Chapter 11
Scarletta
You are already perfect.
His words sting me for some reason. It's… I can't explain the feeling.
It's almost invasive, this seeing me.
Almost mean.
I'm already perfect?
I'm not perfect. Not even close. I don't shower. I don't work. I sleep in blanket forts—
"You will confess every thought you just had out loud. Now."
His command is so absolute, I whimper.
Fuck!
Fuck!
I know better! I mean, he's right I wrote the dam rules, over and over again, story after story, the same fucking rules—and this was always rule number one!
You will never hide your thoughts from me!
"Now, Scarletta. And if you lie, I'll know. Do you know what your punishment will be?"
I want to say no, but it's not true. I know. Because again, I'm the one who wrote this fucking scene! "You'll stop touching me."
"I'll stop touching you." His voice is quiet. Matter-of-fact. Like he's explaining the weather. His fingertip—just one finger—trails down my front. Right over the peak of my nipple. It pauses there…
Oh god.
He squeezes it. Gentle at first. Then he twists.
I gasp—no, I fucking choke on air—and my pussy clenches so hard I nearly come. Right there. Just from that. My thighs go slick and I can feel it, the wetness spreading, humiliating, impossible to hide.
That's how hard my body reacts to his expert touch.
Expert.
Jesus Christ, Scarletta. Expert? What are you, writing purple prose in your head while a stranger twists your nipple?
But it's true. He knows exactly how much pressure. Exactly when to release. Exactly how to make my body betray every single shred of dignity I'm clinging to.
"Is this what you want, Scarletta?"
His voice is closer now. Right against my ear. His breath is warm and I can smell whiskey and something sharper—mint maybe—and underneath that, something male, and clean, and fuck, I shouldn't be cataloging his scent like some kind of—
"To fake your way through this amazing experience?"
Amazing.
He called this amazing.
I'm naked. Blindfolded. Handcuffed. Standing in a stranger's house after being sold at an auction I didn't know was fake. My nipple is still throbbing where he twisted it, and my clit is screaming, and I haven't been touched—really touched—in two years and he thinks I'm going to fake this?
"Because if so, get the fuck out."
My stomach drops.
No.
"I'm not interested in anything other than reality."
Reality.
Reality is I signed a contract for forty-four thousand dollars that I desperately need.
Reality is I filled out a questionnaire admitting every sick fantasy I've ever had and this man—whoever he is—read every word of those sick fantasies and is now holding me accountable for desires I can barely admit to myself.
Reality is I want this.
God, I want this so much it hurts.
But he's asking me to say it out loud. To confess what I just thought. To strip away the last protective layer between who I pretend to be and who I actually am.
"I—"
My voice cracks.
Pathetic.
Start again.
"I don't want to fake it."
The words come out small. Ashamed. Exactly like I sound in real life when I'm trying to tell someone what I need and failing spectacularly because I'm fundamentally broken at human interaction.
His finger moves. Trails down from my nipple to my ribs. My stomach. He's going lower and my breath hitches because I know where he's going, and I'm so wet it's obscene, and he's going to feel it and know exactly how desperate I am.
"Then don't."
Two words. That's it.
Don't fake it.
Like it's that simple. Like I haven't spent my entire adult life pretending to be normal, pretending I don't think about captivity, and surrender, and being owned by someone who sees through all my bullshit.
His hand stops just above my mound. Resting there. Not touching anything important. Just there. A threat and a promise.
"Confess what you thought when I called you perfect."
No.
Please no.
I can't—
"Now, Scarletta."
My name in his mouth. The command in his voice. The weight of his palm against my lower belly, so close to where I'm throbbing and aching and—
"I thought—" I swallow. "I thought you were wrong."
Silence.
His hand doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. Just waits.
I'm supposed to keep going. He wants more. He wants the full thought, the complete confession, every ugly detail of my internal monologue.
"I thought I'm not perfect. I'm—I don't shower enough. I don't work. I live in blanket forts. I—"
Oh god, this is humiliating.
"I write erotica instead of paying rent. I'm two years behind on laundry. I eat cereal for dinner and sometimes I don't eat at all because I forget when I'm writing and—"
I'm spiraling. I can hear it. The self-flagellation, the litany of failures, the desperate need to prove to him that he's wrong about me so he can leave before I get attached.
Before I ruin this like I ruin everything.
