Chapter 16 #2
The thought lands before I can stop it. Childish. Stupid.
But I'm six years old again. Standing in my pajamas in the kitchen doorway, staring at the plate Daddy and I put out the night before with a glass of milk.
"See, Lettie-bug?" Daddy's voice, warm and conspiratorial. "Look!" He holds up the cookie with a bite taken out. Points to the glass of milk, half empty. "Told you he'd come."
I believed him. God, I believed him so hard.
My chest tightens.
I'm crying.
Why the fuck am I crying?
I press my palms against my eyes. Force myself to breathe. He's been dead for fourteen years, Scarletta. Fourteen fucking years. Get a goddamned grip!
I need to get over this. I need to—
Stop.
I drop my hands. Wipe my face with the back of my wrist.
There's a present next to the plate.
Small. Wrapped in matte black paper with a silver ribbon.
Ring-sized.
My stomach flips.
No. No way.
I pick it up with shaking hands.
My mind is spinning. The masked man. The sex. The blackouts. The syringe. He drugged me and now there's a fucking present on my counter and I don't know if I'm supposed to be terrified or—
I yank the ribbon off. The box opens with a soft creak. Not a ring.
An SD card. Black. Tiny.
And a folded piece of paper underneath it.
I unfold the note with numb fingers.
Three words in dark handwriting:
You earned it.
The SD card slides into my laptop with a quiet click.
I'm kneeling inside the tent. Fairy lights glowing above me. My hands won't stop shaking.
The folder opens automatically.
Twenty-seven video files.
I double-click the first one.
The footage starts. My apartment. Two days ago. I'm sitting on the floor. Wearing Daddy's hoodie. Hair in a messy bun. Writing. The timestamp says December 23rd, 4:47 PM.
The angle is from above. Hidden camera. He was watching me before the auction invitation even came.
I should close the laptop. I should throw the SD card in the trash and call the police and—
I keep watching.
The footage jumps forward. Time-lapse. Me reading the eviction notice. Me staring at the auction invitation.
He recorded all of it.
I click through all the videos. The limo, the preparation suite. The attendants washing me. Their hands on my body.
I'm holding my breath.
The auction. Me standing naked on the stage while men bid on me.
The cabin. The exam table. His hands. His mouth. His cock. Me coming so hard I blacked out.
I should stop.
But I don't.
The footage continues.
I click the fourteenth file.
The timestamp says December 24th, 11:32 PM. Six hours after I blacked out the first time. The basement dungeon—if dungeons have floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a perfect winter woods. Different angle. Wide shot capturing the entire space.
I'm bent over a padded bench. Wrists cuffed to the legs. Ankles spread and locked to a bar.
He's behind me. Naked except for the mask. His hard cock hovering and bouncing in the air as his hand comes down hard across my ass.
CRACK.
The sound makes me flinch even through the laptop speakers.
My body on screen arches. My mouth opens. But I don't scream.
I moan.
He spanks me again. And again. Rhythmic. Precise. My ass turning pink, then red.
Now that I'm watching this, I can feel those handprints.
He pauses. Runs his hand over the heated skin. Then reaches between my legs.
I watch myself grind back against his fingers.
No. No, I wouldn't—
But I am.
I'm watching myself do it.
He pulls his hand away. Brings it down again. Harder this time.
I come.
Right there. Just from the spanking. My whole body shaking against the bench, thighs trembling.
I fast forward… I'm on my back now. On that same exam table. But my legs aren't in stirrups. They're pulled up over my head. Ankles cuffed together above me. Completely exposed.
He's fucking me. Hard. One hand gripping my thigh, the other working a vibrator against my clit.
I'm screaming.
Not in pain.
In pleasure.
My voice is wrecked. Desperate. Begging. "Please please please don't stop don't stop—"
He doesn't stop.
I black out on camera. My body goes limp.
He pulls out. Sets the vibrator aside. Releases each restraint, calm, methodical. Then he lifts me and carries me over to the couch. His sits, me in his lap, and kisses my head, smoothing hair out of my eyes, whispering things I can't hear. But I know he's talking to me, I can see his lips moving.
Thirty seconds later on the timestamp, I wake up. I watch myself blink. Look around. Find his face. And then I reach for him.
