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)
This is what I wrote about. All those stories where my heroines are displayed, examined, watched by men they can't see. Where their bodies are evaluated and discussed like they're objects on display.
I'm living it right now.
And it's so much more intense than I ever imagined it would be.
Another voice murmurs something I can't quite hear and someone laughs softly.
They're talking about me. Commenting on me. Probably noting every detail of my body, every imperfection I've spent years hiding under baggy clothes and blanket forts.
My breathing comes faster, shallower. My clit throbs with every heartbeat.
I need to move. I need to follow the instructions, do whatever comes next, or I'm going to stand here and come in front of these invisible strangers just from knowing they're watching.
The cross.
He said there'd be a cross at Station Two.
I force my legs to work and take a shaky step forward. Then another. My whole body feels hypersensitive, like every nerve ending is firing at once. The air moving across my skin feels obscene. The way my thighs brush together with each step sends sparks straight to my pussy.
And then I see it.
A large wooden cross mounted vertically in a cleared area about fifteen feet ahead. Dark wood, smooth and polished, with leather restraints attached at four points. Wrist height. Ankle height.
Spread wide upon the cross you'll wait, exposed for all to see.
Jesus Christ, he meant it literally.
A small white card rests on the ground at the base of the cross, propped against the wood.
I walk toward it on legs that barely support my weight, feeling eyes tracking my every movement. Wondering if they can see how wet I am. If they can tell from the way I'm walking that I'm desperate, aching, ready to break.
I pick up the card with shaking fingers.
Whatever it says, I'll do it.
All of it.
Every single thing.
Because I'm in.
I'm completely, irrevocably in, and there's no part of me that wants to be anywhere else.
Chapter 7
Caleb
The door to the hidden control room between stations 1 and 2 blends in to vegetation-covered rock wall. Primitive and natural. But inside, it's climate-controlled space dominated by a wall of monitors that hum with low electric frequency that makes the air feel charged.
On one side of the wall the screens show Dimitri Volkov’s pathetic progress through the mud on Chaff Island. He got hit with the honey about an hour back and he's been desperately trying to wash it off as the bugs begin to eat him alive.
He is irrelevant right now, so I turn my attention to the other side of the wall of screens, take a seat, and begin switching camera angels around until I find her.
Scarletta stands exactly where I left her on the high platform. It's only been about three minutes, so her hesitation doesn't mean much.
Yet.
I watch her face closely as the reality of my abandonment sinks in.
What will she do?
Give up?
If I thought she would give up at Station 1, I'd never have wasted my time bringing her here.
She's not going to give up.
The question is, how long does she need to fight back the shame?
That's what's really going on inside Scarletta's head. Her own voice is her prison. Her own thoughts, her own mind, herself.
It's not about Derek.
It's never been about Derek.
Scarletta wants to know why she's so fucked up. Why she keeps attracting men who want to disrespect her, hurt her, leave her.
But she's learning quickly. Giving in to her attendants the way she did. There was no pretending this time. No story being concocted in her head about what this is and what this isn't.
It's not a look on her face that marks the shift here. She doesn't do some theatrical gritting of her teeth or hardening of her jaw.
She simply… lets out a breath. A very small breath. And with it, her shoulders drop. Not in defeat, but in resolve.
She isn't thinking about her past right now.
She's thinking about me.
She's thinking about earning the right to have my cock inside her. The right to be granted permission to come. The right to scream, and sob, and shatter completely under the expert, unrelenting hands of a true master who knows exactly how to unmake her.
It's fucking beautiful.
She moves toward the hanging harness. Her hands shake as she steps into the leather straps with a clumsy urgency that makes my cock twitch hard against my zipper.
She wants to chase me.
The camera angle is merciless. It captures everything. As she bends to secure the leg loops, the sunlight filters through the leaves and illuminates the gleaming, swollen flesh between her thighs. She is impossibly wet.
Her pussy is puffy and pink, leaking her desire. It coats her inner legs and glistens in the high-definition feed. A biological testament to how thoroughly I have already rewired her.
She is terrified of falling sixty feet to the jungle floor, yet her body is already underneath me. Already in the middle of being fucked.