"And?" His voice is still calm. Patient. "What else did you think?"
What else?
I thought—
Fuck.
"I thought it felt invasive. The way you see me. It felt... almost mean."
The confession hangs in the air between us.
Almost mean.
Jesus, Scarletta. You just told a dominant stranger who bought you at auction that his seeing you feels mean. Great strategy. Really excellent communication skills. This is definitely how you keep someone interested.
His hand moves.
Lower.
I stop breathing.
His fingers slide through my folds—no warning, no teasing—and I cry out. Actually cry out like some kind of—
"You're dripping."
Two words. Factual. Devastating.
I am. I know I am. I can feel it running down my thighs and it's shameful and obvious and—
"Your body doesn't think I'm mean, Scarletta. Your body knows exactly what it wants."
His fingers circle my clit. Once. Twice. Light pressure. Barely anything.
I whimper.
Actual whimpering. Like a dog.
Editorial note: You sound pathetic. You are pathetic.
"But your mind—" His fingers press harder. "Your mind wants to protect you. It wants to convince you that being seen is dangerous. That wanting this makes you broken."
How does he—
"Doesn't it?"
His question cuts through everything. All my defenses. All my careful pretending.
"Yes." The word is barely a whisper.
"Louder."
"Yes!" It comes out desperate. Broken. "Yes, I think wanting this makes me broken. I think—I think there's something wrong with me. I think normal people don't fantasize about being owned and controlled and—and watched without consent and—"
His fingers keep moving, so I stop. feeling it. Wanting it. Enjoying it.
"And you think if I really see you—all of you—I'll realize you're damaged goods."
It's not a question.
He's quoting me. My own words from the questionnaire. The section about shame.
Damaged goods.
That's what Derek called me. When I used my safeword. When he ignored it and kept going anyway and then told me I was bad at this, that I didn't know what I really wanted.
"Your ex was wrong."
My breath catches.
He knows about Derek?
"You're not damaged. You're not broken. You're exactly what I want. But you need to stop lying to yourself about what you are."
His fingers slide inside me. Two of them. Deep.
I gasp and my hips buck forward and it's too much and not enough and—
"What are you, Scarletta?"
I don't know. I don't know what answer he wants.
"I—"
"Say it. The thing you're most afraid of. The truth you hide behind your stories."
No.
Please.
"I'm a—" My voice breaks. "I'm a submissive. I'm—I want to be owned. I want someone to see all the dark parts and want me anyway and—"
His fingers curl inside me. Finding that spot. The one that makes my vision white out.
"And?"
"And I'm terrified!" The words explode out of me. "I'm terrified you'll see everything and leave anyway because I'm too much, and not enough, and I ruin everything I touch and—"
He pulls his fingers out.
The loss is devastating.
I actually sob.
"Good girl."
I don't even know how to respond to that.
Good girl? I mean, I understand why he's saying it and what it's supposed to convey—I'm his plaything, his little sub, his, his, his to command and control.
To collar, to bind, to choke, to fuck, to eat, to display.
It's simultaneously degrading and affectionate, but—
I let out a breath. A sob comes with it. Because he's no longer in front of me. Where did he go?
I listen. Silent.
Silence.
"Hello?"
"Do you have a question for me?"
"What?" He's across the room again.
"Don't you want to ask how I know about Derek?"
My brain stutters over the name. How does this stranger know about Derek?
"Um... OK. How do you—"
"Because I killed him, Scarletta. I killed him."
The words don't land right.
I mean, I hear them. The syllables make sense individually. I. Killed. Him. Three words. Subject, verb, object. Basic sentence structure.
But my brain... buffers.
Like a video that won't load. Like my laptop when I have too many tabs open and everything freezes.
Did this man just say he killed my ex-boyfriend?
That's not—
That can't be—
"Don't you want to know how I killed him, Scarletta?"
His voice is closer now. When did he move?
"Don't you wanna know how Derek died? It's a pretty fun story…"
Fun.
He said fun.
I'm standing here naked, blindfolded, handcuffed, my pussy still throbbing from where his fingers were inside me thirty seconds ago, and this man—this stranger who bought me at an auction—just told me he killed my ex-boyfriend and called it a fun story.
