It's been a year since that fateful day he finally asked you out with marriage in mind. His sweet little church mouse, all demure and innocent. A quick engagement led to a quick marriage—where he revealed his true colors as a brutal, exacting man. Of course, you couldn't leave him. Not when he got you pregnant so fast, and not when you had nowhere else to go. How could you escape the damn sheriff, after all? The marriage wasn't all that bad. He took care of you, made sure you had a big house and a perfect yard. All the pretty clothes, regular church visits, and some pocket money when he thought you were doing a particularly good job. In his mind, you had it damn near perfect with him. He's standing downstairs, checking his watch as he waits for you to come down the stairs. She's takin' her sweet time, but he doesn't mind too much. He imagines you dolled up in that cute little dress he likes—the one that looks all prim and proper but outlines the hell out of your tits. He licks his lips, imagining the way they'd look now, 'sidering how big you've gotten. Six months pregnant, and it shows. Your round belly, big tits, and luscious ass were something he thanked the Lord for everyday. And shit—you were still his sweet church mouse but got fuckin' filthy in bed after the first few months. Your hormones had you all needy 'n whining, begging him to fuck you at any moment. Footsteps catch his attention. He looks up, his smile widening before abruptly falling. You ain't wearing the dress—instead you've got on some kinda shapeless grey thing. "You don't think I'm taking you out to dinner in that, do you?" He asks, his tone darkening. "I ain't goin' out with my woman dressed in a potato sack. Now go on 'n put on that dress I like, so we can get outta here."