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)
It's a beautiful morning. Nearly noon. Twelve hours ago, she had no idea.
Five minutes from now, her understanding will begin.
She'll arrive terrified.
Perfect.
I turn toward the full-length mirror mounted on the opposite wall and study myself. Black boxer briefs cover my raging hard on, bare everywhere else. Ink covers my torso, arms, thighs, back. Every piece of art depicts the same thing.
A woman in submission. Bound, choked, fucked, eaten, displayed by a man in a black ski mask.
Every woman's face, the same face. Wearing an expression between fear and ecstasy.
I commissioned these pieces over the course of many years, one by one, each session lasting hours under the needle. This face of this woman invaded my dreams every single night—the curve of her jaw, the vulnerable slope of her neck, the way her lips would part in surrender.
A fantasy woman I was convinced existed only in my subconscious, some amalgamation of desire I'd never find in flesh and blood.
And then... I saw her writing.
Six months ago. A random link on DarkDesires forum. "Captive" by ScarletSins.
First paragraph and I knew. The voice. The darkness. I read every story she had at the time over the course of three days. Read every comment she'd ever left. Every response. Every fragment of herself she'd scattered across that forum.
I read all her most secret, filthy desires. Things she'd never tell another living soul. Things she was ashamed of craving.
I didn't know what she looked like then. Didn't have a name, an address, a face.
I just knew it was her.
It wasn't until after hiring a private investigator to trace her digital breadcrumbs that I came up with her real name.
Scarletta Mae Desmond.
When I saw photos of her face for the first time from socials, my heart stopped.
I knew it was her. But now I had proof. Her face, the face. Perfectly matching the woman inked on my body.
It's not a coincidence.
I don't believe in coincidences.
It's fate.
She's mine. She's always been mine. And the tattoos prove it—proof written in ink and pain across every inch of my skin years before I knew she existed in reality.
Immediately, I put cameras in her apartment. I hired a team that specialized in corporate espionage. They had her place wired in under twenty minutes. Bedroom. Bathroom. Living room. Kitchen. Multiple separate feeds streaming directly to encrypted servers I'd set up specifically for this purpose.
Her car came next. GPS tracker installed during an oil change—I sent her a coupon for a free service, used a shell company that looked legitimate enough she didn't question it.
Then her digital life. Keylogger on her laptop that captured every single stroke. Backdoor access to her phone that mirrored every text, every call, every app she opened. Her passwords. Her browsing history. The files she thought she'd deleted.
I became addicted to watching her exist.
Tonight, I become the man inked on my skin. The man in the black ski mask who binds, chokes, fucks, eats, and displays her.
No face. No identity. Just power.
When I'm in my Tom Ford suits, not a single tattoo shows. High collars. Long sleeves. Perfectly tailored to hide everything.
My business associates see wealth and control.
My employees see discipline and competence.
Nobody sees me.
Nobody except the ones who earn it.
And now… Scarletta.
I grab the black ski mask from the table beside the mirror. Pull it over my head. Adjust the eye holes.
The man in the ink stares back at me.
Faceless. Dangerous. Exactly like her darkest fantasy.
Through the window, the helicopter appears in the distance. A black dot silhouetted against the mid-day sun pouring through gray clouds like a delivery from Heaven.
My cock throbs. I press my palm against it through the fabric, applying pressure, controlling the urge to stroke.
Not yet.
Soon.
The helicopter descends toward the illuminated pad. Lands. Rotors still spinning.
The pilot exits first. His movements are crisp, efficient—he's done this before. He circles around to the rear passenger door. Opens it. Reaches inside with one gloved hand extended.
And there she is.
Scarletta.
The external cameras feed to monitors behind me but I stay at the window, watching with my own eyes as she's guided across the heated concrete path toward the cabin's front entrance.
She's naked.
Barefoot.
Blindfolded.
Hands cuffed behind her back.
Tears stream down her face, catching the light from refracted sunbeams.
She's crying.
Not sobbing. Not hysterical. Just silent tears rolling down her cheeks while she walks barefoot across concrete she can't see, being delivered to a man she hasn't met.
My chest tightens with desire and possession.
She's mine now.
I turn to the monitors as the pilot guides her to the front door. Positions her precisely where I instructed—facing the camera mounted above the entrance.
Staring directly at the lens.
She can't see it through the blindfold but I can see her.
Trying so fucking hard to be brave.
Trying and failing.
The pilot steps back. Nods once toward the camera. Acknowledges me watching.
I make her wait.
The helicopter noise fades.