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)
He does the same for the other one, completing my bondage with the same unhurried certainty.
And there it is, reflected back at me in merciless detail.
Me.
Spread eagle. Utterly helpless. Completely exposed.
Every vulnerable inch of me on display.
"What happens next?" Master asks, his voice cutting through the haze of my panic like a blade.
I blink up at him, my brain struggling to process the question. "What?"
"In your story, Scarletta." He shifts his weight, and I feel rather than see him studying me with that unnerving intensity. "Not the one you already wrote. The one you're writing right now. In your head. What happens next?"
My mind stutters, trying to catch up. He wants me to... write a story? A new story? Right now? Something just for him?
Well. This, at least, is something I'm good at. Even strapped down and terrified, my writer's brain can still function. "She—"
"Scarletta." His correction is sharp, immediate. "'She' is you. Call her by her name."
What a psycho. But I swallow hard and try again. "Scarletta is..." I breathe, my voice shakier than I want it to be. "She's strapped to an exam table and—"
"Be very careful what you say next." And do I catch the hint of a smirk playing at the edges of that mask? I think I do. The faintest curve of cruel amusement. "Because all stories come true tonight. Everything you say, I'll make happen. So if I were you, Scarletta... I'd dig deep into that filthy, brilliant brain of yours and come up with something you might never have the courage to ask for again."
I scoff. I mean, his self-confidence is almost obscene.
But he's not wrong. He's giving me permission—no, he's demanding that I confess what I want. What I've written a thousand times but never dared to experience. But my mind is scattered, thoughts fragmenting like dropped glass. "I... I can't think straight."
"Sure you can, little slut." His hand comes down to my brow, and the gentleness of the touch is almost worse than any cruelty. His fingers smooth some stray hair away from my eyes with surprising tenderness, the contrast making my breath catch. "You want to be fucked by me today, don't you?"
The question hangs in the air between us. Direct. Undeniable.
I exhale slowly, a shaky surrender of breath. Just admit it, Scar. Just say it. "Yes."
He smiles. This time, for sure, I know he smiles—I can see the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, visible even through the mask. "Good girl. Now... how do you want me to start?"
I bite my lip, thinking, my mind racing through a thousand possibilities. Then I force myself to look him directly in the eyes, gathering what little courage I have left. "Let me see it first."
He actually laughs—a genuine sound of surprised pleasure that makes something flip in my stomach. But without a moment's hesitation, he reaches down and pulls his cock out of his pants, fisting it confidently in his hand. He moves closer, bringing it near enough that I could touch it if my hands weren't bound, close enough that I can see every detail.
"It's nice, don't you think?" he asks, his voice dropping to something darker, rougher.
I stare at the absolute monster of a thing in his hand, my eyes widening despite myself. My fucking god. He's massive. Thick and long and already hard, the head flushed dark with arousal. The kind of cock I've written about but never actually encountered in real life. The kind that makes me simultaneously terrified and desperately, shamefully curious.
"Where should I put it first?" he whispers, and the question alone makes my breath catch in my throat.
Before I can formulate an answer—before I can even process what he's asking—he moves forward. "Here?"
The thick, hot length of him touches my lips, and I gasp at the contact. My mouth opens instinctively, automatically, like my body is responding to commands my brain hasn't even registered yet. But he doesn't push inside, doesn't take advantage of my parted lips.
Instead, he traces them slowly with just the tip. Deliberate. Teasing. I can feel how slick he is, pre-cum smearing across my bottom lip in a wet trail that makes me shudder. The sensation is filthy, and intimate, and overwhelming. And when a drop slides off my lip and trails down over the curve of my chin, I make a small, helpless sound in the back of my throat.
"Here?" he asks again, and this time his cock drags across my skin as he moves it downward. The heat of him brands a path down my throat, over my collarbone, until he's touching the stiff peak of my nipple with the same teasing, circular motion. The contrast between the soft, velvety head and my sensitive flesh makes me arch against the restraints, trying to get more contact even as I know I shouldn't.