All Chapters of Désiré Me 2: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

DianeHe sits on the edge of the bed and draws me between his legs. He unbuckles his belt, slides his pants down, freeing himself unhurriedly. Then his hands settle on my hips. He draws me towards him. I place my hands on his shoulders for balance. It is a dance we have rehearsed. A choreography of imposed intimacy.When he enters me, it is without violence. A gentle, deep taking of possession. I hold my breath. My nails dig into the fabric of his shirt. He looks up at me, his hands firmly anchored on my hips, guiding me in a slow back-and-forth motion.— Look at me, he murmurs.I obey. I look down at his face. His features are taut with contained pleasure. His eyes do not leave me. They drink in every expression on my face. Concentration. Resignation. And, sometimes, that furtive, shameful glimmer of physical pleasure that ignites deep within, where my will has no hold.He knows my body better than I do. He knows exactly the angle, the depth, the rhythm. He knows when to slow down, w

The day is a fog. I walk, I sit, I stand up again. The housekeeper, a silent woman with a shifting gaze, offers to prepare lunch. I refuse with a shake of my head. I cannot swallow anything. The nausea has become a certainty, an animal crouched in the pit of my stomach.I need to know. I need to be sure. Before him. I need to have one moment, one single moment of truth that is not his.The idea germinates, fragile and desperate. The housekeeper. She goes out. She goes to town for the shopping. I have never spoken to her, except for murmured politenesses. But today…I wait for her in the entrance, when she passes with her coat. She startles when she sees me there, standing, like an apparition.— Madame… are you alright?My voice, when it comes out, is a hoarse thread.— I… I need something. From town.Her gaze lowers, wary. She knows the rules. She is paid to know them.— Mr. Delarive said that…— It's for a feminine emergency, I interrupt, my cheeks burning with shame and despair. Ple

DianeHis smile is triumphant. Our "adventure" is limited to the bridle path bordering the property, a one-kilometer loop of packed earth, surrounded by hedges trimmed to perfection. He has it raked every morning, so that no stone, no branch might threaten my balance.Outside, the air is sharp, heavy with autumn's damp smell. The trees have shed their leaves, their black skeletons silhouetted against a leaden sky. He takes my arm, slips it under his, his hand covering mine. A protective embrace. A gentle taking of possession.— Slowly, my darling. Take your time.We walk. Slowly. Each step is measured. He speaks, in a low, continuous voice. He tells me about his plans for the park, for the baby's room, for education. He speaks of private tutors, foreign languages, chosen sports. He has planned everything, right up to adolescence. His voice is a warm murmur against my ear, a filter between me and the world.I watch our feet moving forward, sid

 And as I cross the threshold, I understand that the real test wasn't in the car. It was here. In this humiliation. In this silent verification: am I still submissive enough to endure this without protest? Am I still worthy of being invited to his table?The door closes behind me, without a sound. DianeThe door absorbs me into an even thicker silence. His office is a flagship, all in length, with a panoramic picture window giving onto the city like a conquered kingdom. He stands near the window, his back turned, motionless in a dark suit that merges with the gray light outside.— She is sorry, I say, my voice echoing faintly in the immense space. She didn't recognize me.He doesn't move right away. Then he turns slowly. His face is a mask of perfect calm. But his eyes… His eyes are two dark embers, a coldness preceding the explosion.— She was disrespectful to you.It's not a question. It

 And yet…I am not madly in love with him. I may never be. Love, as I dreamed of it as a teenager made of equality, shared discoveries, freedom has no place here. That love is dead, buried under the foundations of his property.But something else is being born. Something more complex, more ambiguous, more dangerous too.I am learning to love him.Not passion-love, but habit-love. Comfort-love. Security-love. It's a feeling that grows slowly, like a plant in the shade, feeding on small attentions, soothing routines, the terrifying constancy of his devotion.When he humiliated that woman, it was out of possession. But it was also, in his twisted and absolute mind, out of protection. For me. For "us." He built a rampart around me with someone else's broken body. And a part of me, a part I hate but which exists, felt… cherished. Protected. Even avenged, for the small humiliation suffered.This is the true hell of my si