I reach for him.
I scramble up, put myself in his lap. Kiss him. Grind against the erection still wet from being inside me.
The video ends, I put in the next one. I'm tied to a St. Andrew's cross. Arms and legs spread wide. He's using a flogger on my breasts. Soft strikes that make my nipples hard. Then he's on his knees. Mouth between my legs. Eating me out while I writhe against the restraints.
I come again. Blackout.
And again. Blackout.
And again. Blackout.
I stop counting after five.
Next video. I'm riding him. Bouncing on his cock like I'm possessed. His hands on my hips, guiding me, but I'm the one setting the pace.
Frantic. Desperate.
I look happy.
My face in the video is flushed. Eyes closed. Mouth open. Lost in it.
I don't look scared.
I look free.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I fast forward. I'm on my stomach. Face down on the bondage table. Ass in the air. He's fucking me from behind while working a dildo into my ass at the same time.
I watch myself come so hard I scream into the padding.
Black out.
Wake up.
He's holding me. Whispering something I can't hear.
I nuzzle into his chest.
Stop it. Stop doing that.
Next video… he's using a wand vibrator on me while I'm strapped to a chair. My thighs are shaking so hard the whole chair rattles.
I'm begging him to stop.
But my hips are tilting up. Chasing the sensation.
He makes me come three times in a row without moving the vibrator away.
I black out.
Fast forward. I'm on top again. This time facing away from him. Reverse cowgirl. His hands are on my hips but I'm doing all the work. Riding him like my life depends on it. My hand between my legs. Rubbing my clit.
I come.
He comes.
I collapse forward onto his legs, panting.
Blackout.
The video jumps ahead.
Spanking bench again. But this time he's using a paddle. The heavy kind. Leather.
My ass is already red from before.
He brings it down.
I count the strikes in the video.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Forty.
I'm crying by the end. But when he stops and runs his fingers through my dripping pussy, I push back against his hand.
Begging for more.
He fucks me right there. Still bent over the bench. Hands gripping my bruised ass.
I scream when I come.
Another blackout.
I've lost count of how many times I came. How many times I blacked out. How many times he was there, holding me, or petting me, or kissing me when I came back.
The second-to-last file.
My hand hovers over the trackpad.
I don't want to see this.
But I click it anyway.
The timestamp says December 25th, 6:47 AM.
Back on the couch.
The mask is still on and I'm fucking him slow in his lap. Like… slow slow. Like not fucking, but lovemaking.
He's pulling my hair, my neck stretches back, his other hand goes to my throat—ah ha!
There!
He choked me!
But… he doesn't choke me. I put my hand on his, asking him to choke me. He refuses. Instead he plays with my clit until I black out again.
He comes too, groaning and grinding against me. Then he leans back, absently playing with my hair, breathing hard…
My eyes fly open. Panic. Running. Outside. Snow. Syringe.
Then—he carries me inside. Not rough. Gentle.
He lays me on a couch. Wraps a blanket around me.
The camera angle changes. Different room. My apartment.
He's here. In my apartment. Carrying my unconscious body through the door and in to the bathroom. He undresses me.
I watch him peel off the clothes I was wearing—which aren't even mine. I went to his house naked. So these are his clothes.
I crawl out of the fort, walk into the bathroom, and sure enough—the clothes are on the floor. Black sweats and a black t-shirt with a Harvard logo on it, all faded and cracked.
This is real.
This really happened.
I go back into the fort and find the masked man lowering me into my own bathtub. I'm not unconscious, but clearly out of it as he washes my hair.
His hands work shampoo through the strands. Rinses it clean. Conditioner next. He's gentle. So fucking gentle.
He washes my face with a cloth. My neck. My shoulders.
When he lifts me out and dries me off, he's still careful. Holding me up as I wobble in place. Patting the towel against my skin with a gentle firmness.
Then he carries me back to the bed and lays me down. My bed, my clean bed inside my clean apartment.
He had it cleaned while I was at his house. He had it decorated with a tree and all the ornaments I lusted over for months. He put out a plate of cookies and milk. Had a child's glamping tent delivered so I could have a nice fort to live in while I write.
