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)
Like an offering.
Like a sacrifice on some kind of stone altar.
The blond one moves between my spread legs, and that's when I see it.
The tray.
Shaving cream. Razor. Oil. Towels.
Oh no.
"We're going to make you perfect for him," the blond says, his voice so gentle it makes my stomach clench. "Just relax and let us work."
I want to protest. Want to tell them—
The shaving cream is warm.
The blond one spreads it along my bikini line with his bare fingers, working it into my skin with slow, deliberate strokes. His thumb brushes my clit—accidental or intentional, I don't know—and I gasp.
"Easy," the tall one murmurs from behind my head. His hands are in my hair now, massaging my scalp, tilting my head back. "Just feel it. Don't fight."
The third attendant—the dark-haired one—moves to my breast. His soapy hand cups it, thumb circling my nipple until it's hard and aching.
I close my eyes.
Because I can't watch this. Can't process it. Can't reconcile what's happening with who I'm supposed to be.
Good girls don't get wet when strangers shave their pussy.
Good girls don't arch into the touch when fingers pinch their nipples.
Good girls don't—
"He's watching you right now, beautiful."
My eyes snap open.
The tall one is looking down at me, his fingers still working through my wet hair. "Your masked man. He's watching. Put on a good show for him."
Oh god.
The razor glides along my bikini line. Smooth, efficient, careful. The blond one works with clinical precision, one hand spreading my skin taut while the other guides the blade.
I feel every stroke.
Every deliberate scrape of metal against my most vulnerable places.
"He told us you write stories like this," the tall one continues, his voice low and intimate. "Pretend you're her. Pretend you're Jasmine in Mine, All Mine."
My breath catches.
He's right.
I did write about this.
Not this exact contraption—god, nothing this elaborate—but the fantasy was the same. Jasmine in her master's bathing chamber. Black stone tub. Three male servants preparing her for inspection. Shaving her, oiling her, making her perfect while her master watched from behind a screen.
He's still doing it.
The masked man is still tailoring my experience using my own words. My own darkest fantasies.
Really, really intense experiences—but familiar. Things I've written about. Things I've already processed and survived on the page.
He's giving me a reference point.
And somehow... somehow that makes it less terrifying.
He sees me.
Not just my body. Not just my willingness to be here.
He sees the writer. The woman who processes life through fiction. Who needs narrative structure to make sense of chaos.
"Good girl," the blond one murmurs. "So good for us."
His hand spreads more shaving cream. Lower this time. Between my pussy lips.
I whimper.
Because he's touching me there. Deliberately. His fingers work the cream along my labia, making sure every inch is covered, and I can feel myself getting wetter, feel my clit throbbing, feel my pussy clenching on nothing.
"Enjoy it," the tall one whispers near my ear. "He wants you to enjoy this."
The razor glides along my outer lips. Slow. Careful. The blond one's other hand cups my ass, tilting my hips for better access.
The dark-haired one at my breast pinches my nipple hard.
I gasp.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let him hear you."
The masked man is watching right now—probably stroking his cock, probably getting off on how spread open I am, how helpless, how three strangers are touching me and I can't do anything but take it.
The razor moves lower.
Between my ass cheeks.
Oh god.
I try to stay still. Try to breathe. Try not to think about how exposed I am right now, how violated, how—
"Almost done," the blond one says. "You're doing so well."
He rinses me with warm water from a pitcher. The liquid cascades over my freshly shaved skin, washing away the last of the cream.
Then oil.
His hands spread it everywhere. Along my bikini line, between my pussy lips, over my ass. Massaging it in with firm, possessive strokes that make me shake.
The dark-haired one's hand slides from my breast to my stomach. Down. Down.
His fingers find my clit.
"Fuck," I whimper.
"Should she come?" the blond one asks, looking up at the tall one.
The tall one smiles. "I think she needs to."
No.
I can't.
If I come now, he'll—
The masked man will—
But the dark-haired one's fingers are circling my clit with expert precision. The blond one's hands are spreading my pussy lips, holding me open, exposing everything. The tall one is whispering in my ear about how wet I am, how good I look, how my masked man is watching me lose control.
I try to hold it.
Try to be strong.
Try to—
The dark-haired one slides two fingers inside me.
Deep.
Curling up to hit that spot that makes my vision white out.
I come.
Hard.
My pussy clenches around his fingers, my back arches against the stone tub, and I scream. Actually scream. The sound echoes off the pavilion ceiling, raw, and desperate, and proof of exactly what I am.