This is—
I need to—
"I don't—" My voice sounds wrong. Distant. Like it's coming from someone else's mouth. "You didn't—"
"He called you a selfish bitch when you used your safeword. Told you that you didn't know what you really wanted. That you were bad at this."
No no no no—
"He kept going. Even after you said red. Even after you were crying. He fucked you anyway because his pleasure mattered more than your consent."
Stop.
Please stop.
"And when he was done, he told you the problem was you. That normal women don't need safewords. That if you really loved him, you'd want to please him however he wanted."
I'm shaking.
Full-body tremors. My begin to chatter.
"How—" I can barely form words. "How do you know that? I never told anyone. I never—"
"I know everything about you, Scarletta. Everything you've written. Everything you've thought. Everything that's ever been done to you."
His hand touches my face. Gentle. Wrong.
I flinch.
"I cut off his fingers first. One by one. Starting with his right pinkie. He screamed a lot. Begged. Promised he'd do anything if I let him go."
I'm going to vomit.
I'm going to vomit or pass out or—
"Then I moved to more... sensitive areas. The parts of his body he used to violate your consent."
His thumb strokes my cheekbone. Tender. Horrifying.
"I wanted him to understand what it felt like. To say no and have someone ignore you. To beg for it to stop and have someone keep going anyway."
This is a nightmare.
This has to be a nightmare.
Wake up wake up wake up—
"And when I was done—when he'd suffered enough to balance the scales—I dismembered him. Burned the pieces. Scattered the ashes where no one will ever find them."
The room tilts.
I'm falling except I'm not moving and—
I sink. Down. Down. Until I'm kneeling on cold hardwood floor, still blindfolded, still handcuffed, still naked.
Still here.
With a man who just confessed to murder.
"You're insane." The words come out flat. Disconnected. "You're fucking insane and I need to—I need to leave. I need to—"
"Do you?"
His voice is right above me now. He's standing over me.
"Do you really want to leave, Scarletta? Or do you want to how I knew about him."
I don't want to know.
I don't want to know anything.
I want to go back to my apartment. Back to my blanket fort. Back to the moment before I clicked that link and entered this nightmare.
"I've been watching you for six months, Scarletta. Reading everything you write. Learning who you are. And when I found out what Derek did to you—"
His hand touches my hair. Strokes it.
"I couldn't let him keep breathing. Not when he'd touched something that belongs to me."
Belongs to me.
"I don't belong to you." My voice shakes. "You don't even know me."
"Don't I?"
The question is almost gentle.
"I know you eat Lucky Charms for dinner standing at your kitchen counter because sitting at a table alone makes you feel pathetic.
I know you wear your father's hoodie when you write because it makes you feel safe.
I know you haven't done laundry in two weeks and you've been rewearing your leggings because you can't seem to care about anything but your sex fantasies. "
Stop.
"I know you write your darkest fantasies at three AM when you can't sleep because the silence in your apartment gets too loud.
I know you touch yourself while you write but sometimes you deny yourself orgasms because somewhere in your broken brain, you think you don't deserve pleasure unless someone gives you permission. "
How—
"I know Derek fucked up your relationship with your own desire. Made you think wanting to submit made you damaged. Made you think your fantasies were proof of your brokenness."
His fingers tilt my chin up. Forcing me to face where I think he's standing even though I can't see.
"And I know that right now—even as terrified as you are—part of you is wet because I killed the man who hurt you. Part of you is aroused because someone finally saw what he did and decided he needed to pay for it."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?"
His thumb presses against my lower lip.
"Your body doesn't lie, Scarletta. Your pussy doesn't lie. You can tell yourself you're horrified. You can convince yourself this is wrong. But your body knows the truth."
I'm shaking harder now.
Uncontrollable convulsions.
"You write about this. Over and over. Men who kill for their women. Men who destroy anyone who threatens what's theirs. You write about it because you crave it. Because somewhere deep in your psyche, you want to be valuable enough that someone would burn the world down to protect you."
No.
That's fiction. That's fantasy. That's not—
"And now you have it. A man who killed for you. A man who'll do worse if anyone ever hurts you again."
His voice drops lower.
"So tell me, Scarletta. Do you really want to leave? Do you really want to go back to your empty apartment, and your blanket fort, and your stories about men who don't exist?"
Silence.
I can't speak.
Can't think.
Can't—
"Or do you want to stay here with the monster you've been writing about your entire adult life?"