Chapter 12 #2
Then I withdraw. Slowly. The wet sound of it obscene in the quiet cabin. Her mouth opens, confused and bereft, her pussy clenching around nothing.
Before she can protest, I bring my fingers—glistening with her arousal—to her still-open mouth and press them against her bottom lip. "Suck them," I whisper, my voice dark and edged with command. "Taste yourself. Taste how much you want this."
Her lips close over my fingers without hesitation, her tongue pressing up against the pads, licking them clean.
She sucks—really sucks—hollowing her cheeks as saliva pools in her mouth, mixing with her own slick, and the sight of it—of her, so obedient, so eager—sends a bolt of heat straight to my cock.
I pull my fingers free from her mouth with a slick, wet sound that makes her whimper—needy and desperate. A thin strand of saliva connects my fingertips to her bottom lip before it breaks, glistening in the dim light.
"Good girl," I murmur, my voice rough with approval and raw desire, and I watch her eyes flutter closed, her breath hitching as the praise sinks deep into her psyche. She needs this—needs to be told she's doing well, needs to be acknowledged, validated, claimed. "Such a good fucking slut."
My hand moves to her hair, fingers threading through the tangled, disheveled strands with deliberate tenderness. I stroke slowly, petting her like she's something precious I've just taken possession of.
My fingers are still wet—slick with her arousal and her saliva—and I spread it through her hair without shame, marking her with the evidence of her own desperate need.
The strands stick together, damp and messy, and the sight of it—of her looking so thoroughly debauched, so beautifully ruined—sends another surge of possessive heat through my chest.
She leans into my touch like a cat seeking affection, a soft, broken sound escaping her throat. Her body is pliant now, boneless and utterly surrendered when I place the palm of my hand across her throat. I can feel the last vestiges of her resistance melting away under my touch.
I squeeze—she doesn't panic. And this just makes me harder.
Instead, she sucks in a deep, deep breath and then slowly, deliberately, she lets it out.
The exhale is shaky, unsteady, like she's releasing more than just air.
Like she's releasing the last fragile thread of resistance she's been clinging to.
I already know what she's going to say. I can see it in the way her body has softened against mine, in the way her thighs are still parted, in the way her lips are still wet from sucking my fingers clean. She's going to stay. She was always going to stay.
But I need to hear it.
The cameras need to hear it.
I need her consent—clear, explicit, unambiguous—captured in perfect audio. Not just for the legality of it, though that matters. But because I need her to know, later, when doubt creeps in, that she chose this. That she said yes. That she wanted me.
I shift slightly, easing my grip on her throat just enough that she can speak freely. My other hand rests possessively on her hip, keeping her anchored to me. I lean in close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, my voice low and dark and utterly serious.
"Time to answer my question, ScarletSins." I let the name roll off my tongue like a secret, like a weapon. "Will you give in to me? Keep your end of the agreement so I can keep mine?" I pause, letting the weight of the choice settle over her. "Or would you like me to send you home?"
She hesitates.
But it's not real hesitation—not the kind that matters.
It's a moment for her to construct the narrative she'll tell herself later.
That she doesn't have a choice. That she needs the money too desperately.
That this isn't really her decision, that circumstances forced her hand, that she's a victim of her own desperation.
She's going to say yes anyway, but she needs to believe the lie first. Needs to wrap herself in the fiction that this is happening to her rather than because she wants it.
It's all lies.
Self-deception at its finest.
But I don't care.
She can lie to herself all she wants—weave whatever pretty story helps her sleep at night, construct whatever justification makes her feel less culpable for the darkness she craves.
As long as she never lies to me. As long as when I ask her a direct question, I get the truth.
The rest? The mental gymnastics she performs to reconcile her desires with her self-image? That's her business.
"OK," she finally whispers, the word barely audible.
"OK?" The word comes out sharp, dangerous. I reach back and fist her hair again, harder this time, yanking her head back at an angle that exposes the full column of her throat. The movement is brutal, sudden, designed to shock.
"OK, what, you little fucking whore?" I don't soften my growl.
Don't add the velvet coating that makes dominance palatable.
Don't pretend that I'm something I'm not—something safe, something civilized, something that won't actually hurt her.
"Is that how you talk to your fucking master?
