Stripped of Dignity

"Hubby, let's make a baby!" Valerie shrieked above him.

She ignored the stiff, heavy cock pressing through his trousers directly into her stomach. Her hands gripped his tailored clothing tight. She clawed at the expensive fabric, clumsily attempting to unbutton his shirt in a crude imitation of intimacy.

"This is how they do it on TV, Hubby!" she added, projecting a facade of feral, unhinged excitement.

Internally, a cold anxiety gripped her pulse. Declan possessed a terrifyingly sharp gaze. He was processing the chaos, and she calculated he was slowly seeing right through her fabricated idiocy. Extreme measures were required to solidify her persona. She needed to prove she lacked basic boundaries. Gritting her teeth, she abandoned his buttons and moved her hands down to her own gown. She was prepared to strip herself bare to force the grotesque agenda.

Her fingers caught her zipper.

Declan’s massive hand clamped down on her straying wrist like a vice. Repulsion distorted his striking features. He masked his humiliating physical arousal by throwing her off. He flung her hand aside and scrambled backward off the wrinkled bed with frantic, desperate energy. He glared down at her.

"Stop it! Holding the legal title of Mrs. Thorne does not grant you sexual access to me. I would rather die than pursue a physical relationship with a mental deficient."

He smoothed down his ruined suit. He spun on his heel and stormed out of the lounge, slamming the heavy door behind him without sparing her a single backward glance.

The heavy silence settled over the room. The idiotic, vacant grin dropped from Valerie's face in a flash. A shrewd, calculating glint illuminated her eyes. She stood up and tidied her disheveled hair, her breathing steadying into a calm rhythm. She stared at the closed door and began a silent, meticulous countdown in her head. She knew her prey.

Thirty seconds ticked by. The heavy mahogany door swung open. Camilla stalked into the room.

Valerie's lethal intuition proved correct. Camilla had been lurking in the hallway to ambush her. Instantly, Valerie reverted to her blindingly bright, vacant smile.

"Madam! Are you here to make a baby too?" Valerie asked, tilting her head.

Camilla's face twisted into a vicious sneer. She marched forward and poked Valerie’s forehead hard, spitting pure vitriol.

"Make a baby? Look in the mirror! No man would ever want to procreate with a hideous, scarred retard like you. Listen closely. I am destined to become the true Mrs. Thorne. You need to back off, or I will break you."

The threat dissolved into a rapid, blood-curdling shriek. With blinding speed and precise dexterity, Valerie lunged forward. Her fingers caught the neckline of Camilla's flimsy, low-cut designer cocktail dress. She yanked downward hard.

The delicate fabric gave way with a loud rip. The sudden tear exposed half of Camilla's bare chest to the freezing air conditioning.

"You retard! Go to hell!" Camilla screamed in hysteria.

She lunged forward, swiping to grab a fistful of Valerie's dark hair.

Operating with the smooth agility of a trained fighter, Valerie gracefully ducked. She wove out of reach, dodging the retaliation with ease. Plastering on an expression of supreme, baffled innocence, Valerie capitalized on Camilla's frantic panic. She dropped low and seized the fragile hem of the dress this time.

"You have to take off your clothes to make babies! Let me help you!" Valerie shouted brightly.

"Get your hands off me! Stop it!" Camilla shrieked in desperation, trying to swat Valerie away.

Valerie ignored the pleas. Her hands moved with ruthless efficiency. With a few devastating tugs, she shredded the expensive gown into ragged strips. Camilla collapsed, weeping in pure panic while clutching the pathetic remnants of fabric to shield her exposed body.

Leaving her victim on the floor, Valerie sprang up. She bolted directly for the heavy oak door, easily outmaneuvering Camilla's clumsy attempt to tackle her ankle.

She burst out of the lounge and sprinted down the opulent corridor toward the main ballroom stairwell, screaming at the top of her lungs.

"Madam wants to make a baby! She wants to make a lot of babies! Madam isn't wearing clothes!"

The explosive commotion worked flawlessly. A crowd of wealthy guests and uniformed staff froze in their tracks, swiveling their heads toward the VIP hallway.

Right on cue, Camilla stumbled blindly out of the lounge. She awkwardly and pitifully clutched the torn shreds of her dress over her bare skin, shivering under the bright lights. Utter horror washed over Camilla as reality set in. The corridor was packed with elite onlookers. She stood consumed by the lecherous, mocking gazes of the high-society crowd burning into her exposed flesh.

Desperate for damage control, she pivoted to a victim mentality. She sobbed loud tears to the staring crowd.

"I merely wanted to peacefully discuss piano playing! I was attacked!"

Valerie delivered the final, flawless kill shot. She pointed an accusing finger right back, projecting her voice to cut through the excuses.

"That is a lie! Madam explicitly instructed me that clothes cannot be worn if you want to make a baby!"