Chapter 13
Scarletta
The humiliation begins immediately, flooding through me in waves that make my skin prickle with shame.
Just the fact that I've written this scene—that I've sat in my blanket fort and carefully crafted every degrading detail—is enough to make my mind spiral into another pit of self-loathing.
My fingers had flown across the keyboard as I typed it out, my pulse quickening with each word, my thighs pressing together involuntarily as the scene took shape in my imagination.
What kind of sick fuck sexualizes a gynecological examination? What kind of person takes something clinical and sterile and transforms it into something twisted and arousing?
You, Scarletta. You, that's who. You're the one who thought of this. You're disgusting, you're broken, you're—
"I'm going to take your blindfold off now."
Of course he is. That's exactly how this scene goes, every single time I've written variations of it.
The girl—me, I'm the girl, OK? It's me! Let's stop pretending it's some fictional character—she's always ashamed of what's happening to her body, of her reactions, of the way she's restrained and exposed.
So the Master makes her watch. Forces her to witness her own degradation, to see exactly what he's doing to her, because watching makes it worse. Makes it more real. Makes the humiliation complete.
He's right up next to me now, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body as he presses his torso against my arm.
His fingers slip behind my head with practiced efficiency—and I lift up automatically, tilting my chin to give him better access, to help…
to help? What is wrong with me? Why am I cooperating with my own humiliation?
Why does some broken part of my brain think I should make this easier for him?
But there's no time to answer that question, no time to psychoanalyze my fucked-up responses, because he pulls the blindfold away and suddenly I'm hit directly in the eyes with a stark, bright examination light.
I blink rapidly, my eyes watering from the sudden assault of brightness after the darkness. Once, twice, three times, trying to adjust to the glare. Then, finally, my vision clears enough to find his face, to look up at the man who's been touching me, who's seen every intimate part of me.
He's wearing a suit—like a tux. But he doesn't have a face. Not one I can see, anyway. Because he's wearing a black ski mask that covers everything except his eyes and mouth.
And that mouth is smiling. A slow, deliberate curve of lips that somehow manages to be both welcoming and predatory at the same time. "Hello."
"Uhh…" The sound escapes before I can stop it, barely even qualifying as a word. Just a pathetic stuttering noise that makes me sound like I've forgotten how human speech works. I stutter. Literally stutter. Over a simple greeting. Over the word 'hello'.
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me?
"I've got your chart here, Scarletta," he says, and his voice is so perfectly professional, so clinically cool and detached, like we're actually in a real examination room and he's actually a real doctor about to discuss my actual medical history.
Not… whatever the fuck this is. "I've taken a good long look at it.
Read through every detail very carefully. "
"Oh… uh… yes, Master." The title feels strange on my tongue, formal and subservient and absolutely surreal given the circumstances, given that I still can't see his actual face, given that I'm on my back on a gynecological exam table with my legs spread wide and everything on display.
"What do you think it says?" He asks the question like it's perfectly reasonable, like he's genuinely curious about my opinion, like we're having a normal conversation and not… this.
I want to sigh here. Desperately. Want to let out a long, loud, exasperated breath that conveys exactly how ridiculous this question is.
What do I think it says? I know exactly what it says. Every single word, every fabricated detail, every carefully constructed piece of fictional medical history.
I wrote the fucking chart.
Like, literally sat down at my computer and made a chart from scratch.
Photoshopped the whole thing with a template I found online, formatted it to look official and clinical, and filled it in with every minute detail about insert-your-favorite-FMC-here-written-by-ScarletSins-who-is-really-just-Scarletta-Mae-Desmond.
He taps a blue Bic pen on the folder's edge—a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes the cheap plastic click against the manila paper.
Oh, shit.
The Bic pen.
The goddamn Bic pen.
The fucking Bic fucking pen.
Of all the objects in this room—the leather restraints, the metal stirrups, the clinical instruments arranged with surgical precision on the tray beside me—it's that worthless piece of disposable plastic that makes my breath catch.
That makes heat flood my face and chest and lower, spreading through my exposed body like wildfire.
My master chuckles, a low sound that vibrates through the charged air between us.
