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 want him to see that I kept his Harvard shirt.
That I touch myself thinking about him.
That I accepted this invitation the second I saw it because forty-eight hours with him is worth any amount of money, any amount of fear, any amount of—
"Easy," one of them murmurs, steadying my elbow as I step into the tub. The water's steaming. Lavender. Eucalyptus.
And then—hands. Everywhere.
One cups my breast immediately, soaping it with deliberate pressure that makes my nipples harden. Another slides down my stomach. The third is working shampoo into my hair, tilting my head back, exposing my throat.
Oh god.
I try to stay still. Try to breathe. Try to remember this is just preparation, just like before.
Except it's not like before.
Before, they were gentle. Clinical. Professional.
This time they're... aggressive.
The one at my breast pinches my nipple between soapy fingers, rolling it, watching my face for reaction. The one washing my stomach lets his hand drift lower. Lower.
Between my legs.
I gasp.
His fingers slide through my folds, not accidental, not incidental—deliberate. Circling my clit with expert precision while his other hand grips my hip to hold me steady.
He's watching.
The thought slams into me with absolute certainty.
My masked man is watching right now. Probably on a dozen screens. Probably stroking that massive cock of his while three strangers touch me in a bathtub built like a gynecological nightmare.
This is his fetish.
Voyeurism.
I've written about it in—god, how many stories? Twelve? Fifteen? The protagonist watched through hidden cameras, touched by strangers while her captor observes from somewhere else, getting off on her humiliation, her helplessness, her—
"Fuck," I whimper.
The attendant between my legs increases pressure. His thumb works my clit in tight circles while his fingers tease my entrance. Not penetrating. Just... threatening to.
The one at my breast leans in and whispers, "You're so wet, beautiful. We can feel it."
I am. God, I'm dripping. The water around my thighs probably has my arousal floating in it like some kind of sick evidence of exactly what I am.
A slut who gets wet when strangers touch her.
A broken girl who craves this.
I could come right now. Right this second. His thumb is in exactly the right spot, the right pressure, the right rhythm. My pussy is clenching around nothing, desperate, begging to be filled.
But I hold it.
Because I don't know what he wants.
Does he want me to come? To lose control in front of these men while he watches from wherever he is?
Or does he want me to be strong? To deny myself? To prove I'm saving myself for him?
I don't know.
The attendant washing my hair rinses it, his fingers massaging my scalp with firm, possessive strokes. The one at my breast soaps down my ribs, my stomach, my hips. The one between my legs—
His finger slides inside me.
Just one. Just to the first knuckle. But enough to make me gasp, and arch, and nearly come on the spot.
Then he withdraws.
The water starts draining. It quickly lowers to knee level, then stops with a weird glug sound. "What's happening?" I ask, trying to sit up and look around.
One of the men shushes me, pushing me so my back is resting against the stone tub.
A mechanical noise—then my hips begin to lift out of the tub. Again, I try and sit up. Trying to figure out what the hell is happening.
And again, the attendant gently—but firmly—pushes me back.
I'm lifted.
Not by hands—by the tub itself.
My hips rise out of the water with a mechanical whirr that sounds like something from a sci-fi horror movie. The stone beneath my lower back tilts up, up, up, raising my pelvis while the rest of me stays submerged to my ribs.
Then the stirrups swing wide.
Metallic clicks. One after another. Click-click-click-click—like some medieval gynecological Transformer unfolding for battle.
Oh my god.
What the actual fuck is this thing?
The blond attendant picks up my right foot with gentle hands. His thumb strokes my ankle as he guides my heel into the stirrup. The metal is cold. Padded, but cold.
"Wait—" I try to pull back.
"Shh," he murmurs. "Just relax."
He closes something around my ankle. A cuff. Leather-lined but unmistakably a restraint. It locks with a soft snick.
My left foot goes next.
The dark-haired one guides it into position while I'm still processing what's happening. Another cuff. Another lock.
My legs are spread.
Wide.
Oh god.
The stirrups hold me open at an angle that makes my pussy completely exposed, raised above the waterline like I'm being presented for inspection. My thighs are trembling. I can feel cool air against my throbbing pussy, can feel how wet I am, how swollen.
I try to close my legs.
Can't.
The stirrups don't budge.
"Please—" I whisper.
The tall one with the long hair moves to my head, kneeling beside the tub. His hand cups my cheek. "You're okay, beautiful. Just breathe."
I'm breathing too fast. Panicking. Because I can't see what's happening down there. My head is low in the tub, water lapping at my shoulders, and my hips are raised up like—