Chapter 10 #2
My cock throbs. I press my palm against it through the fabric, applying pressure, controlling the urge to stroke.
Not yet.
Soon.
The helicopter descends toward the illuminated pad. Lands. Rotors still spinning.
The pilot exits first. His movements are crisp, efficient—he's done this before. He circles around to the rear passenger door. Opens it. Reaches inside with one gloved hand extended.
And there she is.
Scarletta.
The external cameras feed to monitors behind me but I stay at the window, watching with my own eyes as she's guided across the heated concrete path toward the cabin's front entrance.
She's naked.
Barefoot.
Blindfolded.
Hands cuffed behind her back.
Tears stream down her face, catching the light from refracted sunbeams.
She's crying.
Not sobbing. Not hysterical. Just silent tears rolling down her cheeks while she walks barefoot across concrete she can't see, being delivered to a man she hasn't met.
My chest tightens with desire and possession.
She's mine now.
I turn to the monitors as the pilot guides her to the front door. Positions her precisely where I instructed—facing the camera mounted above the entrance.
Staring directly at the lens.
She can't see it through the blindfold but I can see her.
Trying so fucking hard to be brave.
Trying and failing.
The pilot steps back. Nods once toward the camera. Acknowledges me watching.
I make her wait.
The helicopter noise fades.
I make her wait.
She's alone.
Naked, bound, blindfolded, standing on my doorstep.
I make her wait.
I cross the room. Down the hallway. My bare feet silent on hardwood floors.
Reach the front door.
She's three feet away on the other side. I can see her on the monitor mounted beside the doorframe—another angle, closer than the external camera.
Her chest rising and falling too fast. Hyperventilating.
Lips moving. Whispering something to herself.
I unmute the audio.
"—okay it's okay you're okay this is what you wanted this is—"
Lying to herself.
Trying to believe this is just an intense scene. Just a fantasy come true. Just a rich man who paid a lot of money for a willing participant.
She has no idea what I've done.
What I'm going to do.
I turn the handle.
Open the door.
Cold air rushes in. She gasps, flinches backward, nearly loses her balance without her hands to catch herself.
I catch her instead.
Grip her upper arms. Steady her.
She freezes.
"Please," she whispers.
I don't answer.
Pull her forward. Over the threshold. Into my cabin.
Kick the door shut behind her.
The lock engages with a heavy click that makes her jerk in my grip.
"Please I—I don't—"
I spin her around. Press her back against the closed door.
She's shorter than I expected. Top of her head barely reaches my collarbone.
Fragile.
Breakable.
Mine.
I lean close. Put my mouth beside her ear.
"Welcome home, Scarletta."
Her breathing is ragged. Fast, shallow gasps that make her chest heave against the door. She's trying to control it and failing.
I love that she's failing.
I stand behind her, close enough that my chest brushes her bare back with each breath she takes. She flinches at the contact but has nowhere to go—door behind her, me in front, hands cuffed and useless.
Trapped.
She knows it.
I reach up slowly, deliberately, and touch her cheek with two fingers. Gentle. Almost tender.
She freezes.
The contradiction destroys her. I can feel it in the way her body locks up, confusion warring with fear. Rough treatment she could categorize. Fight or flight. Simple equations.
But this softness wrapped around absolute control… she has no framework for it.
I trace the line of her jaw with my fingertips, feeling the tension thrumming beneath her skin. Her pulse hammers visibly in her throat—fast, frantic, beautiful.
"Please," she whispers again.
I don't answer.
Instead, I lean in closer, bringing my mouth to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. I press my lips there. Not a bite. Not rough. Just a kiss.
She shudders.
Her body betrays her immediately—nipples hardening, goosebumps spreading across her arms, thighs pressing together reflexively.
Arousal coded as terror.
Or terror coded as arousal.
With her, there's no difference.
I move my mouth to her ear, close enough that my breath ghosts across her skin when I speak.
