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)
I know her triggers, her limits, her tells when she's lying to herself.
She has no idea that every fantasy she's ever written is about to come true.
No idea that "Prey" isn't fiction—it's prophecy.
Christmas Eve is less than an hour away.
Then she's mine.
I stand. Water sluices off my shoulders, my chest, runs down my thighs. My hard cock juts out, unapologetic. I don't reach for the towel hanging on the deck rail, I just walk inside dripping.
The hardwood is cold under my bare feet. Water pools with each step, trailing behind me through the mudroom, the kitchen, down the hallway. My cock bobs with the movement, still hard and wanting.
The shower is hot enough to hurt. Water hammers my shoulders, my neck, runs down my chest and legs in rivers that pool at my feet before disappearing down the drain.
I scrub under my fingernails with the brush to get rid of the blood.
When I'm done, I shut off the water and dry efficiently. Gray sweatpants. Nothing else.
The whiskey bottle sits on the kitchen counter where I left it this morning. I pour two fingers neat, take it to the leather couch, set my laptop on the coffee table, and sit.
Even though the cut on the screen above the massive stone fireplace is still repeating, showing Scarletta as she furiously types out her deepest, darkest fantasies, that's not what I'm thinking about.
I've got new chapters to read.
The anticipation I feel before opening my laptop is pure arousal. twenty-seconds later, the DarkDesires forum is loading.
Her profile appears first in my bookmarks. ScarletSins. Last active: 4 minutes ago.
This realization sparks abject lust. My cock throbs, interested now in a way I can't refuse it. My hand slides down into my sweats, griping my shaft with intent.
Almost every night little Scarletta posts between 2,000 and 3,000 words. Always a full scene. Always filled with her most private, filthy desires.
The throbbing between my legs intensifies when I see the little green dot. When I realize she's online right now. This very fucking moment. Probably curled in that pathetic blanket fort, laptop heating her thighs, coffee going cold beside her as her fingers work between her legs.
She masturbates two, sometimes three times a day.
I click her latest chapter.
The chapter is called Confession, the book is called See Me, Spank Me, Cure Me.
I read the opening line.
He has me on my knees with my wrists cuffed behind my back, and I've never felt more seen in my life.
My cock jerks in my palm.
She writes the scene like she's living it. First person, present tense, immediate. The protagonist—always some version of herself, always pretending she's not—kneels naked in front of a man who knows exactly what she needs before she does.
The dom in her story circles her slowly. Studying. I can see it perfectly because I've done this exact choreography in my head a thousand times with her body as the reference point.
"You're going to tell me what you want," he says. Not a question. A command.
"I can't," I whisper.
"You can. You will."
I stroke myself slowly, matching the rhythm of her words. She describes the way his hand tangles in her hair, forces her head back, makes her look at him. The vulnerability in that angle—throat exposed, eyes unable to hide.
"Tell me what you need," he says.
The words stick in my throat. Shame chokes them. But his grip tightens and I hear myself say it:
"I need you to use me."
"Be specific."
My grip tightens. I'm reading faster now, breathing harder.
"I need—" My voice breaks. "I need your cock in my mouth. I need you to fuck my throat until I can't breathe. I need you to make me take it even when I gag."
Jesus Christ.
He smiles. It's the most beautiful and terrifying thing I've ever seen.
"What else?"
"I need you to hurt me."
I nearly come as I work my cock in steady, deliberate strokes while my eyes devour each word she's written, every confession pouring directly from her psyche onto the screen in front of me.
This is her fantasy.
TPE. Throat fucking. Pain.
And tomorrow, I will make that fantasy come true.
I will have her down on her knees, gagging.
And she will come for me like the good little slut she is.
Chapter 2
Scarletta
The cursor blinks on my screen. Forty-three thousand words into See Me, Spank Me, Cure Me and I'm right there with her, my protagonist, feeling the exact moment she realizes she can't run anymore.
His hand is on her throat—not squeezing, just there, just claiming—and she's about to say it, the words I've been building toward for sixteen chapters. The words that will break her open.
"I'm yours."
My fingers are flying. I'm not even thinking anymore, just channeling it, the way her resistance finally cracks, the way she lets him see—
Footsteps in the hallway.
Heavy. Deliberate.
I freeze mid-sentence, hands hovering over the keyboard like I've been caught doing something illegal. Which is stupid. I'm just writing. I'm always just writing. Nobody cares what I do in this apartment. Nobody even knows I'm here most of the time.