. He’d never thought he’d be able to get out of the circle of 4’s and 5’s he was usually dating, especially at his age. And now he had a 10, following his every command.

“Okay, swallow.”

Holly didn’t even get a chance to prepare herself mentally as the sticky fluid travelled down her throat.

Her so called “boyfriend” didn’t have to bother to have her present her open mouth, in order to ensure she’d did it. It was physically impossible for her to disobey.

"That was wondeful," Mark murmured, his fingertips lingering on Holly's lips. His touch sent a chill down her spine.

The cruel man leaned back, a satisfied smirk on his face. "You'll be moving in with me," he said. Holly's heart sank further into despair, her paralyzed body a cruel prison. "Oh, I almost forgot," he added, rising from the couch with a sinister glint in his eye. "Since you're already kneeling, you might as well ask me to marry you."

Inside, Holly screamed, her soul tearing apart as her voice betrayed her once more. "Will you marry me?" she heard herself say, the words tasting like ash. Mark's eyes gleamed with triumph. "Yes," he replied, sealing her fate with a single word.

“What about my ring?” he joked, enjoying her helplessness. “Ah, don’t worry, honey,” he continued, grabbing his hardening cock and aiming it at his new fiancée. “There are other things you can do.”

Two weeks later

Life in Mark's household moved at a glacial pace for Holly, each day stretching into an endless blur of controlled routines and demeaning tasks. Throughout the day, she cooked meals meticulously timed to his exacting standards, her every move dictated by his whims. The house itself felt like a gilded cage, its spacious rooms echoing with her footsteps, a stark contrast to the suffocating grip of Mark's control.

She had been forced into the suburban housewife lifestyle she’d always hated.

In the afternoons, she was subjected to exercises that left her muscles sore and her spirit broken—push-ups until exhaustion, laps around the backyard under his watchful gaze.

When Mark was away or engrossed in his solitary pursuits, he would often command Holly to kneel in the living room, motionless. Time seemed to stretch infinitely during those moments, her mind a whirlwind of suppressed thoughts and unspoken defiance. The silence of the house amplified every tick of the clock, each minute an eternity as she knelt, her body aching from the strain of immobility.

Surrounded by the trappings of a life she never chose—ornate furniture, polished surfaces that reflected her helplessness—she stared ahead, her gaze fixed on an indifferent world beyond the windows.

Locked in this submissive pose, Holly's mind wandered to visions of escape, of breaking free from the shackles of obedience. But as footsteps approached and the door creaked open, she snapped back into compliance, every muscle tense with anticipation of Mark's return and the resumption of her endless servitude.

But even those mind-numbingly boring moments were much better than their so called “love making”.

Each day was filled with endless seeming fuck-sessions. She would never forget that first time he’d ordered “Face down, ass up”, which was now a very common command in the household. The sadistic pig would choose the position and have his way with her.

If she didn’t do chores or wait for further commands, you could bet your ass she was satisfying her fiancé’s depraved fantasies as she gagged, slurped, fucked, gaped, and swallowed, all with a smile on her face, but darkness in her heart.

Holly had just finished folding the last piece of laundry when she heard the all too familiar sound of two sharp claps coming from the living room. Her heart sank, and a sense of resignation washed over her.

"Here we go again," she thought, the words echoing in her mind like a weary mantra. Despite her reluctance, her body moved on its own accord, muscles tensing and springing into action as she sprinted towards the source of the noise.

That “double clap” was just one of several signals he’d taught her body to react to. Holly hated how this sick pervert had taken her freedom and didnt even want to bother using proper words.

Holly knelt before Mark, her mind full of fear and anger. Her “owner” looked down at her, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Today is a special day," he announced, his voice dripping with sinister delight. "We’re going to visit your parents!”

Holly’s heart sank, the horror of the situation intensifying.

Visit my parents? Oh God, what is he planning?

Fear gripped her, twisting her stomach into knots.

Will he reveal his control over me? Use me to manipulate them?

Her thoughts spiraled.

Mom and Dad will see me, but they won't see the truth. They'll have no idea I'm trapped, a puppet in his sick game.

Holly's heart pounded as they approached her parents' house. Mark's grip on her arm was firm, a constant reminder of the control he wielded. Her parents greeted them at the door, their expressions a mix of confusion and curiosity.

"Holly, who's this?" her mother asked, her eyes darting between Holly and Mark.

Mark stepped forward with a warm smile, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Dawson. I'm Mark."

Her parents hesitated before shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you," her father said, still looking puzzled. "We weren't expecting visitors."

Holly's voice, though no longer her own, spoke up, trembling internally. "Mom, Dad, I have some news. Mark and I... we're getting married."

A heavy silence filled the air. Her mother blinked, taken aback. "Married? Holly, we haven’t even heard about Mark before. This is so sudden."

Holly's father frowned, his concern evident. "When did this happen? Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

Holly's voice continued, calm and steady despite the turmoil inside her. "I wanted it to be a surprise. Mark and I have been seeing each other for a while, and we felt ready to take the next step."

Mark nodded, his smile unwavering. "I know it's a lot to take in, but we love each other and we're excited about our future together."

