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)
Consensual non-consent—$50,000. Declined.
Public humiliation—$15,000. Declined.
Recording—$10,000. Declined.
Sharing—$25,000. Declined.
Extended captivity beyond contract duration—$20,000. Declined.
She left money on the table. Significant money. The CNC alone would've doubled her payout.
She declined because those scenarios require trust she doesn't have.
Yet.
Exhibitionism. Checked. Verbal degradation. Checked. Servitude. Checked. Sleep deprivation. Checked. Food control. Checked. Bathroom control. Checked.
And… unsurprisingly, forced orgasm until unconscious.
The form updates with a final summary page.
I read through her checked boxes one more time.
What she agreed to tells me who she is.
A woman who needs to surrender completely. Who craves being stripped down psychologically until there's nothing left to hide behind. Who wants to watch herself break.
What she declined tells me what she's afraid of.
She's afraid of losing autonomy permanently. Afraid of evidence. Afraid of this becoming something she can't walk away from.
But fear is just another tool.
I stroke faster. Tighter.
She just signed herself over to me.
Every humiliating confession I force from her lips—consensual.
Every orgasm I deny or force on her—agreed upon.
Every moment I make her watch herself in those mirrors while I degrade her—she checked the fucking box.
My breathing goes ragged.
My grip tightens. Pleasure builds at the base of my spine.
She declined CNC but checked psychological dominance.
Doesn't realize those overlap.
Doesn't understand that gaslighting her desires means making her question what she actually wants. Making her beg for things she swore were limits. Making her so desperate, so broken down, that she'll agree to anything.
All consensual.
She signed the form.
I come hard, watching her cursor blink on the submission confirmation screen.
My release coats my hand, my stomach, my thighs.
I don't move. Don't clean up. Just sit there breathing while the pleasure rolls through me in waves.
She has no idea what she just agreed to.
No concept of how thoroughly I'm going to own her.
But she's about to learn.
Chapter 7
Scarletta
Istand in the lobby staring through the glass security door at the black limousine.
It's real.
This is actually happening.
The car is sleek and black and waiting. Engine running. Exhaust clouding in the freezing air.
I don't have to do this. I could turn around. Walk back up four flights. Lock myself in my blanket fort and pretend I never clicked that link.
Right. Back to your thrilling, adventurous existence filled with all those incredible opportunities and bright prospects stretching out before you.
My inner voice is particularly vicious tonight.
You've written about this exact scenario sixteen times. Every single one of them had a limousine. Remember "Claimed at Midnight" Chapter three? The car waiting in the snow while she decides whether to run?
She got in the car.
She surrendered.
It was the best decision she ever made.
Right. But that was fiction.
This is—
This is what you've been begging for in forty-seven stories. And now that it's here, you're going to chicken out?
My intellectual side kicks in, calm and rational and utterly unconvincing.
You're on step eleven. You gave them your entire sexual profile. Your address. Detailed sexual preferences. You got in the car three hours ago. You're already committed. Turning back now doesn't make you safe. It just makes you broke AND stupid.
The limousine idles.
Snow falls.
For the money, I tell myself.
Not for the sex.
For the money.
I push through the security door.
The cold hits me like a punch in the face. Wind. Snow. Idaho in December, brutal and unforgiving.
I take three steps toward the car and the driver's door opens. A man gets out. Forties, maybe. Clean-cut. Dark suit. He walks around the front of the limo with practiced efficiency and opens the rear passenger door.
He smiles at me. Warm. Professional. Like I'm a client, not a girl being delivered to—
Don't think about it.
He doesn't speak. Just holds the door and waits.
I gather what's left of my courage—which isn't much—and climb inside.
The door closes with a soft, final click.
I'm alone.
The interior is warm. Leather seats. Tinted windows. A screen built into the seat in front of me flickers to life as a video begins playing. Sleek production. Professional voiceover. A woman's voice, smooth and reassuring.
"Welcome to the Seventy-Fifth Annual Triple Xmas Auction. You are in professional hands."
The video shows the inside of the auction house. Not a dungeon. Not some dark basement.
It's gorgeous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking snow-covered mountains. Modern architecture. Clean lines. A massive stone fireplace in what looks like a lounge. Everything is cream, and gray, and polished wood. Expensive art on the walls. Leather furniture arranged in intimate groupings.
It looks like a luxury ski resort.
"Your safety, comfort, and consent are our top priorities. All participants have been thoroughly vetted. All benefactors have undergone extensive background checks and psychological evaluation."
The video cuts to sweeping aerial footage of the property—snow-draped peaks rising behind a sprawling estate, massive windows catching the afternoon light, smoke curling from stone chimneys. It's gorgeous. Intimidating. The kind of place people like me don't belong.
"Your experience will be tailored to the preferences you indicated in your intake form. Your buyer is under contract to adhere to your specific limits. Are you ready to have the experience of a lifetime? Are you ready to step into your future with enough money to never look back? If so, simply knock on the privacy divider when you are ready to proceed."