Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
She wants to be forced to confess.
Wants the decision taken from her. Wants someone to drag the truth out of her so she doesn't have to volunteer it. So she can tell herself it wasn't her fault. He made me say it.
My grip tightens.
I can work with this.
The shame is leverage. Psychological pressure I can apply precisely. Make her speak her desires aloud while she's blushing, trembling, hating herself for needing what I'm about to give her.
Question 3: Have you ever wanted to be watched without your knowledge or permission? Why does this appeal to you?
Her cursor doesn't blink this time.
She starts typing immediately.
I slow my stroke. Watch the words appear on the keystroke feed.
Yes.
One word. No hesitation.
Then she elaborates.
She fantasizes about being observed during her most private moments. When she's writing. Touching herself. Crying. Completely unguarded.
My hand stills on my cock.
She wants to be watched without knowing.
Wants someone studying her when she thinks she's alone. When the performance stops and the real Scarletta emerges—the one who writes depravity at three AM in unwashed clothes, who cries over rejection emails, who touches herself while reading comments on her own stories.
I've already done this.
I've watched her write every word. Seen her masturbate to fantasies she typed with the other hand. Witnessed her sob into her pillow after her mother ignored her birthday text.
And she wants this.
She craves it.
The violation and intimacy tangled together until they're inseparable.
I resume stroking. Faster now.
What makes my cock throb isn't just that she wants surveillance. It's why.
She performs for everyone. Edits herself. Hides. But alone, she's raw. Real. Authentic in ways she can never be when she knows someone's looking.
And she wants to be desired for that version.
The unguarded one.
The real one.
The one no one else gets to see.
She wants proof that her darkness doesn't repel. That being watched at her worst—her most vulnerable, her most depraved—makes someone want her more.
Not despite who she really is.
Because of it.
I stroke harder.
She doesn't know I've been watching.
Doesn't know I've seen every private moment.
Doesn't know I've catalogued her routines, her habits, her tells.
When I reveal it—and I will, eventually—she'll be horrified.
Violated.
Furious.
And so fucking wet she won't be able to stand.
Question 4: Describe a time you felt most vulnerable during a sexual or intimate experience. What made it significant?
I stop stroking completely.
Read the name.
Derek.
My jaw clenches.
She's typing about the forum where they met. The fantasies she shared. How she trusted him with things she'd never told anyone.
How he violated her safeword.
Kept going while she begged him to stop.
Laughed at her. Called her bad at this. Then ghosted her like she was nothing.
I set my laptop aside. Stand. Walk to the window naked, cock still hard, mind clear.
Derek Morrison.
Twenty-four years old. IT consultant. Lived in Boise.
Lived.
Past tense.
I found him four months ago. Wasn't difficult. She'd mentioned enough details in old forum posts—before she learned to scrub her digital footprint. His username. The city. His job.
Took me three days to confirm his identity.
Two weeks to study his patterns.
One night to make him pay.
Taser to the neck. Forty-five seconds of convulsions. Zip-tied his wrists and ankles while he was still twitching. Duct tape over his mouth. Threw him in my trunk.
Then I drove him to my barn.
He woke up on the kill floor. Concrete. Drain. Plastic sheeting.
I let him see the tools first. Let his imagination do half the work.
Then I told him exactly why he was there.
I started with his hands. The ones that kept touching her after she safeworded.
Bolt cutters. Finger by finger. Left hand first.
He screamed so loud I thought the soundproofing might fail.
It didn't.
When all ten fingers were gone, I cauterized the stumps with a propane torch so he wouldn't bleed out too quickly.
Then I moved to what he'd used to violate her trust.
His cock.
I didn't cut it off—too quick, too merciful.
I'm hard again just remembering his screams.
The way he sobbed. The way he looked at me with those pleading eyes like I was the monster.
No.
He was the monster.
I am the scales of Justice
When he finally passed out from shock, I slit his throat and watched him bleed into the drain.
Dismembered the body. Burned the pieces in the wood furnace over three days.
Scattered the ashes in the national forest.
Derek doesn't exist anymore.
I return to the bed. Sit. Pick up the laptop.
The keystroke feed updates.
Question 5: What role does fear play in your arousal? Be specific.
I resume stroking. Slow pulls.
She types for three minutes straight.
Fear is central. Not terror—anticipatory fear. The fear of being pushed past her limits by someone who knows her capacity better than she does. Fear of being known. Fear of surrendering and loving it. Fear that wanting this makes her broken.
My cock throbs.
She's afraid of her own desires.
Afraid of the man who'll see through her defenses.
Afraid of how much she'll need what he gives her.
And the fear sharpens everything. Makes the surrender sweeter because she had to overcome something to get there.