Her mother, still processing the shock, forced a smile. "Holly, are you sure about this? This is a big decision."

Holly's heart screamed in protest, but her controlled voice responded, "Yes, Mom. I'm sure. Mark makes me very happy." Unbeknownst to her parents, the 19 year old could still taste Mark’s feet on her tongue, who’d made her lick them just twenty minutes earlier.

Her parents exchanged worried glances. Her father spoke again, his tone skeptical. "I mean…it’s just..."

Mark maintained his pleasant demeanor. "I understand your surprise, but I promise my intentions with Holly are sincere."

Holly’s mother sighed, trying to reconcile this sudden change. "If Holly's happy, then we're happy too. But this is a big step. We just want what's best for you, Holly."

Holly's voice responded, "I know, and this is what I want."

Her parents nodded, though doubt lingered in their eyes. "Welcome to the family, Mark," her father said, his voice strained but polite.

Mark's smile widened, his victory complete. Holly's heart sank, knowing her parents had unknowingly been drawn into the nightmare that was now her life.

When they returned home, Holly mechanically discarded her clothes as instructed. Mark's enthusiastic shout of "Anal Time!" sent a chill through Holly's numb mind, anticipating another long evening.

As usual, the 42-year-old carefully selected a prime spot before pointing towards it. Hailee promptly got down on her hands and knees, arching her body precisely as needed, just as she always did.

Getting to fuck this beautiful woman wasn’t enough for the revolting sadist. It was required of her to take the initiative and fuck herself on his cock, doing all the work herself.

Holly remembered one time where she’d rode his cock “reverse cowgirl” style. He’d ordered her to squat down and quietly bounce up and down while he watched his movie. However, he’d eventually fallen asleep, leaving her to ride his limp cock all night. Her body trembled with exhaustion, soaked in sweat, all while still wearing the required, exaggerated smile on her face. Inwardly however, she screamed and begged for it to end.

When the pig finally woke up, he simply chuckled and remarked with an indifferent "oops" before commanding Holly to cease her exhausting fucking-movements. He showed no empathy for the torment she had endured throughout the night, treating her ordeal as a mere inconvenience to his routine.

“You reek, whore. Apologize," Mark's voice cut through the silence, cold and commanding.

Holly's mouth opened, and words spilled out against her will. "I'm sorry for stinking and sweating, , sir," her voice echoed hollowly in the room, each syllable a testament to her helplessness.

Mark's lips curled into a smirk, his eyes narrowing slightly as if savoring her discomfort. "You see, Honey," he began, his tone almost conversational despite the coercion in his words, "it's important for you to maintain a certain standard. A lady should always be composed, never letting herself become... unpleasant."

Holly fought against the invisible restraints that bound her body and mind. Every fiber of her being screamed at the injustice of her situation, but outwardly she remained poised, her expression a mask of compliance.

"I understand," she managed to say, her voice trembling inwardly even as it remained steady outwardly.

"Good," Mark nodded approvingly, though his eyes gleamed with something darker. "Let’s have a shower."

Holly’s body immediately reacted, ignoring her mind’s dread completely. Showers had been another way for Mark to humiliate his slave-fiancée. As soon as they’d stepped inside, she was to kiss every part of his body, to “display her respect”, as he’d called it.

Afterward, she was tasked with thoroughly scrubbing his body, focusing particularly on his cock & balls.

By the end, he was usually horny enough to take her right there and then.

And then there was this damned bell on the countertop. When the pervert went outside, he liked to have his little slave stand in front of it for hours. A single shake would set her free from this nightmare, but frozen in place as she was, all she could do is look at it. Liberty was so close, yet so far.

The bell seemed to mock her, its presence a constant reminder of her captivity. She imagined a life beyond these suffocating walls, a life where she could once again be herself—a spirited artist, not a puppet at the mercy of a manipulative puppeteer.

Mark had a penchant for control that extended beyond mere obedience. He relished in commanding Holly to entertain him for hours on end. Whether it was dancing to music he selected, singing songs that suited his mood, or performing dramatic scenes from plays he admired, Holly’s life became a series of performances dictated by his whims.

He often required Holly to write love letters for him. These were not expressions of genuine affection but meticulously crafted missives designed to stroke his ego and affirm his control over her.

Holly would find herself seated at the desk in their shared study, her hand gripping a pen that moved across the paper with a strange and unsettling autonomy. The words flowed effortlessly, sentences of adoration and longing pouring forth without her conscious consent.

Each letter was a testament to her captivity, a chilling reminder of the extent to which Mark manipulated her every action. She wrote of love and devotion, weaving fantasies of a future together filled with passion and adoration—all while her true emotions lay dormant beneath the surface.

Mark would read each letter with a satisfied smile, his eyes gleaming with possessiveness and triumph. He relished in the power he wielded over her, reveling in her ability to fulfill his desires and fantasies at a moment’s notice.

Another thing he seemed to enjoy was to use Holly’s remaining personal possessions against her. When she’d moved in with him, they’d sold most of her belongings off.

