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)
She'll suck my fingers clean after each bite. Slowly. Deliberately. Maintaining eye contact while her tongue works between my knuckles.
And when I'm finished eating, when she's had enough sustenance to carry her through the afternoon, I'll unzip my trousers and guide her mouth to my cock.
Not to finish. Not yet.
Just to feel her warmth, her submission, her willingness to serve. She'll hold me in her mouth while I stroke her hair and tell her what a good little slut she's being. How proud I am of her performance this morning.
I might fuck her throat, if she's exceptionally good. If she demonstrates the kind of eager surrender that makes my control slip.
But probably not.
That particular reward will wait for later. For after she's truly earned it.
Stations Four and Five are already prepared—both designed purely for dominance and submission without the fear factors that characterized this morning's challenges. No heights. No hunters. No psychological pressure beyond the simple, clarifying dynamic of my control and her obedience.
Just kink. Just connection. Just a gentle wind-down toward evening.
Then the spa.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I consider what awaits her there.
The attendants will be present, of course. They'll bathe her, massage her, tend to every inch of her exhausted body with professional precision. But their hands will remain clinical tonight. No teasing strokes. No fingers drifting toward her pussy. No orchestrated arousal.
If she's aching—and she will be, I'm absolutely certain of that—she will be denied.
I will not let her orgasm again until tomorrow.
And tonight, in my bed, I will not touch her sexually at all. My hands will remain above her waist, holding her against my chest while she sleeps. My cock will stay in my boxer briefs despite whatever desperate, unconscious movements she makes against me in the night.
Forging bonds.
That's what tonight is for.
Not pleasure, not release… but… connection.
The flicker on the left wall of monitors pulls my attention away from Scarletta.
I watch the static ripple across the Chaff Island feed, a momentary distortion that shouldn't be happening. A reminder that I missed a detail.
I clench my jaw, irritation threading through the satisfaction I was feeling moments ago. I should have scheduled maintenance before Volk arrived. Should have had my tech team sweep every camera, every relay station, every backup power source on that island. Instead, I was too focused on perfecting Scarletta's experience, too consumed with the details of her stations to attend to the mundane necessities of Volk's disposal.
Sloppy.
The Station Three security room surrounds me—a climate-controlled concrete bunker built directly into the hillside, connected to the aftercare suite through a reinforced steel door that Scarletta will never see. Every station on Story Island has an identical setup. Sixteen monitors arranged in a four-by-four grid on each wall. Redundant power supplies. Satellite uplink for remote access. Biometric locks that respond only to my fingerprint and retinal scan.
A place to monitor absolutely everything.
A place designed for me to maintain absolute control.
I built this infrastructure over several years, pouring millions into systems that most governments couldn't afford. Because control isn't just about the scenes themselves. It's about knowing. Seeing. Understanding every variable before it becomes a problem.
The Chaff Island feed stabilizes, and I study the image with clinical detachment.
Volk lies face-down in the mud approximately six hundred meters from where he triggered the 'Honeypot' station. He hasn't moved in hours according to the subcutaneous tracking device pulsing data to my secondary monitor. His vitals tell the story his motionless body obscures—respiration shallow but present, heart rate elevated with periodic adrenaline spikes that suggest consciousness, core temperature dropping as the jungle floor leaches heat from his prone form.
The fire ant venom has done its work.
His cardiovascular system is failing, the accumulated toxins overwhelming whatever remained of his physical reserves. Death is most certainly less than an hour away, possibly sooner if his heart gives out before his lungs fill with fluid.
I feel nothing watching him die. No satisfaction, no triumph, no dark pleasure in his suffering. Just the quiet acknowledgment that another predator has been removed from circulation, another monster who will never touch another child.
The Scales balance.
But Volk's cleanup is going to ruin this evening.
The realization settles into my chest with an unpleasant weight. Protocol demands I retrieve the body, transport it to the cremation facility in the cave system, and dispose of every trace. The process requires a minimum of four hours when accounting for boat transit, body handling, and thorough site sanitation.
Four hours away from Scarletta tonight.
Four hours when I could be holding her against my chest in the spa, feeding her dinner on the terrace, watching her eyes grow heavy with exhaustion and contentment as the evening wind carries the scent of jasmine through the open windows.
I just want to enjoy her.
The thought surfaces with surprising intensity, almost petulant in its simplicity. I've spent six months planning this weekend, every detail calibrated for maximum impact, and now a dead trafficker is going to steal hours from my carefully constructed timeline.