Chapter 8
Scarletta
The cross holds me in place like I'm a specimen pinned for examination.
I can't move my arms or legs. The restraint across my waist keeps me from arching away from the steel, and the collar around my throat forces my head into a position where I have to stare straight ahead into the jungle instead of looking down at my own exposed body.
I'm waiting.
I don't know for what, exactly. Or for whom.
I'm hoping it's him. The unmasked man who kissed me on the plank. The handsome man who called my writing exceptional and made me feel like maybe I'm not just broken garbage pretending to be functional.
But I've learned not to assume anything since the auction.
Whoever he is, the point of all this is to force me to admit that I'm not the one in control here—he is. That everything happening to me is his design. That I'm not a participant in this experience—I'm the subject of it.
The voices around me continue their commentary.
I think the hands that strapped me to this cross belong to the attendants from earlier., but I couldn't get a good enough look at them when they emerged from the trees to make that determination with certainty. They were masked. Dressed in black tuxedos instead of white linen.
The voices are definitely different, though.
And they're amplified, like they're coming from everywhere, all at once.
Ever since they put me on the cross, the've been making comments.
Not about me. Not clinical observations delivered in neutral tones.
They're saying things designed to arouse me.
To provoke me. To stimulate responses I can't control.
One of them describes how he's going to fuck my throat until I choke when he's given permission.
Another one details exactly how he'll spread my ass and work his tongue inside me while I writhe against the cross, helpless to stop him.
The third voice—lower, rougher—tells me he's going to fist my pussy until I squirt all over his hand and then make me lick myself off his fingers.
My pussy clenches.
God. I'm so wet I can feel it running down my inner thighs.
But I'm not so far gone—not so consumed by arousal—that my critical thinking skills have completely shut down.
This is another test.
The masked man is diabolically cunning. I understand that now. Every challenge has layers. Every instruction contains traps I don't recognize until I've already fallen into them.
He set me up to fail at the bathing pavilion. Let the attendants touch me knowing I'd come without permission, knowing he could punish me for it later.
This feels similar.
These voices describing filthy acts they want to perform on my restrained body—they're trying to provoke me. To arouse me. So that when the unmasked man comes, I will fall apart immediately.
It doesn't matter who these three men are. What matters is that they're watching me. That they can see how swollen my pussy is. How hard my nipples have gone. How my body trembles against the restraints not from fear but from desperate, aching need.
I like the fact that they're watching.
I like knowing they want me.
I like hearing them describe exactly what they'd do if given permission.
And, if the unmasked man gave them permission… I would like them to do that stuff to me.
The minutes tick by.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
The voices continue their commentary, growing filthier with each passing moment. Describing double penetration. Describing how they'd use my holes in rotation. Describing how they'd make me service all three of them at once until I'm nothing but a wet, used mess.
My clit throbs.
My body betrays me.
The arch of my spine lifts my breasts higher, pulls the collar tighter against my windpipe until each breath requires effort.
My ankles strain inward against the magnetic cuffs, muscles burning with the useless need to close my thighs and create friction.
My wrists twist in their restraints, skin rubbing raw as I reach instinctively for my own pussy—knowing I can't touch, knowing it's pointless, unable to stop trying.
The ache between my legs has become unbearable.
I want them to touch me.
To fuck me. To do the things they're describing.
I'm pathetic.
I know I'm pathetic.
But I can't stop wanting it.
Movement in the jungle behind me makes me startle.
My heart slams against my ribs.
Is it him? Is the unmasked man finally here?
I can't turn my head to look. The collar holds me facing forward. I can only listen to the footsteps approaching through the undergrowth, growing louder as whoever it is gets closer.
The voices around me go silent.
Footsteps stop directly behind the cross.
Behind me.
I hold my breath.
Large, rough hands slide over my hips from behind, gripping my flesh with enough pressure that I feel claimed. Owned. The calluses on his palms scrape against my skin as he runs his hands up my sides, over my ribcage, then cups my breasts from behind and squeezes hard enough to make me gasp.
His body presses against my back.
I feel the heat of him through the thin layer of air between us.
