Season: Autumn
Weather: Drizzly
Day of the week: Thursday
Date: 14th March, 2024
Chef's annoying, obese son came home while Chef was at work today. I don't like him. Never liked him. He was a pervert and the main reason why I insisted on leaving Chef's place last time. I just couldn't tell Chef.
And now, just like last time, now that he's caught me, I can't escape from his pudgy fingers or his bruising grasp. I can only do what I'm told and hope that we have more contraceptive pills for when he is done.
Right now, I'm bent over the coffee table, propping myself up, being forced to write in my journal while he and his short but fat little willie has its way with me. My writing is so messy but I'm not allowed to stop writing.
The arrogant prick still thinks he owns me and is intent on punishing me from managing to escape his grasp. I left so suddenly last time so that he wouldn't be able to touch me, but this time, he didn't want to let me go. My writing is so crooked, but that seems to be what he wants to see. See how I am reacting to him. See how much I am trying to resist him.
This, the way he handles me is more like how I have always expected this type of activity to be. In my experience, it's always been as painful and uncomfortable as this. Not like how the dark shadow lord or the shameless boss were, wanting to make sure I enjoyed it as much as they were. This, this is all about power, control and teaching me my place in the world.
It hurts. It really hurts. I have bruise marks all over where his hands have gripped me. You'd think that Chef's son, also being a chef, would be as good and kind as his father, but he's not even half the man his father is. If Chef ever did me, he certainly would have much better technique and be far more considerate than this snivelling dickhead who thinks the world owes him. I'd almost prefer Chef than his son. Not that Chef would ever be willing or want to touch me in this way. We have a father-daughter type of relationship after all.
I wonder how many litres of water I will have cried before Chef comes back tonight. Thankfully, his son isn't a complete idiot and will at least let me take a shower and go back to bed where I will probably stay until I'm dragged out by this prickhead again. Or something. I hope. He does smell pretty pickled in his inebriation right now. So who knows if reason will prevail and he will prove himself to be a real idiot after all.
I hope Chef comes home soon.
Chef, come home. Please come home. I can't take this for much longer. Come home. Hurry up and come home. Come home and save me. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.