Chapter 13
Scarletta
The cost of being thoroughly fucked twice by two dominant men in the same day is a pussy so sore, I can still feel their phantom cocks inside me the next morning—which came after zero minutes of sleep.
And… I'm there again.
First with Ryan fucking me on that table set up between tripods that were definitely meant to film porn. Ankles strapped in to stirrups as he pounded me. The look on his face was… what?
Definitely pleasure.
But there was something more there.
Something almost boyish in the way he was discovering me.
Then Caleb. Psycho stalker sitting in the shadows like a freak.
How long was he waiting in my apartment? I have no idea. There's no security system in this place. I might need one though. If I want to keep him away.
Do… I want to keep him away?
Caleb is way more complicated than Ryan. Gym owner using clients to make porn? It's dark and nasty, but hundreds of levels above the sickness of being aroused by killing someone.
The look on Caleb's face that day in the maze as he tortured that man. It was pure, raw lust radiating from him. His cock was rock-hard the entire time.
I was too confused and terrified to fully process shit. My mind was scrambling, desperately trying to make sense of what the hell was happening.
Everything felt surreal.
But I saw his hard cock swinging between his legs like a fucking sausage. Was like… zeroed in on it.
And the way he came on the bloody body—I'll never forget that.
That final image will be burned into my brain forever.
That's not even the sickest thing, either.
I close my eyes, shaking my head as I try not to think about this. I don't want to think about this…
But… I was aroused too.
Oh, god.
There, I said it. I admitted it. The sight of Caleb killing that man after he hurt me. How hard he was. How hard he came. How his come spurted out like a fucking eruption.
I came too.
It's so sick. So fucking sick. My fingers were between my legs as I watched and… I didn't even realize it.
I did exactly what Caleb did.
I am just like him.
I am sick.
Even now, lying here in these rumpled sheets at four in the morning, staring at the ceiling in the dark with absolutely zero sleep and my mind running this endless, spiraling speedrun through every horrific detail—I'm wet.
My pussy is throbbing.
Just like it always is when I remember.
Until now, though, I've been pushing away the truth.
That's why I didn't masturbate until this past week.
I couldn't get past the idea that I'm a sick fuck just like Caleb.
That's why he needs to go away.
It's not because I don't like him.
It's because I like him too much.
Ryan is… maybe not normal. But I'm not looking for normal. I'm looking for… well, his kind of freak flag is something I can deal with. Something I can get on board with.
Strapping me into gyno contraptions? Yes. Yes. I'm here for it. It's actually a common thread in my recent sex history.
Practically vanilla at this point.
I might even let him film me. With a mask on. Maybe. The thought sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through me—imagining strangers watching, their eyes glued to the screen, their hands working themselves into a frenzy over me. Over what I'm doing. What I'm letting Ryan do to me.
It's twisted and exhibitionistic and exactly the kind of thing that should make me feel ashamed, but instead I'm just…
turned on. Picturing some faceless person on the other side of a computer screen, jerking off to footage of me strapped into that contraption, spread open and vulnerable and wanting it.
Using what they see as fuel for their own fantasies, their own future encounters. Planning out scenarios with their partners based on what they watched me experience with Ryan.
The idea shouldn't be hot.
But it is.
This is my justification—my permission, my excuse, whatever I need to call it to make it okay—when my hand slowly lowers, fingertips trailing down my stomach, hesitating at my hip bone before sliding further.
Ryan. The cameras. The knowledge that someone might be watching this exact moment, cataloging it for later use.
That's what I tell myself this is about.
I picture it. Ryan's hands on my ankles, lifting them, positioning them exactly where he wants them. The cold metal stirrups against my calves as he locks them in. That click. The finality of it.
I'm already touching myself, fingers sliding through the wetness that's been building all night.
In my mind, I'm spread wide on that table. Exposed. The cameras positioned at deliberate angles—one overhead, one between my legs, one capturing my face. Ryan stepping back to check the framing. Adjusting the ring lights so there's no shadow obscuring anything important.
He'd make me wait. Test me. Let me lie there with my pussy on display while he fucks around with settings and equipment, taking his time, letting the anticipation build until I'm squirming against the restraints.