His cock—thick and hard—presses against my hip through what feels like fabric. He's not naked like I am.
One hand leaves my breast and slides down my stomach. Lower. His fingers find my pussy and push inside me without hesitation. Two fingers. Maybe three. I can't tell. I'm so wet he encounters no resistance.
"Good girl," he murmurs against my ear. "You waited."
His voice.
It's him.
Relief floods through me so intensely my knees would buckle if the restraints weren't holding me upright.
My unmasked man
He's here.
His fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes my vision blur. His thumb finds my clit and begins circling it with exactly the right pressure. Not too hard. Not too soft.
Perfect.
Like he's memorized my body's responses.
Like he knows exactly how to make me fall apart.
"Please," I whisper.
"Please what?"
His fingers still. His thumb stops moving.
I make a desperate sound that's half sob, half moan.
"Please let me come. Please. I've been good. I did everything you told me to do. I crossed the plank. I took the zip line. I let them strap me here. I waited. Please."
The unmasked man steps around the cross and positions himself directly in front of me.
His face fills my vision. Those stunning eyes—dark, and deep, and focused with an intensity that makes my stomach flip—lock onto mine like I'm the only thing in the world worth looking at.
His jaw is sharp, covered in a shadow of stubble that I want to feel scraping against my inner thighs.
His lips are full, slightly parted, and as I watch them, they slowly curve into a smile that sends heat pooling between my legs.
God, he's beautiful.
I want to reach up and touch him. I want to trace the line of his cheekbone, run my fingers through his hair, pull his mouth down to mine.
But I can't.
The restraints hold me in place, spread open and helpless, unable to do anything but stare back at him while my body screams for contact.
"Are you dying for my cock, my pretty little slut?"
His voice is low and rough and it slides through me like warm honey.
I start nodding before I can think, the metal collar biting into my throat with the movement. The pressure makes me gasp, but I don't stop.
"Yes, Master. Yes, Master, please. Let me have it. Give it to me."
His smile widens.
He doesn't give it to me.
Instead, he reaches out and traces one finger down the center of my chest, between my breasts, over my stomach, stopping just above my pussy.
His touch is featherlight. Barely there.
Enough to make every nerve ending in my body light up with desperate need but nowhere near enough to satisfy anything.
"Tell me how much you want it."
"So much," I breathe. "So much, Master. I've been thinking about it since the platform. Since you kissed me on the plank. I can't stop thinking about how you felt pressed against me, how hard you were, how badly I wanted you inside me right then."
"What would you do for it?"
"Anything." The word comes out without hesitation. "Anything you want. Whatever you tell me to do. I'll be good. I'll be so good for you."
His finger traces lazy circles on my lower stomach. Each pass brings him closer to where I need him, but he never quite arrives.
"You were good on the zip line," he says. "I watched you. Watched you conquer your fear. Watched you trust me enough to jump."
"I trusted you."
"I know." He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "I also watched you get wet listening to those voices describe what they wanted to do to you. Watched your pretty little pussy drip while they talked about fucking your throat and fisting your cunt."
My face burns.
"Did you like that?" His tongue traces the shell of my ear. "Did you like knowing they were watching you? Wanting you?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"Louder."
"Yes, Master. I liked it."
"You liked strange men looking at your naked body."
"Yes."
"You liked hearing them describe how they'd use you."
"Yes, Master."
"Would you let them?" His hand cups my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple. "If I gave permission? If I told you to spread your legs and let all three of them take turns?"
My pussy clenches hard enough that I feel it pulse.
"If you—if you wanted me to," I manage. "If it would please you."
"Such a good answer." He pinches my nipple, rolling it between his fingers until I cry out. "Such a perfect, obedient little slut."
He steps back.
I make a sound of protest that I'm immediately ashamed of—a desperate, needy whine that belongs to someone with no pride left.
But he just watches me with that knowing smile as his hands move to the buttons of his shirt.
He undoes them slowly. Deliberately. Making me watch each one reveal more of the chest beneath. The fabric parts to show tanned skin, defined muscle, and then—
Tattoos.
God, the tattoos.