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)
The blonde one hooks his fingers into her panties, dragging them down.
"Look at you," he whispers, running one finger through her folds. "Already so wet for us."
She whimpers.
The tall one's hand finds her other breast, kneading roughly while his mouth works against her neck.
They're coordinating beautifully—three sets of hands, three different sensations, overwhelming her nervous system until she can't think straight.
Can't resist.
Can't do anything but feel.
And then the dark-haired one guides her backward.
Toward the centerpiece of the staging suite.
The tub contraption.
I almost laugh watching her eyes go wide when she sees it.
It's a masterpiece of function and intimidation—custom-built hybrid of clawfoot soaking tub and gynecological examination table, carved from a single piece of black volcanic stone. The basin itself is deep enough for full-body submersion, five feet long and three wide. Polished smooth.
At the far end, hinged stirrups that fold up from the tub's edge. Polished steel. Leather padding. Locking ankle cuffs.
Medieval aesthetic meets clinical efficiency.
The participant is bathed, prepared, made vulnerable—then the water drains to knee-level, the stirrups deploy, and her legs are locked wide open for whatever comes next.
Shaving. Inspection. Penetration.
Complete access to her most intimate parts while she's helpless to close her thighs or hide herself.
Psychological torture dressed up as spa treatment.
They guide Scarletta toward it now, the dark-haired one supporting her elbow like she's stepping into something precious.
The water's already steaming, lavender and eucalyptus rising in fragrant clouds.
She looks back over her shoulder—not at them, but at the entrance.
Looking for me.
Wondering if I'm watching.
I am, baby.
I'm always watching.
Chapter 2
Scarletta
I'm naked again.
New place, same strangers. Same humiliating vulnerability.
My three attendants guide me toward the tub and I try not to panic because Jesus Christ, it looks like something from a medieval torture museum.
Black stone. Cold and massive. Deep enough to drown in.
And at the far end—stirrups.
Stirrups.
Like the exam table. A moment from Christmas Eve flashes through my mind. The way my masked man guided my heels into the stirrups after he caught me. After he learned that I couldn't be trusted to be still so he had to strap me in. The look in his eyes behind that mask—god, it made me want him to do very sick, strange things to me.
But this gyno-tub… what the hell is it?
I'm trying to reconcile where I even am right now. The Caribbean, obviously. Tropical heat, palm trees, that thick humidity that makes my hair frizz instantly. But I don't actually know. It's an island. I saw it from the window of the plane. Two of them, actually. Very close together. One with a lot of infrastructure, one without. But I could be anywhere. Mexico. Belize. Who knows.
The trip here was awful.
I waited almost an hour for the limo. Standing in the lobby of my apartment building, checking my phone every thirty seconds, convinced the masked man changed his mind. Convinced the whole invitation was a joke. You really thought someone would pay fifty thousand dollars for you?
When the car finally arrived, I almost didn't get in.
That's not true.
I was always going to get in.
The plane was delayed—mechanical issues, they said. I sat in that private terminal for another two hours, spiraling, convincing myself this was a sign. A cosmic intervention telling me to go home.
I didn't.
The flight itself was turbulent as hell. I felt sick the entire time. Gripping the armrests, stomach churning, convinced we'd crash into the ocean and no one would ever find me because I hadn't told anyone where I was going.
Who would I have told? My mother didn't even call me on Christmas this year. When I called her later in the afternoon on Christmas day,—still shaking, and excited, and confused, and happy, and bewildered, and relieved that my bank account held more digits than I'd ever thought possible in a single account balance—she made excuses for not calling me. Claimed she was traveling and didn't have service. As she was talking to me on the phone.
I didn't even push back. She's not worth the fight.
But my hesitations for this experience were real, even if I had no one to bounce them off of. The whole flight here I kept thinking I should tell the pilot to turn around. Demand it.
Didn't.
I kept thinking I was insane for coming. That this is proof I'm damaged beyond belief.
It is, too. I am insane. Absolutely unable to make a good decision if my fucking life depended on it, because I left the cameras up in my apartment.
All sixteen of them are still running. Still recording everything I do. I know exactly where they are now. The masked man told me how to disable them and I… just… didn't.
I didn't change my passwords, didn't remove the keystroke logger.
I want him watching me.
I want him reading every filthy word I type into The Watcher, the novel I'm writing about him. About us. About everything he did to me.