Chapter 15
Scarletta
There's something fundamentally, irreversibly wrong with me.
I don't even try to fight—not a single token protest, not even the pretense of resistance—when he presses his large, strong hands into my hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, and lifts me up onto the exam table as though I weigh nothing at all.
The white sanitary paper crinkles loudly under my ass and the backs of my thighs, the sound obscenely innocent in this room designed for depravity, but there's no time to think about that trivial detail, because master is already pushing me backwards with inexorable force, his hand flat against the small of my back, supposedly guiding me down onto the padded leather surface.
It's a stupid gesture that means absolutely nothing, a mockery of tenderness, because he's not being gentle.
He's a monster in a mask.
Then, just when I think I've experienced the depths of degradation, the humiliation starts all over again, fresh and cutting.
He straightens my legs with clinical efficiency, running his palms down the length of them from hip to ankle, then deliberately pries my knees apart, spreading them wide.
His movements are unhurried, methodical.
He gently cups each heel in turn—such a careful, almost reverent touch that makes this somehow worse—and places them precisely in the waiting stirrups, positioning me exactly as he wants me.
I close my eyes. Tight. Squeezing them shut hard enough that colors burst behind my eyelids.
"Look at me, little slut. Eyes up." His voice cuts through my attempt at mental escape.
I open them, surrendering even this small rebellion. I'm so fucking tired of fighting, exhausted down to my bones. If he wants to spread my pussy open with a speculum and examine me like I'm a specimen, maybe I should just let him and get it over with.
The bitter truth I'm learning is that the more I fight, the more he clearly likes it, the longer this entire ordeal will take.
Compliance might be my only path to mercy.
"You're going to watch in the mirror," he says. It's a command, simple and absolute.
So I do exactly what I'm told. I watch, because I have no choice, as he straps my ankles to the stirrups with practiced efficiency.
First one ankle, leather tightening with a soft creak, then the other, the symmetry of my captivity somehow making it worse.
Then he moves with predatory grace up towards my head, his fingers circle my wrist—warm, firm, inescapable—bringing my arm clear above my head in a smooth arc, securing my wrist inside a heavy cuff that must be bolted directly to the wall or the table's frame, because it doesn't shift even a fraction when I instinctively test it.
He does the same for the other one, completing my bondage with the same unhurried certainty.
And there it is, reflected back at me in merciless detail.
Me.
Spread eagle. Utterly helpless. Completely exposed.
Every vulnerable inch of me on display.
"What happens next?" Master asks, his voice cutting through the haze of my panic like a blade.
I blink up at him, my brain struggling to process the question. "What?"
"In your story, Scarletta." He shifts his weight, and I feel rather than see him studying me with that unnerving intensity. "Not the one you already wrote. The one you're writing right now. In your head. What happens next?"
My mind stutters, trying to catch up. He wants me to... write a story? A new story? Right now? Something just for him?
Well. This, at least, is something I'm good at. Even strapped down and terrified, my writer's brain can still function. "She—"
"Scarletta." His correction is sharp, immediate. "'She' is you. Call her by her name."
What a psycho. But I swallow hard and try again. "Scarletta is..." I breathe, my voice shakier than I want it to be. "She's strapped to an exam table and—"
"Be very careful what you say next." And do I catch the hint of a smirk playing at the edges of that mask?
I think I do. The faintest curve of cruel amusement.
"Because all stories come true tonight. Everything you say, I'll make happen.
So if I were you, Scarletta... I'd dig deep into that filthy, brilliant brain of yours and come up with something you might never have the courage to ask for again. "
I scoff. I mean, his self-confidence is almost obscene.
But he's not wrong. He's giving me permission—no, he's demanding that I confess what I want. What I've written a thousand times but never dared to experience. But my mind is scattered, thoughts fragmenting like dropped glass. "I... I can't think straight."
"Sure you can, little slut." His hand comes down to my brow, and the gentleness of the touch is almost worse than any cruelty. His fingers smooth some stray hair away from my eyes with surprising tenderness, the contrast making my breath catch. "You want to be fucked by me today, don't you?"
