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Orchid
I can’t explain how, but just seeing Victor again after how things were left between us last night sets butterflies to flight in my belly. I was wrong! He does care. I thought that what we had was purely transactional. And I know to a degree it remains so. But the uncharacteristic softness I’ve witnessed? It’s real. I know it in my bones. I feel it as surely as the sharp sting of my split lip.
From the way he took me home to bathe me and tend my wounds, to the fact he’s here right now, checking on me, and gifting me my namesake flowers—his eyes haunted with concern and pain. That’s a side of him I don’t imagine many have had the privilege of seeing. Handwashing a sweaty, cum-drenched, passed out chubby chick is not something anyone would ever imagine the Victor Mitchell of Mitchell and Associates doing.
The silver fox who sits proudly untouchable in his tower, controlling the world from above, perhaps isn’t as hard as he thinks. Or maybe it’s simply a carefully cultivated façade to hide the truth. Perhaps he’s been hurt, and that’s why he shields himself? Maybe he’s built walls around his heart to protect himself... and in doing so, he’s closed himself off emotionally, becoming cruel and jaded himself in the process. And I understand that completely. I do. Not everyone deals with pain the same way. And though I still see beauty in life, the world can certainly be a cruel and unforgiving place.
Hell, look at me! I’ve been raped and it feels nothing short of surreal, almost like it happened to someone else. Almost. I know it was me. I’m not delusion. The events of last night replay over and over in my mind like a waking nightmare. And even though I’ve been violated in the most heinous way possible, somehow, I’m okay. Or at least, I will be.
I was already hurting last night. Already miserable and feeling sorry for myself. The bastard who broke in and took advantage of me, well, he was just the cherry on top of a night I still can’t truly begin to process. I’ve learned things about myself that I’ve only ever had the slightest inklings of.
I’m a pleaser and a giver, I always have been. I give and give of myself until there’s nothing left—and still I keep giving to my own detriment—because everyone else’s happiness is more important than my own. And I’ve always known that deep down a part of my reason for doing so is that I seek validation and love, desperately.
My mother left us when I was little, and my father... well, he’s taken care of me ever since in a manner of speaking. He fed me and kept me clothed and educated as best he could. But I’ve never once felt loved. Not really. His heart, his love, and all his warmth died the day my mother walked out the door. And so, I chased it like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. I’ve wanted so badly for him to pay me just the slightest bit of attention and affection. To have him smile at me and call me a ‘good girl’ would have been enough. It would have been everything.
Hell, even negative attention would have been better than being ignored entirely. The bullying I’ve been subjected to and the lack of love I’ve been gifted over the years has shaped me in the same way an artisan shapes clay. Attention is attention. It feels better to at least know you’re alive and exist than to feel nothing at all; to be an unmolded, shapeless lump of clay.
And while I’ve never fully understood it until now, the truth is that I rather be humiliated and hurt than be unseen and unheard. Hurting is better than feeling nothing. Hurting is better than being a ghost in my own story. Which is why I’m drawn to Mr. Mitchell. The handsome, rich, cultured, and cruel CEO is my jackpot. He’s the father I never had. He’s all the attention I ever wanted and more. And whether it’s a fetish, or he really sees past my weight, I don’t care. All I know is that he wants to fuck me and keep me. And he’s so proud of my strength and spirit that he wants to share me with others. Others who will lust after me, hurt me, claim me, and remember me, too. Realistically—given who I am—I can’t ask for more than that.
Cinderella style Happily Ever Afters don’t exist. Or if they do? They belong to a very select few. And for women in my position, with my upbringing and prospects? That dream doesn’t belong to us. We have no right to it. But a life of service and being wanted? That’s a dream that can come true. It’s something that can be our reality if we choose it. If we’re not only brave enough to accept who we are, and what we truly desire, but also fearless enough to seize such precious opportunities with both hands unapologetically when they crop up.
I’m not ashamed of who I am. Not in my heart where it counts. I’m strong, I’m kind, I care about others, and I want to make the lives of others better. And I like sex and humiliation. There is nothing wrong with that. It’s my choice. I’m a grown-ass adult. And if I can live a comfortable life with all the trimmings in return for sex and some BDSM play-time abuse? You better believe I’m going to latch onto that like a fat kid with a chocolate birthday cake.
“Orchid, I want you to move in with me, at least until you’ve recovered. After that, you can secure a place of your own if that’s still your wish.”
“And what if it’s not? What if I don’t want a big empty apartment of my own?” I ask, toying with the purple petals of an orchid before raising my gaze to meet his. “Don’t you think it’d best if your daughter lived under the same roof as her Daddy?”
Victor growls low in his throat, his lips slack with lust. “Baby girl, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I answer, arousal growing with me. Reaching from the gurney, I stroke his cock through the fabric of his perfectly fitted trousers. “I’m playing with fire because I’ve learned to enjoy the burn...”
“Not here, my little,” says Daddy. “There’re too many eyes. It’s too public.”
My smile turns upside down and I pout. “That’s too bad,” I say with deviancy on my mind. “I know you can’t stay all day, but before you go can you at least help me to the bathroom? I still feel a little wobbly on my feet after last night.”
Without questioning it, Victor drops the railing of the hospital bed and offers me his hand. “It’s the least I can do, baby girl,” he says, revealing more of that delicious inner softness.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I say through my lashes, feigning innocence as he puts his arm around my waist and leads me gently toward the bathroom.