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)
In "The Arrangement," her protagonist Isla is bathed by three male servants before being presented to a warlord.
They wash between my legs with detached aloofness, but there's nothing aloof or detached about my body's response. I'm wet and it's not from the bathwater. One of them notices. I see it in his eyes—a flicker of knowledge that makes my face burn. He doesn't comment. Just continues washing me like I'm an object being prepared for use. Which I am. God help me, which I am. And my body doesn't care about the shame. My body wants.
Scarletta moans softly on screen.
Not loud. Not performative. A small sound that escapes before she can stop it.
The attendants lift her from the tub. Water drips down her body. She's shivering despite the room's warmth. They wrap her in heated towels, patting her dry with the same methodical care they used washing her.
Then they guide her to the massage table.
It's positioned perfectly in frame. I made sure of it when I paid for this suite, when I arranged the camera installations, when I specified exactly which preparation room she'd be assigned to and what would be done to her there.
She lies face-up on the table. White marble surface. Heated from below. The towels disappear.
She's naked again. Completely exposed under the soft lighting.
One attendant produces a bottle of oil. Pours it into his palms, rubs them together. The scent would be jasmine and sandalwood—I specified the blend myself, matched it to what she uses in her stories.
His hands start at her shoulders. Kneading. Working the tension from muscles that have been clenched for years.
She makes another small sound. Relief this time. Her eyes close.
The other two join him. Six hands moving over her body. Professional massage techniques designed to awaken every nerve ending, to make skin hypersensitive, to prepare a body for touch that comes later.
They're fluffers. That's the industry term. Getting her aroused, primed, ready for whoever wins her.
Except there's no "whoever." There's only me.
I've already won. She just doesn't know it yet.
The hands move lower. Over her ribs. Her stomach. The soft flesh she hides under oversized hoodies. One attendant works her arms, pulling each one overhead, stretching her out. Another focuses on her legs, starting at her ankles and moving up her calves.
The third one—the quiet one with dark hair—pours more oil directly onto her chest.
It pools between her breasts. He smooths it outward with both palms. Covering her completely. His hands shape themselves to her curves, professional but thorough. Cupping the weight of each breast, thumbs circling but not quite touching her nipples.
Scarletta's breathing changes. Faster. Shallower.
She keeps her eyes closed. Probably telling herself this is just a massage. Just preparation. Nothing sexual about oil-slicked hands on her naked tits.
Liar.
Her nipples are hard. I can see them clearly on camera two. Flushed dark pink, peaked, begging for attention those hands won't give.
Not their job. Their job is to make her desperate for it.
The attendant working her legs has reached her inner thighs. His hands slide higher with each stroke. Oil makes his palms glide smoothly over her skin. He pushes her legs wider apart—just slightly, just enough—and his thumbs press into the crease where thigh meets hip.
So close to her pussy but not touching.
She shifts on the table. Small movement. Unconscious. Her hips tilt upward maybe an inch.
Seeking.
Camera four gives me the perfect angle. I can see between her legs. Can see she's wet. Not from the bath. From this. From the hands of strangers all over her body, positioning her, spreading her, taking away her choices.
Just like she's written it.
In "Captive," the protagonist Elena is prepared for her first night with her kidnapper. Three servants bathe and oil her. Scarletta spent four thousand words on that scene. Describing every touch, every moment of mounting arousal, the shame of being turned on by violation.
I shouldn't be wet. I shouldn't want this. But their hands know exactly where to touch, where to avoid, how to make my body betray me. One of them works his fingers closer to where I'm aching and I hate myself for hoping he'll slip, hoping he'll give me what I need, hoping—
God, what's wrong with me?
On screen, Scarletta bites her lip.
The dark-haired attendant has moved from her breasts to her stomach. Long strokes down her centerline. Each one ending just above her blonde mound. His fingers splay wide, covering her from hip to hip, pressing in as he draws his hands downward.
Again.
Again.
Never quite touching her pussy but promising he might.
Her thighs fall open wider.
She's stopped pretending this is just a massage.
The attendant working her legs slides both hands up the inside of her thighs simultaneously. Firm pressure. Spreading her further. His thumbs meet at her apex—so close I can see her pussy clench in anticipation—and then trace outward along her hip bones.