The question hangs in the air between us. Direct. Undeniable.
I exhale slowly, a shaky surrender of breath. Just admit it, Scar. Just say it. "Yes."
He smiles. This time, for sure, I know he smiles—I can see the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, visible even through the mask. "Good girl. Now... how do you want me to start?"
I bite my lip, thinking, my mind racing through a thousand possibilities. Then I force myself to look him directly in the eyes, gathering what little courage I have left. "Let me see it first."
He actually laughs—a genuine sound of surprised pleasure that makes something flip in my stomach.
But without a moment's hesitation, he reaches down and pulls his cock out of his pants, fisting it confidently in his hand.
He moves closer, bringing it near enough that I could touch it if my hands weren't bound, close enough that I can see every detail.
"It's nice, don't you think?" he asks, his voice dropping to something darker, rougher.
I stare at the absolute monster of a thing in his hand, my eyes widening despite myself.
My fucking god. He's massive. Thick and long and already hard, the head flushed dark with arousal.
The kind of cock I've written about but never actually encountered in real life.
The kind that makes me simultaneously terrified and desperately, shamefully curious.
"Where should I put it first?" he whispers, and the question alone makes my breath catch in my throat.
Before I can formulate an answer—before I can even process what he's asking—he moves forward. "Here?"
The thick, hot length of him touches my lips, and I gasp at the contact. My mouth opens instinctively, automatically, like my body is responding to commands my brain hasn't even registered yet. But he doesn't push inside, doesn't take advantage of my parted lips.
Instead, he traces them slowly with just the tip.
Deliberate. Teasing. I can feel how slick he is, pre-cum smearing across my bottom lip in a wet trail that makes me shudder.
The sensation is filthy, and intimate, and overwhelming.
And when a drop slides off my lip and trails down over the curve of my chin, I make a small, helpless sound in the back of my throat.
"Here?" he asks again, and this time his cock drags across my skin as he moves it downward.
The heat of him brands a path down my throat, over my collarbone, until he's touching the stiff peak of my nipple with the same teasing, circular motion.
The contrast between the soft, velvety head and my sensitive flesh makes me arch against the restraints, trying to get more contact even as I know I shouldn't.
"Or here?" His voice has dropped even lower now, rough with arousal as he walks around to position himself between my spread knees.
I watch in the mirror, feeling everything at the same time.
The brush of his thighs against the inside of my legs.
The way he dips down, bringing his cock to my clit and circling it with the same maddening, barely-there pressure he used on my lips.
The sensation rips a whimper from my throat. I'm so wet already that he glides easily against me, the thick head of him pressing and retreating, pressing and retreating, until I'm trembling and biting the inside of my cheek so hard, I taste copper.
"There are a few more ways to play this one out, if you're adventurous enough," he continues conversationally, like he isn't driving me absolutely insane with need.
Like he can't hear the desperate little sounds I'm making or feel how my hips are trying to tilt toward him despite the restraints holding me in place.
"Would you like me to go on? Should I show you all your options before you decide? Or have you already made up your mind about where you want this cock first, my sweet little slut?"
I force myself to speak, my voice coming out small and broken. "What... what are my other options?"
His answering smile is pure wickedness, visible in the slight tilt of his head, the way his eyes gleam behind that fucking mask.
"I'm so glad you asked." His voice is low, rough with arousal. "Because I have so many ideas for this perfect little body of yours."
I watch in the mirror as he takes his cock in hand, stroking it slowly while he studies me. Then he moves lower, and oh god, oh fuck, I feel the thick head of him press against my asshole.
Just the tip. Just enough pressure to make me gasp and tense against the restraints.
"I could fuck this tight little hole instead," he says conversationally, like he's discussing the weather.
"Stretch you open slowly. Make you feel every single inch as I work my way inside.
You've written about it, haven't you? How it hurts at first, that burning stretch that makes you cry?
But then how it starts to feel good in that dark, shameful way you crave? "
He pushes slightly harder, just enough that I feel my body start to give way, and I make a desperate sound that's half whimper, half plea.