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)
"I... I can't..."
"Yes, you can." I pinch her clit—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her gasp. "Say it, or I stop touching you right now and chain you to a wall until you're ready to be honest."
Her eyes fly open, meeting mine with desperate intensity.
"Do you doubt me, Scarletta?" I ask, my voice dropping to something cold and dangerous. "Have I proven myself to be a capable Master?" I let the silence stretch between us, watching the way her pupils dilate with something between fear and arousal. "Or am I just another Derek?"
The name of her ex strikes her like a physical blow. I watch the fear bloom in her eyes—real fear, not the delicious kind that makes her wet. She'd forgotten about him in the haze of endorphins and adrenaline.
Now she remembers.
Now she understands the difference.
Her breath catches, and then she starts to cry—not the pretty tears from before, but the ugly, gasping kind that come from somewhere deep and wounded. "Why are you doing this to me?"
I lean in and kiss her mouth, tasting salt and surrender. She tastes like her own come and sweat and desperation—and I fucking love it. "Because you like it, Scarletta," I murmur against her lips. "Because you need it. Because every fantasy you've ever written was begging for someone to make you live it." I pull back just enough to look into her eyes. "Now say it."
"I don't—" she starts, but I cut off her protest with deliberate action.
I finger her harder, pumping up, curling my fingertips against that spot that makes her entire body arch. She nearly falls over from the intensity—her legs trembling, her breath coming in sharp gasps. She's so over-sensitized from the chase, from coming and squirting, from the terror and the surrender. It's phenomenal. Every nerve ending is alive, every touch amplified beyond bearing.
"I'm..." She swallows hard, fighting against her own shame even as her body clenches around my fingers. "I'm a good little slut who gets wet when she's chased."
"And?" I prompt, my thumb finding her clit and circling with exactly the right pressure to make her gasp.
"And I come harder when I'm scared," she admits, her voice breaking on the words.
"And?" I slow my movements, making her chase the friction, making her work for it.
"And I need..." Her voice drops to barely a whisper, as if saying it quietly will make it less true. "I need to be owned by someone who knows all my secrets."
"Good girl." I reward her with two fingers sliding inside her pussy, curling up to hit that spot that makes her knees buckle. "Such a good, honest girl. Now let's get you properly restrained so I can really make you scream."
Chapter 15
Scarletta
There's something fundamentally, irreversibly wrong with me. I don't even try to fight—not a single token protest, not even the pretense of resistance—when he presses his large, strong hands into my hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, and lifts me up onto the exam table as though I weigh nothing at all.
The white sanitary paper crinkles loudly under my ass and the backs of my thighs, the sound obscenely innocent in this room designed for depravity, but there's no time to think about that trivial detail, because master is already pushing me backwards with inexorable force, his hand flat against the small of my back, supposedly guiding me down onto the padded leather surface.
It's a stupid gesture that means absolutely nothing, a mockery of tenderness, because he's not being gentle.
He's a monster in a mask.
Then, just when I think I've experienced the depths of degradation, the humiliation starts all over again, fresh and cutting.
He straightens my legs with clinical efficiency, running his palms down the length of them from hip to ankle, then deliberately pries my knees apart, spreading them wide. His movements are unhurried, methodical. He gently cups each heel in turn—such a careful, almost reverent touch that makes this somehow worse—and places them precisely in the waiting stirrups, positioning me exactly as he wants me.
I close my eyes. Tight. Squeezing them shut hard enough that colors burst behind my eyelids.
"Look at me, little slut. Eyes up." His voice cuts through my attempt at mental escape.
I open them, surrendering even this small rebellion. I'm so fucking tired of fighting, exhausted down to my bones. If he wants to spread my pussy open with a speculum and examine me like I'm a specimen, maybe I should just let him and get it over with.
The bitter truth I'm learning is that the more I fight, the more he clearly likes it, the longer this entire ordeal will take.
Compliance might be my only path to mercy.
"You're going to watch in the mirror," he says. It's a command, simple and absolute.
So I do exactly what I'm told. I watch, because I have no choice, as he straps my ankles to the stirrups with practiced efficiency. First one ankle, leather tightening with a soft creak, then the other, the symmetry of my captivity somehow making it worse. Then he moves with predatory grace up towards my head, his fingers circle my wrist—warm, firm, inescapable—bringing my arm clear above my head in a smooth arc, securing my wrist inside a heavy cuff that must be bolted directly to the wall or the table's frame, because it doesn't shift even a fraction when I instinctively test it.