My fingers circle my clit, pressure building as I imagine him finally approaching. Standing between my spread thighs. The bulge in his joggers right there, eye level if I could lift my head.
"You ready to be famous, button?"
I whimper into my empty apartment, hips lifting off the mattress.
The fantasy Ryan doesn't ask permission. He just pulls his cock out—thick and heavy—and drags the head through my folds. Teasing. Making me beg for it while the cameras record everything.
"Please," I whisper to no one, fingers working faster. "Please fuck me."
Fantasy Ryan grips my hips and slams inside in one brutal thrust. No warning. No gentleness. Just claiming what's his while the cameras capture every second.
He fucks me hard on that table, using the stirrups as leverage to drive deeper. Each thrust punches the air from my lungs. The restraints dig into my ankles. I'm completely helpless, completely his, and everyone watching will know it.
"That's it, button. Show them what a dirty little slut you are."
My fingers move frantically now, circling my clit while I imagine him pounding into me. The wet sounds. The slap of skin. His grunts mixing with my moans. All of it recorded. Permanent. Evidence of exactly how much I need this.
"Come for the camera," fantasy Ryan commands. "Let them see."
And I do. I come so fucking hard my back arches off the mattress, thighs trembling, a scream tearing from my throat that echoes through my empty apartment. Wave after wave crashes through me while I work myself through it, imagining those cameras capturing every spasm, every desperate sound.
When I finally collapse back onto the bed, panting and limp, I'm staring at the ceiling again.
My pussy is still throbbing.
Why am I such a freak?
It could be worse, inner monologue reasons. You could be coming to the image of Caleb killing someone…
I throw the sheet off me and get out of bed. I'm not thinking about him.
Caleb is over.
I want Ryan.
I need Ryan.
Ryan, with his cute porn obsession. Ryan with his tame camera set up. Ryan with his button nick name.
I mean, little button?
Or good little slut?
The choice is obvious.
I note the time as I get in the shower. I've got forty-five minutes before I have to meet Ryan at the Gym.
I'm going to let him film me.
Maybe I won't even ask for a mask.
The gym is open when I get there. People come early. People who work real jobs and have real daytime schedules. But it's only about a half a dozen.
Ryan's fishbowl office upstairs is dark. Which is weird. We've been meeting here at five AM for training for nearly two weeks now and that office has never been dark when I came in.
Maybe he's already in the back setting up?
I walk down the hallway to the big double doors that lead into the empty space where the cameras are, pull on the handle and… it's locked.
I knock. "Ryan? Are you in there?"
Nothing.
I put my ear against the cold metal. Knock again. "Ryan?"
Silence.
OK. Well. He's not here yet.
I check my phone. It's only five oh three.
So I go back out to the gym, casually saying hi to people who wave and smile at me. I'm a regular here. I fit in.
I like that.
I get on one of the treadmills and put my ear buds in. I'll warm up while I wait.
Twenty minutes later I realize… he's not coming.
Twenty-one minutes later, I understand why.
Caleb.
He came to me last night so that when I got here and found Ryan missing, I'd know.
He's jealous.
And when a man who literally gets off on murder gets jealous, how else does this end?
He's going to kill him.
That sick fuck is going to kill Ryan just because I chose him.
I'm shaking as I leave the gym and walk home. When I get there, I search around in my purse for the card. The business card Caleb gave me weeks ago after he paid that Marty guy to talk dirty to me on our date.
You know where to find me…
Yes, Caleb, I do know where to find you.
In a log mansion outside of Jackson Hole.
I grab my keys and walk out, slamming the door behind me.
He's not gonna get away with this.
He doesn't get to decide my future.
And if he's laid a single finger on Ryan—if he's done anything to him, anything at all, if he's hurt him, or threatened him, or made him disappear—I swear to God, I'll kill him myself.
I'll find a way.
I don't care how big he is, how strong, how prepared.
I don't care about his security, or his money, or his power.
I'll make him pay for this.
The moment this thought appears, I'm wet again. Pussy throbbing. I'm seeing Caleb's swinging dick again. The way he came on that man in the maze. The way I came watching.
"No," I growl, clicking my key fob to unlock my Jeep door.
I do not get off on murder.
That's his kink, not mine.
Not mine, not mine, not mine…
I chant this inside my head as I pull out of the parking garage and head east…