He looks at the pen in his hand, then slowly, deliberately, shifts his gaze to my face.
Studies me with pale grey-blue eyes that I still can't fully see in the dim lighting but can feel dissecting every involuntary response.
"I see this excites you," he observes, his voice carrying that note of dark amusement that suggests he knows exactly why my breathing just changed, exactly what's running through my mind right now, exactly which scene from which story that cheap blue pen is calling back to.
"It's familiar, isn't it?" he asks, his voice deceptively casual.
He turns the pen between his fingers—slow, methodical rotations—studying it like it's some fascinating artifact he's never encountered before.
Like he hasn't read that scene a dozen times.
Like he doesn't know exactly what this particular implement means, what it represents, what I wrote about it in excruciating, humiliating detail.
My throat feels like I've swallowed sand. I swallow hard anyway, trying to work moisture back into my mouth. Then I nod—a jerky, graceless movement that makes the restraints creak.
Then I remember. The rules. His rules. MY rules. No gestures without words.
"Yes, Master," I manage, the words scraping past my lips.
A pause. He's waiting. I can feel the weight of his expectation pressing down on me, patient and inexorable as gravity.
"Refresh my memory," he says finally, and there's a thread of steel beneath the silk of his tone.
This is it. This is where I die. Not from anything he does to my body, but from pure, crystallized mortification. My own words, weaponized against me.
"Scarletta?" My name cuts through the haze of panic.
"Yes, Master." Automatic now. Pavlovian.
"Recite the scene to me." He pauses, lets that command settle into my bones. Then adds, almost conversationally, "It's... one of your best."
Forty-four thousand dollars, Scarletta. The number blazes across my consciousness like a neon sign.
Forty-four fucking K. You sold this. You wrote this scene, you put it out into the world for strangers to read and touch themselves to, and now you're going to say it out loud to the man holding that pen.
I draw in a shaking breath.
It's your scene. Your words. Just... fucking say them.
I close my eyes. Open them. The examination light burns into my retinas.
"It's from 'The Appointment,'" I whisper.
"Louder."
"It's from 'The Appointment.'" My voice cracks. "The story where—where the protagonist goes to see her gynecologist and she has this whole elaborate fantasy about him while she's in the stirrups and—"
"I didn't ask for a summary." His tone is patient. Relentless. "I asked you to recite the scene."
Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh Jesus Christ and every saint who's ever existed.
My face is on fire. My entire body is burning with shame so intense it feels physical, like my skin might actually combust from the sheer mortification of what he's asking me to do.
The thing is—the thing is—that scene wasn't even supposed to be hot. It was supposed to be funny. Absurd. A satirical commentary on the way we sexualize completely inappropriate situations, the way our minds wander during mundane medical procedures, the disconnect between reality and fantasy.
Except apparently I'm shit at funny. Or maybe everyone else is shit at recognizing my brand of humor, because when I posted that story, when 'The Appointment' went live on DarkDesires, the comments section exploded.
People loved it. Called it revolutionary.
Said it was the hottest thing they'd ever read.
That scene—the pen scene specifically—became legendary.
Made ScarletSins a name people actually knew on the forum.
And now I have to recite it. Out loud. To the masked man standing between my spread legs holding the exact object I wrote about.
"I'm waiting, Scarletta."
My throat works. Words stick like broken glass.
"She's—" I start, then stop. Clear my throat. "The protagonist, her name is Sindy—"
Sindy, Scarletta, SINdy? As in ScarletSins? My god…
"Scarletta?"
"She's… she's lying on the exam table just like—just like this. Legs in stirrups. Paper gown. And Dr. Bennett walks in with a clipboard and he's younger than she expected, maybe thirty, with dark hair and these really intense eyes that make her feel exposed even before he touches her."
"Keep going."
I swallow hard. The words are burned into my memory—I've read that scene so many times, editing it, posting it, refreshing the page to watch comments roll in.
"He tells her he needs to do a routine examination and she says okay even though her heart is pounding.
He sits on the rolling stool and positions himself between her legs and she's trying to think about anything else—grocery lists, work deadlines, anything—but then he touches her inner thigh to adjust her position and her mind just… goes."