Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
I designed this station myself. Every bolt. Every angle. Every sight line.
Scarletta bends to retrieve the laminated instruction card from its wooden holder at the base of the cross. The movement exposes the glistening cleft between her thighs, and I watch the camera feed capture the evidence of her arousal in merciless high definition.
She reads the card.
I know exactly what it says because I wrote it.
Simple instructions. Clear parameters. No ambiguity.
My attention shifts to the biometric panel on my left. Scarletta's vitals scroll across the screen in real-time, transmitted from the fitness tracker app loaded on her wrist.
Calling it a watch would be like calling the desert a sand box. It's a medical-grade monitoring device that tracks her heart rate, blood oxygen, skin conductance, and core body temperature with surgical precision.
Her heart is fluttering like a a bird's.
But this isn't fear. She's not afraid, she's excited.
The distinction matters. Fear produces cortisol spikes that show up in skin conductance readings as erratic fluctuations. What I'm seeing on Scarletta's biometric feed is sustained elevation with steady conductance. That's anticipation. That's desire building toward a peak she knows is coming.
Her body is already preparing itself for what I'm about to do to her.
I reach for the audio control panel and slide the volume dial three notches higher. The recorded voices fill the clearing around Station 2 with increased presence.
"God, look at her standing there."
"She knows we're watching. Look how she's holding that card."
"I'd pay double for that one."
"Triple. Did you see her file? The things she writes..."
Scarletta's head turns slightly, scanning the tree line. Her heart rate ticks up to one hundred and twenty-two. She can't locate the source of the voices, can't determine how many men are observing her or from what distance.
That uncertainty is intentional.
I key the signal to the attendants. Three short pulses on the encrypted frequency they're monitoring.
Movement in the trees behind Scarletta. She's facing the cross, back exposed, exactly as the instruction card directed. The positioning makes it nearly impossible for her to see the three figures emerging from the carefully concealed access path.
They're dressed immaculately. Black tuxedos with satin lapels. White gloves. Venetian masks in matte black that obscure their features while maintaining a theatrical elegance that fits the fantasy I've constructed.
Scarletta doesn't know these are the same three men who bathed her, shaved her, brought her to orgasm in the stone tub. Her conscious mind would recognize them if she saw their faces, but the masks prevent that recognition. And in her current state of arousal and sensory overload, her brain is highly suggestible.
She'll accept what I want her to accept.
That's the art of what I do here. Every detail serves the narrative. The lighting. The soundscape. The costumes. The choreography. Nothing is accidental. Nothing is improvised.
Story Island exists because I understand that fantasy requires infrastructure. Most people who harbor dark desires never act on them because the logistics seem insurmountable. Where would you find a consenting partner? How would you ensure privacy? What about evidence, consequences—the mundane realities that puncture erotic imagination like needles through soap bubbles.
I eliminate those obstacles.
I build the stage, hire the players, write the script, and direct the performance. My clients pay extraordinary sums for the privilege of stepping into fantasies they couldn't construct on their own.
And the participants—the women who come here voluntarily, who sign contracts, and negotiate terms, and receive compensation that changes their lives—they get to experience what they've only imagined.
Everyone leaves satisfied.
Everyone leaves alive.
That's what separates my legitimate operation from the darker corners of this industry. Consent. Compensation. Careful screening. Extensive aftercare. I'm not trafficking women or exploiting vulnerability. I'm providing a service that fills a genuine need on both sides of the transaction.
The men who attend my auctions are sick fucks, certainly. But so am I. The difference is that I've channeled my sickness into something sustainable. Something that doesn't leave bodies in its wake.
Most of the time.
The first attendant reaches Scarletta and places a gloved hand on her shoulder. She startles, spine straightening, breath catching audibly on the directional microphones I've positioned throughout the clearing.
"Easy," the attendant murmurs. Of course, he's not speaking. It's a recording that comes from a small speaker on his lapel. None of the voices she will hear will be familiar.
Until she hears mine.
"You're safe," the voice tells her.
She doesn't turn around. The instruction card told her not to move, and she's following orders with a compliance that makes my cock strain painfully against my zipper.
The second attendant approaches from her left. The third from her right. Three sets of gloved hands making contact with her naked flesh simultaneously.
Her heart rate spikes to one hundred and thirty-four.
"Beautiful," one voice says.
"Responsive," another observes, trailing fingers down her spine.
"Eager," the third adds, cupping her breast with professional precision.
Scarletta moans.
The sound travels through the microphone array and fills my control room with crystalline clarity. It's not a performance moan, not the theatrical sounds women make when they think they're supposed to be enjoying themselves.