2: Impossible
It was impossible that she could be here, naked, chained, with that horrid fat man, looking at her so disgustingly.
Impossible that he was going to get to fuck her, hurt her, in front of kind Mr Fairchild.
Impossible that she was, in a minute, going to kneel in front of the horrid old pervert, as she had last night, and gently take his flabby fat cock into her mouth, and work - do her very best - to get him hard enough to push it into her poor, sore asshole again.
Impossible - except that it was totally certain. it had happened last night, and would happen again tomorrow - unless her heart really did break in her chest, as it felt it must, whenever Mr Fairchild's sad eyes caught hers as she was being raped by the monster.
And, even worse, if she did it well enough - and she must do it well enough - he would find her worth taking away with him, when he left, and let Mr Fairchild keep his lovely home, where she had worked as his assistant, secretly and hopelessly in love with him, for two wonderful years.
It was impossible, too, that, in the middle of last night, kind Mr Fairchild, obviously in a terrible state, poor man, at what was being done to her, had come into her room and smothered her face with a pillow, pushed her legs back over her body; that he too had raped her back hole, her screams smothered in the pillow; she had thought she must die then, but had not; indeed, had had to get up at 6:30 as usual, and set the table, make the breakfast and serve it, in silence, in her neat little uniform - so demure, so pretty, so girlish, while that fat man had grinned at her, and made awful comments about her body.
And yet it was all true, and she was going to let it all happen to her.
Because Mr Fairchild didn't love her, and never would.