He’d have her destroy her own paintings, burn her stuffed animals or write obscene things onto her Facebook page. It had been an interesting sight to see, watching this young woman destroy her previous life with a smile, knowing that she was screaming inside. But some of the worst torments came from her diary…

Holly sat in the dimly lit living room, her hands folded in her lap, awaiting her “boyfriend’s” next command. The air was heavy with tension, every moment an agonizing reminder of her helplessness. Mark lounged comfortably on the plush couch, flipping through the worn-out journal he had found in her backpack on the very first day—the repository of her most private thoughts.

"You really poured your heart out in this, didn't you, Holly?" Mark's voice cut through the silence, his tone laced with mockery. "All these dreams and ambitions... so naive."

Holly’s eyes remained fixed on Mark as he casually flipped through the pages, pausing occasionally to read excerpts aloud.

"'I want to paint murals that touch people's souls.' Oh, how noble," Mark sneered, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "But here you are, painting a different kind of picture for me."

Each word Mark uttered felt like a dagger twisting in Holly's chest. Her diary, once a refuge for her hopes and fears, had become a tool of humiliation in his hands.

"'I dream of traveling the world, capturing its beauty on canvas.' How quaint," Mark continued, his voice dripping with disdain. "Yet here you are, confined to my world."

Holly fought an unseen battle, her mind racing with a mixture of anger and despair. She had never imagined her innermost thoughts would be weaponized against her like this.

Mark closed the diary with a snap, his gaze boring into Holly's. "You see, Holly, I know everything about you now. Every fear, every weakness. And I'm going to use it all to make you mine."

5 months later

The morning sun filtered through stained glass, casting colorful patterns on the polished wooden pews of St. Augustine’s Church. Holly stood at the threshold, her heart racing beneath the heavy layers of white lace and satin. The sanctuary, with its vaulted ceilings and hallowed silence, seemed a world apart from the nightmare that had become her reality.

Mark stood at the altar, a vision of composed satisfaction in his tailored suit. His gaze locked onto hers as she walked down the aisle, every step a reminder of the chains that bound her to him. The congregation, a mix of Mark’s acquaintances and a handful of Holly’s estranged friends, watched with polite curiosity, unaware of the darkness veiled behind the facade of marital bliss.

Before the ceremony began, Mark had ordered Holly to “act normal and happy,” his voice a cold command that echoed in her ears. She plastered on a smile, laughed at appropriate moments, and conversed with guests as if her heart wasn't sinking with dread.

The officiant’s voice echoed through the sacred space, his words solemn and rehearsed. Holly repeated her vows mechanically, the weight of each promise a burden on her soul. She stole glances at her parents seated in the front row, their faces beaming with pride and happiness. They had no inkling that their daughter was walking into a trap, deceived by Mark’s facade of charm and control.

The ring slid onto her finger, a symbol of captivity disguised as love. Mark’s touch was possessive, his smile a mask of triumph that sent a chill down Holly’s spine. As the ceremony drew to a close with a sanctioned kiss, applause erupted from the pews—a chorus of approval for the union they believed to be a fairy tale.

In the reception hall, adorned with white roses and twinkling lights, Holly moved through the motions like a puppet on strings. She smiled for the cameras, posed for congratulatory hugs, and danced to the orchestrated rhythm of marital celebration. Mark’s presence loomed over her, his every word and gesture a reminder of the prison walls closing in.

During the reception, Mark couldn't resist exerting his control over Holly. He approached her with a sly smile, leaning in to whisper something in her ear. The words were like poison, suffocating her resolve with each syllable.

From that moment on, every time a guest congratulated her on the marriage, Holly was compelled to thank them warmly and add, "And the sex is amazing." Each forced utterance felt like a betrayal of her true feelings, a small death of her autonomy and dignity.

As the evening wore on, Holly repeated the phrase mechanically, her heart sinking with every forced smile. The guests were puzzled by her robotic response, sensing something amiss behind her strained cheerfulness. Some exchanged uncomfortable glances, while others masked their slight disgust with polite nods and forced smiles of their own.

As they pulled up to Mark's meticulously kept suburban home, Holly's stomach churned with dread. She knew tonight wouldn't end with the gentle carrying of his new bride over the threshold, a romantic gesture meant to symbolize their union. No, in Mark's twisted reality, every ritual was a display of his dominance.

Mark stepped out of the car, his demeanor cool and calculated as he walked around to Holly's side. With a curt nod, he motioned for her to get out. Holly obeyed, her movements stiff and robotic as she followed him up the front steps to the imposing front door.

Instead of offering his arm or even a comforting touch, Mark's next command sent a shiver down Holly's spine. "Crawl," he ordered, his voice devoid of any tenderness or humanity. Unable to resist, she lowered herself to the ground and began to crawl on her hands and knees. Mark didn't hesitate to assert his control. He settled himself comfortably on Holly's back, his weight pressing down on her like a burden too heavy to bear. The cold night air seemed to mock her as she moved forward, the gravel driveway digging into her palms and knees.

Inside, her husband had ordered her to freshen up to join him in the bedroom exactly 15 minutes later.

As she eventually entered, the sight of her naked husband didn’t surprise her at all, although nothing could’ve prepared her for the next words he’d said:

“Ever heard of a rimjob?”

Thanks for reading :)