"'I am kneeling,'" I whisper, quoting her own words back to her. "'Thighs spread exactly shoulder-width apart. Spine straight. Shoulders back. Hands palm-up on my thighs where he can see I'm not hiding anything.'"
She goes rigid.
Recognizes the passage instantly.
I Am Your Perfect Slave. Chapter fourteen. Raven reciting her Dom's rules after months of training. The chapter where she finally stops fighting and surrenders completely.
Her favorite scene in her favorite story.
I hacked her laptop, read her notes folder. Found the document titled "favorite scenes to reread when I need—" and she'd never finished the sentence.
But I knew what she meant.
When I need to touch myself.
I continue, my voice low and steady against her ear. "'Chin level. Eyes down unless he commands otherwise. I don't speak unless spoken to. I don't move unless given permission. I don't come unless he allows it.'"
Scarletta's breathing stutters. Stops entirely for three seconds.
Then resumes, faster than before.
"'I am his to use. His to display. His to discipline. His to reward. I exist for his pleasure and mine only matters when he decides it matters.'"
Her legs tremble. I can feel it through the contact between us.
"'I was weak before. I fought him. Questioned him. Made him prove himself over and over because I was too afraid to believe he could handle all of me.'"
A tiny sound escapes her throat. Almost a whimper.
Almost.
"'But I'm not afraid anymore. I don't need to test him. I don't need to push. I know what I am now. What I've always been.'"
I pause. Let the silence stretch. Let her remember the final line.
Then I deliver it.
"'I am his perfect slave.'"
She breaks.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just a sharp inhale followed by a shaky exhale that sounds suspiciously wet.
She's crying again.
I lift my hand from her jaw and cup her face, my palm catching the tears sliding down her cheek beneath the blindfold. My thumb strokes across her skin—once, twice—wiping away the evidence of her reaction.
"You already know how to be perfect for me," I murmur, shifting my other hand down to palm her breast. Heavy. Soft. Nipple hard against my touch. "Don't you, Scarletta?"
She doesn't answer.
Can't answer.
I squeeze gently, rolling her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Not rough. Just enough pressure to make her gasp.
"You practiced for months. Writing out every rule. Every position. Every response."
I release her breast and trail my hand down her stomach. She sucks in air, muscles contracting beneath my touch. I slowly turn her around, push her ever so slightly into the door until her cheek is pressed flat.
"You taught yourself how to kneel. How to wait. How to surrender."
My hand moves lower. Over her hip. Down to where her hands are cuffed behind her back.
I find her wrists. Grip them. Pull them forward—not hard, just insistent—until her bound hands are pressed against the front of my boxer briefs.
Against my cock.
Thick. Hard. Straining against the fabric.
She makes a choked sound and tries to pull away.
I hold her hands in place.
"Feel that?" I ask, my voice dropping lower. "That's what you do to me. Your words. Your stories. Your perfect, filthy mind."
Her fingers twitch against me. Uncertain. Trembling.
I rock my hips forward slightly, grinding my erection into her restrained palms.
"You wrote all the rules, Scarletta," I tell her, my mouth still against her ear. "You already know exactly how to be my perfect slave."
Her breathing fractures. Ragged. Desperate.
"I didn't—" she starts, voice breaking. "I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did."
I press harder, forcing her hands flat against my cock. She can feel every inch of it now. The length. The heat. The evidence of how badly I want her.
"You meant every word. Every scene. Every fantasy you wrote at three in the morning when you couldn't sleep because you were too wet to think straight."
A sob catches in her throat.
"You wrote it because you needed to see it. Needed to know what it would feel like to be completely owned by someone who understands you."
I release one of her wrists and bring my hand back up to her breast, kneading roughly this time. She arches involuntarily into the touch.
"Someone who's read everything you've ever written. Every confession. Every shameful desire you thought you could hide behind a screen name."
Her cuffed hands are still pressed against my cock. I can feel her pulse through her wrists—racing, frantic.
