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)
Anticipation is its own form of torture.
She'll be desperate by the time I arrive. Trembling. Begging. Ready to surrender whatever final fragments of resistance she's been clutching.
I begin walking.
Chapter 8
Scarletta
The cross holds me in place like I'm a specimen pinned for examination.
I can't move my arms or legs. The restraint across my waist keeps me from arching away from the steel, and the collar around my throat forces my head into a position where I have to stare straight ahead into the jungle instead of looking down at my own exposed body.
I'm waiting.
I don't know for what, exactly. Or for whom.
I'm hoping it's him. The unmasked man who kissed me on the plank. The handsome man who called my writing exceptional and made me feel like maybe I'm not just broken garbage pretending to be functional.
But I've learned not to assume anything since the auction.
Whoever he is, the point of all this is to force me to admit that I'm not the one in control here—he is. That everything happening to me is his design. That I'm not a participant in this experience—I'm the subject of it.
The voices around me continue their commentary.
I think the hands that strapped me to this cross belong to the attendants from earlier., but I couldn't get a good enough look at them when they emerged from the trees to make that determination with certainty. They were masked. Dressed in black tuxedos instead of white linen.
The voices are definitely different, though. And they're amplified, like they're coming from everywhere, all at once. Ever since they put me on the cross, the've been making comments. Not about me. Not clinical observations delivered in neutral tones. They're saying things designed to arouse me. To provoke me. To stimulate responses I can't control.
One of them describes how he's going to fuck my throat until I choke when he's given permission.
Another one details exactly how he'll spread my ass and work his tongue inside me while I writhe against the cross, helpless to stop him.
The third voice—lower, rougher—tells me he's going to fist my pussy until I squirt all over his hand and then make me lick myself off his fingers.
My pussy clenches.
God. I'm so wet I can feel it running down my inner thighs.
But I'm not so far gone—not so consumed by arousal—that my critical thinking skills have completely shut down.
This is another test.
The masked man is diabolically cunning. I understand that now. Every challenge has layers. Every instruction contains traps I don't recognize until I've already fallen into them.
He set me up to fail at the bathing pavilion. Let the attendants touch me knowing I'd come without permission, knowing he could punish me for it later.
This feels similar.
These voices describing filthy acts they want to perform on my restrained body—they're trying to provoke me. To arouse me. So that when the unmasked man comes, I will fall apart immediately.
It doesn't matter who these three men are. What matters is that they're watching me. That they can see how swollen my pussy is. How hard my nipples have gone. How my body trembles against the restraints not from fear but from desperate, aching need.
I like the fact that they're watching.
I like knowing they want me.
I like hearing them describe exactly what they'd do if given permission.
And, if the unmasked man gave them permission… I would like them to do that stuff to me.
The minutes tick by.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
The voices continue their commentary, growing filthier with each passing moment. Describing double penetration. Describing how they'd use my holes in rotation. Describing how they'd make me service all three of them at once until I'm nothing but a wet, used mess.
My clit throbs.
My body betrays me.
The arch of my spine lifts my breasts higher, pulls the collar tighter against my windpipe until each breath requires effort. My ankles strain inward against the magnetic cuffs, muscles burning with the useless need to close my thighs and create friction. My wrists twist in their restraints, skin rubbing raw as I reach instinctively for my own pussy—knowing I can't touch, knowing it's pointless, unable to stop trying.
The ache between my legs has become unbearable.
I want them to touch me.
To fuck me. To do the things they're describing.
I'm pathetic.
I know I'm pathetic.
But I can't stop wanting it.
Movement in the jungle behind me makes me startle.
My heart slams against my ribs.
Is it him? Is the unmasked man finally here?
I can't turn my head to look. The collar holds me facing forward. I can only listen to the footsteps approaching through the undergrowth, growing louder as whoever it is gets closer.
The voices around me go silent.
Footsteps stop directly behind the cross.
Behind me.
I hold my breath.
Large, rough hands slide over my hips from behind, gripping my flesh with enough pressure that I feel claimed. Owned. The calluses on his palms scrape against my skin as he runs his hands up my sides, over my ribcage, then cups my breasts from behind and squeezes hard enough to make me gasp.