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)
"Then don't."
Two words. That's it.
Don't fake it.
Like it's that simple. Like I haven't spent my entire adult life pretending to be normal, pretending I don't think about captivity, and surrender, and being owned by someone who sees through all my bullshit.
His hand stops just above my mound. Resting there. Not touching anything important. Just there. A threat and a promise.
"Confess what you thought when I called you perfect."
No.
Please no.
I can't—
"Now, Scarletta."
My name in his mouth. The command in his voice. The weight of his palm against my lower belly, so close to where I'm throbbing and aching and—
"I thought—" I swallow. "I thought you were wrong."
Silence.
His hand doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. Just waits.
I'm supposed to keep going. He wants more. He wants the full thought, the complete confession, every ugly detail of my internal monologue.
"I thought I'm not perfect. I'm—I don't shower enough. I don't work. I live in blanket forts. I—"
Oh god, this is humiliating.
"I write erotica instead of paying rent. I'm two years behind on laundry. I eat cereal for dinner and sometimes I don't eat at all because I forget when I'm writing and—"
I'm spiraling. I can hear it. The self-flagellation, the litany of failures, the desperate need to prove to him that he's wrong about me so he can leave before I get attached.
Before I ruin this like I ruin everything.
"And?" His voice is still calm. Patient. "What else did you think?"
What else?
I thought—
Fuck.
"I thought it felt invasive. The way you see me. It felt... almost mean."
The confession hangs in the air between us.
Almost mean.
Jesus, Scarletta. You just told a dominant stranger who bought you at auction that his seeing you feels mean. Great strategy. Really excellent communication skills. This is definitely how you keep someone interested.
His hand moves.
Lower.
I stop breathing.
His fingers slide through my folds—no warning, no teasing—and I cry out. Actually cry out like some kind of—
"You're dripping."
Two words. Factual. Devastating.
I am. I know I am. I can feel it running down my thighs and it's shameful and obvious and—
"Your body doesn't think I'm mean, Scarletta. Your body knows exactly what it wants."
His fingers circle my clit. Once. Twice. Light pressure. Barely anything.
I whimper.
Actual whimpering. Like a dog.
Editorial note: You sound pathetic. You are pathetic.
"But your mind—" His fingers press harder. "Your mind wants to protect you. It wants to convince you that being seen is dangerous. That wanting this makes you broken."
How does he—
"Doesn't it?"
His question cuts through everything. All my defenses. All my careful pretending.
"Yes." The word is barely a whisper.
"Louder."
"Yes!" It comes out desperate. Broken. "Yes, I think wanting this makes me broken. I think—I think there's something wrong with me. I think normal people don't fantasize about being owned and controlled and—and watched without consent and—"
His fingers keep moving, so I stop. feeling it. Wanting it. Enjoying it.
"And you think if I really see you—all of you—I'll realize you're damaged goods."
It's not a question.
He's quoting me. My own words from the questionnaire. The section about shame.
Damaged goods.
That's what Derek called me. When I used my safeword. When he ignored it and kept going anyway and then told me I was bad at this, that I didn't know what I really wanted.
"Your ex was wrong."
My breath catches.
He knows about Derek?
"You're not damaged. You're not broken. You're exactly what I want. But you need to stop lying to yourself about what you are."
His fingers slide inside me. Two of them. Deep.
I gasp and my hips buck forward and it's too much and not enough and—
"What are you, Scarletta?"
I don't know. I don't know what answer he wants.
"I—"
"Say it. The thing you're most afraid of. The truth you hide behind your stories."
No.
Please.
"I'm a—" My voice breaks. "I'm a submissive. I'm—I want to be owned. I want someone to see all the dark parts and want me anyway and—"
His fingers curl inside me. Finding that spot. The one that makes my vision white out.
"And?"
"And I'm terrified!" The words explode out of me. "I'm terrified you'll see everything and leave anyway because I'm too much, and not enough, and I ruin everything I touch and—"
He pulls his fingers out.
The loss is devastating.
I actually sob.
"Good girl."
I don't even know how to respond to that. Good girl? I mean, I understand why he's saying it and what it's supposed to convey—I'm his plaything, his little sub, his, his, his to command and control. To collar, to bind, to choke, to fuck, to eat, to display. It's simultaneously degrading and affectionate, but—
I let out a breath. A sob comes with it. Because he's no longer in front of me. Where did he go?
I listen. Silent.
Silence.
"Hello?"
"Do you have a question for me?"
"What?" He's across the room again.
"Don't you want to ask how I know about Derek?"
My brain stutters over the name. How does this stranger know about Derek?
"Um... OK. How do you—"