You know the fucking rules, slut. You wrote them, remember? "
For a moment—a beautiful, crystalline moment—she's terrified.
Genuinely afraid. Her whole body goes rigid against me, her breathing stops, and I can feel the rabbit-quick flutter of her pulse against my palm.
She's unable to reconcile the switch in my demeanor, the sudden shift from the man who praised her for coming to the man who's calling her a whore with real venom in his voice.
But then, over the course of several long seconds, I watch understanding bloom across her features.
We're playing now.
It's time.
The scene has begun.
I'm in character—the Master she wrote about in her stories, the dominant who doesn't ask, or negotiate, or soften his commands.
She should be in character too.
Not Scarletta, the girl who can't pay rent and hides behind hoodies and bites her nails until they bleed.
Not the nervous woman who flinched when I stripped her, who trembled when I cuffed her wrists.
No.
Right now, in this moment, she needs to be the submissive she created in her stories—the one who knows her place, who understands the rules of surrender, who doesn't say "OK" to her Master like they're negotiating the terms of a fucking fast food order.
She needs to be mine completely.
That's the role she's playing now.
And if she doesn't understand that yet, I'll teach her.
But she does.
She did write the rules.
"Yes, Master," she says, bowing her head in a gesture of submission that looks almost instinctive. "I'm here to serve you. Please tell me what to do."
Perfect.
"Come with me." I grab her arm just above the elbow—not gently, not with care for her comfort—and start pulling her across the hardwood floor. She stumbles immediately, her bare feet sliding on the polished surface, her balance thrown by the blindfold and the cuffs.
She nearly trips, her body lurching forward.
I don't stop the fall so much as drag her out of it, using my grip on her arm to keep her upright through sheer forward momentum.
She recovers with a small, helpless whimper, her feet scurrying now to keep pace, hands still cuffed behind her back, eyes still blind—as I lead her toward the wide, curved stairwell that descends to my playroom.
When we reach the stairs, I stop. She's breathing hard, her chest heaving, a fine sheen of sweat already visible on her skin despite the cold air.
I lean down and scoop her up without warning, cradling her in my arms like a child.
The position pulls sharply on her shoulders, forcing her arms at an unnatural angle behind her back, pressing against the cuffs holding her wrists captive.
It's painful. I know it's painful. I can feel the way her muscles tense, the way her breath catches. That's precisely why I did it.
She whines—a small, animal sound of distress—and I feel the wet warmth of fresh tears soaking into the blindfold. But then we're downstairs, the temperature dropping noticeably as we descend into the basement level, and I'm striding quickly across the concrete floor toward the bondage table.
I set her down on the surface without ceremony. She gasps at the crinkle of white paper beneath her, the clinical sound at odds with everything else about this moment.
"Lean forward," I command.
She obeys, shifting her weight, and I reach for the key I left waiting on the small stainless steel tray beside the table.
The metallic clink of the key sliding into the lock echoes in the quiet room, followed by the distinct snick of the mechanism releasing.
I remove the cuffs efficiently, setting them aside, and watch as she brings her arms forward with a shuddering exhale of relief.
She's processing—I can see it in the subtle shift of her expression, in the way her mouth opens slightly as if to speak.
The sound of medical instruments against stainless steel is doing something to her, triggering associations she's not ready to examine.
But the relief from having her shoulders released dominates everything else.
As it should. She doesn't have time yet to understand where this is going.
"Lie back now," I say, my hand pressing against the small of her back to guide her down.
She complies, lowering herself onto the crinkling paper. I'm already moving to the end of the table before she's fully settled, my hands reaching for her knees, pulling her bent legs down toward the stirrups, then spreading them open.
She gasps, her whole body tensing. "What—what are we doing?"
I don't answer. Don't waste words on explanations she doesn't need. Instead, I cup the heel of her left foot in my palm and guide it firmly into the waiting stirrup, the cold metal a stark contrast against her warm skin.
"Oh, god," she moans, the sound half terror, half arousal.
I allow myself a small smile as I guide her right foot into the other stirrup, spreading her legs wide, exposing her completely.
Because she knows exactly what we're doing.
She's written this scene six times, in six different stories.
The vulnerable position, the clinical setting, the loss of control.
She knows, and the knowledge is already making her wet.
Now she just has to live it.