"You wanted someone who'd take control so you didn't have to make choices. Who'd force you to admit what you need so you didn't have to volunteer it."
I pinch her nipple hard.
She cries out.
"You wanted someone who'd make you his perfect slave."
I release her completely and step back.
She sways without my support, catching herself against the door with her shoulder, pressing her forehead against the wood.
I move close again, my front to her back. My cock fits perfectly against the curve of her ass. I let her feel it. Let her understand exactly how hard I am.
How much I want this.
How much I want her.
"You wrote a scene in Chapter Nine of Chained to the Master's Bed," I say conversationally, as if we're discussing the weather. "Where Gabriel makes Isla recite all the ways she wants to be used while he edges her for an hour."
Scarletta whimpers.
"Do you remember that scene?"
Silence.
I reach around and grip her throat. Not choking. Just holding. Fingers pressed against her pulse points.
"I asked you a question."
"Yes," she gasps. "Yes, I remember."
"Good."
I release her throat and trail my hand down between her breasts, over her stomach, stopping just above her pussy.
"In that scene, Isla had to tell Gabriel every filthy thing she fantasized about. Every degrading act she craved. And if she lied—if she held anything back—he'd start over from the beginning. Setting the timer for another hour. Setting her up to succeed."
My fingers dip lower. Brush against her clit.
She jerks like I've electrocuted her.
"By the end," I continue, circling her clit with light, teasing pressure, "she was begging him to let her confess. Begging to tell him her darkest secrets because keeping them inside was worse than the shame of saying them out loud."
Scarletta's hips tilt forward, seeking more pressure.
I pull my hand away.
"That's what I'm going to do to you," I tell her. "I'm going to make you confess every fantasy you've ever had. Every story you've written. Every scene that made you wet when you typed it."
I press my cock harder against her ass.
"And you're going to tell me the truth. Because you already know the rules. You wrote them."
She's shaking so hard I can feel it through the contact between us.
Perfect.
Scared.
Aroused.
Confused.
Exactly where I need her.
I step back again, putting space between us.
"Stay there," I order. "Don't move."
I cross the room to the leather chair positioned ten feet from the door. Sit. Spread my legs. Rest my hands on the armrests.
Watch her.
Blindfolded, cuffed, naked, pressed against my front door like she's afraid her legs will give out if she steps away.
She doesn't know I'm watching.
Can't see me.
But she can feel my eyes on her.
I let the silence stretch. Twenty seconds. Thirty.
Her breathing slows slightly. Not calm—just exhausted from the adrenaline crash.
"What's your safeword, Scarletta?" I ask.
She flinches at the sound of my voice coming from a different location.
"I—" She swallows. "Red."
That came right out of her stories. It's always red. "And if you can't speak?"
"Three taps."
"Good. Those are the only two things that will make me stop. Use them if you need to."
I pause.
"But you won't."
She makes a small, desperate sound.
"You won't use your safeword because you've been fantasizing about this for years. You don't want gentle. You want real."
I lean forward slightly in the chair.
"You want someone who'll push you past every limit you thought you had. Who'll make you cry, and beg, and break. Who'll fuck the shame right out of you until you can't remember why you were ever embarrassed."
Her knees buckle. She catches herself, head against the door.
"And then," I continue, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "you want someone who'll hold you afterward. Who'll tell you that you're perfect exactly as you are. That your darkness doesn't make you broken—it makes you mine."
A sob tears out of her.
Raw. Uncontrolled.
There it is.
The truth she's been hiding from herself.
I stand. Cross the room. Stop directly behind her.
"You wrote yourself a roadmap, Scarletta," I murmur against her ear. "Every story. Every scene. Every filthy confession your characters made to their Doms so they could be shaped into something perfect."
I grip her hips.
"Now you're going to live it."
She's crying openly now. Silent tears streaming down her face, soaking the blindfold.
I turn her around to face me. Cup her face in both hands.
"But I need you to understand something very important."
I lean close. So close my lips brush hers when I speak.
"You are already perfect."