Who the fuck is this masked man?
He disappears off-screen.
When he comes back, he's holding clean clothes. My leggings. My sweatshirt.
Dressing me.
Pulling the leggings up my legs. Sliding the sweatshirt over my head. Positioning my arms through the sleeves.
He tucks me in. Pulls the blanket up to my chin. Smooths my hair back from my forehead. Then he leans down. Kisses the top of my head. His lips linger there for a moment. He says something. I can't hear it. The audio is muted or too quiet or—
I rewind. Turn the volume all the way up. Still can't hear it.
He straightens. Walks to the kitchen. The camera follows him. He picks up the cookie from the plate. Takes a bite. Sets it back down.
Then he leaves.
The footage ends.
I'm staring at the black screen.
My face is wet.
I don't know when I started crying again.
The last file is not sex. I knew that since I just watched the masked man tuck me in. But I wasn't expecting it to be him. Still wearing the mask, but looking very happy underneath it. He's smiling I can tell.
The timestamp says December 25th, 9:23 AM. So just a few hours ago.
"Hi, Scarletta." His voice is soft. Not the commanding tone from the basement fuck fest. Just... him. "I'm guessing you've watched the other files by now. I'm guessing you're freaking out about the blackouts."
Yes.
"I need you to understand something. What happened to you—it's called subspace psychosis." He pauses. Holds up a hand. "Not actual psychosis. That's just what subs call it. It's not dangerous. It's not a medical emergency."
I lean closer to the screen.
"It's a condition where subs who are deep bonded to their dominants enter a particular kind of subspace that affects memory formation.
The blackouts weren't breathing problems. They weren't from blood pressure drops.
It was your mind resetting because of the intensity of the orgasms combined with your neurological response to submission. "
No.
"I know you don't believe me." He shifts forward. "Look up Dr. Alicia Friedman's research on altered states in BDSM relationships. Published 2019 in the Journal of Sexual Medicine. Look up the Kinsey Institute's study on subspace amnesia from 2021. It's real, Scarletta. It's documented."
He's lying. He has to be lying.
But I'm already opening a new tab. Typing the first citation. The article loads. Real. Peer-reviewed. Published in an actual medical journal.
Fuck.
I go back to the video.
He's quiet for a moment. Then he takes a breath. "But that's not why I'm recording this." Something in his tone shifts. Colder. "Clearly, you're having doubts about me. About this. About what happened."
Yes.
"And that's okay. You should. You barely know me. I drugged you to keep you calm after you woke up the last time. I've been stalking you for six months. I killed your ex-boyfriend. Your auction was fake, all the auctions are fake. It's a service I provide to men like me around the world."
Men like him?
I drugged you.
I killed your ex boyfriend.
I'm stalking you.
He says all this so calmly. Like he's listing groceries instead of felonies.
"So I'm going to leave you alone."
What?
"I'm going to give you space. Time. Whatever you need. The money's in your account—you can check. You don't owe me anything, Scarletta. The contract's fulfilled. You earned every penny."
I pause the video. Because I don't know what I'm feeling right now. What the fuck am I feeling right now?
Did I have a good time?
Well. I'm alive. That's something. He didn't kill me. He could have. He killed Derek. Cut off his fingers. Mutilated him. Burned the body.
But he didn't kill me.
He fucked me unconscious, drugged me, and then he tucked me in.
I liked it.
I liked it.
I shouldn't have liked it. Normal girls don't like that. Normal girls don't get off on being bought, and used, and drugged, and discarded.
"There are cameras in your apartment, Scarletta."
I blow out a breath, completely overwhelmed.
"I left a document on your lap top called my_eyes.docx. It's saved to your desktop. It shows where they all are and how to turn them off via the app I use to spy on you."
This is so fucked up.
"There's another doc called her_thoughts.docx on the desktop," he says.
"It's got the log in details for the keystroke recording hack I used to spy on your writing.
I've left instructions on how to turn it off.
" He smiles at me. Or… the camera, whatever.
"It was fun. I'm glad you got what you needed.
Thank you for giving me what I needed back.
As I said, the money's in your account. I hope you have an amazing life. "
Then… he reaches forward and stops the recording.
And that's it, I guess.
It's over.