Willing Chaff – Story Fodder Read Online J.A. Huss

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark Tags Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

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Or we might play board games. Yahtzee or Scrabble or something ridiculous that would make me laugh.

We might take a walk on the beach in the moonlight, and he might point out constellations, and I might pretend I know anything about astronomy beyond what I've researched for stories.

And then, once the evening was over, I'd be in his bed.

Not for sex. He was clear about that.

For companionship.

He might hold me.

The thought sends something through my chest that I don't have a name for. Something that aches in the best possible way, sharp and sweet and terrifying all at once.

When was the last time someone held me?

Not touched me, not fucked me, not used my body for their pleasure—but actually held me?

Just the simple act of arms around me, warmth against my back, another heartbeat close enough to feel?

I can't remember.

I look up at him, at the face I'm still not used to seeing without the mask. The strong jaw and the careful eyes and the way he watches me like I'm the most important thing in his universe.

"Tell me about Station Three," I say.

Something shifts in his expression. Interest, maybe. Enthusiasm. He straightens slightly, and I recognize the posture of someone who's about to sell me on something they believe in.

"It's a maze," he says. "In the jungle. Your attendants will be inside—the same men from the bathing station, though you won't recognize them with their masks. You'll have to navigate through, and they'll be hunting you. If they get you, Scarletta, they'll make you come. Then…"

I laugh a little. "Then you'll have to punish me."

"I'll have to punish you, my dirty little slut. And it will be a punishment you'll recognize." He actually waggles his eyebrows at me.

I nearly come undone with laughter. But the promise he just made—a punishment I will recognize—means it's something I've written.

The idea is both delicious and terrifying. Because I've come up with some pretty challenging punishments for my leading ladies.

Punishments that sound erotic on the page—but in real life would be… intense.

I should be alarmed by this. The idea of being chased through a jungle maze by masked men should trigger every survival instinct I possess.

Instead, my pulse picks up in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

"You like mazes," he continues, and there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I've read your stories. The chase scenes are always the most vivid, the most detailed. You write them with a kind of joy that's different from your other work."

He's right. I do like mazes. I've always liked them—the puzzle of them, the way they require you to think and adapt and find your way through. And the chase scenes in my stories have always been my favorites to write. The fear, and the adrenaline, and the desperate hope of escape or capture, depending on what the protagonist wants.

"It's the most demanding of the stations," he says. "Four and five are more straightforward after that. More purely kinky, less psychologically complex. But Station Three is meant to be a trust-builder."

He pauses, and his eyes meet mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"You'll emerge feeling exhilarated," he says. "Proud of yourself. You'll know that you can face something that scares you and come out the other side stronger for it."

I think about all the times I've written heroines who faced impossible challenges and discovered reserves of courage they didn't know they possessed. I think about how I've always admired them from a distance, wishing I could be that brave, that resilient, that capable of rising to meet whatever the world threw at them.

Maybe this is my chance to find out if I can.

"OK," I say. "I'll finish the day."

The relief that flickers across his face is subtle, but I catch it. He wanted me to stay. The realization warms something inside me that I didn't know was cold.

"I'm really hungry," I admit, because now that the decision is made, my body is reminding me of all its other needs. "And I need to pee. Badly."

The shift in his demeanor is almost comical. He goes from intense and earnest to practical and accommodating in the space of a heartbeat, standing up with me in his arms, then setting me down carefully. Like I'm something precious that might break.

Ironic for a man who whipped me with a cane thirty minutes ago. The evidence of which is still burned across the front of my thighs in bright red welts.

"Bathroom's through there," he says, directing me toward a door on the far side of the room. "Take all the time you need. There's water in the fridge, and I left food for you—cheese, fruit, some other things. Eat as much as you want. Station Three will wait."

I nod and take a step, my legs still slightly unsteady as I cross the room. The bathroom is as carefully designed as everything else on this island—clean lines, soft lighting, expensive fixtures. I close the door behind me and lean against it for a moment, just breathing.


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