Chapter 10 #3
"Eyes up," I say. "When you kneel for me, you look at me. Always. I want to see your face. Want to see your eyes. Want you to see me watching you in this position."
She lifts her head slowly and meets my gaze with effort.
The fury there is magnificent.
Mixed with humiliation that stains her cheeks red.
With hatred that burns bright and hot.
With arousal she doesn't want to acknowledge, doesn't want to feel, can't control.
"Good girl," I say, and this time I put my hand in her hair. Gentle. Possessive. Threading my fingers through the soft strands. "You're learning."
"I hate this."
"I know."
"I hate you."
"I know that too. But you're doing it anyway. Because deep down, some part of you understands that this is where you belong. On your knees. Looking up at me. Mine."
"You're delusional."
"Am I? Then why is your breathing faster? Why are your pupils dilated? Why is your body responding to this even while your mind is screaming that you shouldn't want it?"
She doesn't answer because she can't.
Because I'm right and we both know it.
Because her body is already betraying her, already responding to the position, to my hand in her hair, to the dynamic we're establishing.
"Stand," I say after a long moment.
She gets to her feet quickly, almost scrambling up.
Relieved to be released from that vulnerable position.
"We're going to practice that every day," I tell her, watching her process the information.
"Twice a day, minimum. Until you can drop to your knees gracefully, smoothly, like it's second nature.
Until you can hold the position without fidgeting or tension.
Until you can look at me with something that resembles devotion instead of hatred. "
"That will never happen."
"We'll see. You said you'd never agree to train with me. Yet here we are."
I move to the couch and sit down, spreading my legs in a relaxed posture. "Come here."
She approaches slowly, warily, but stops a few feet away.
"I said come here. That means—"
"Close enough to touch. I remember."
She closes the distance reluctantly.
Standing in front of me between my spread knees.
"Good. Now, the next thing you need to learn is how to present yourself. How to display your body for my pleasure. For the audience's observation. How to stand or pose in ways that showcase what I own."
"No."
"Yes. This is part of the showcase, Eden. You'll be on display. The Consortium members will want to see what I've acquired. What I own. What I've trained. So, you need to learn how to show yourself without shame, without flinching, without trying to hide."
"I can't—"
"You can. And you will." I reach for her, taking her hand. Pull her closer until she's standing directly between my knees, close enough that I could wrap my arms around her if I wanted. "Take off your sweater."
"Vaughn—"
"We've been through this before. Last night. This morning. Your body belongs to me now. I've seen it. Touched it. Made it come. Made it respond in ways you didn't know were possible. There's no reason to hide it now. Take off your sweater."
She reaches for the hem with shaking hands that betray her fear. Pulls it over her head in one jerky movement.
Reveals a simple white bra underneath.
Cotton, not lace.
Practical rather than seductive.
I'll have to change that.
Get her better things that make her feel beautiful, that showcase her body properly.
"Good. Now the jeans."
"Please don't make me—"
"Eden. Do you want me to do it for you? Because I will. But it will be easier, less invasive, if you do it yourself. Your choice."
She unfastens her jeans with fumbling fingers.
Pushes them down her hips with movements that are jerky and reluctant.
Steps out of them clumsily.
Standing there in just her underwear—white cotton bra and panties that match, modest and unrevealing—arms instinctively wrapping around herself again in that defensive posture.
"Arms down," I say firmly. "Don't hide from me. Don't cover what belongs to me."
She lowers her arms slowly, inch by painful inch. Forcing herself to be exposed to my gaze.
"Better. Now turn around. Slowly. Let me see all of you."
"Why?"
"Because I want to see you. Because you need to get comfortable being looked at, being studied, being evaluated.
Because at the showcase, there will be men watching you, studying you, assessing what I own.
And you need to be able to handle that scrutiny without falling apart, without breaking down. "
She turns in a slow, awkward circle.
Her movements stiff and graceless.
Hating every second of this exposure.
"Good. Now face me again."
She does, and I can see the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
Can see how much this costs her.
"You're beautiful," I say, and I mean it. "Every inch of you. Perfect. And you're going to learn to stand like this without shame. Without covering yourself. Without flinching when I look at you. When anyone looks at you."
"I don't want to."
"I know. But you're going to anyway. Because you agreed to train. Because you chose this path." I reach for her, pulling her closer by her hips. "Come here. Straddle my lap."
"What? No, I can't—"
"Eden. This is training. This is what you agreed to. This is preparing you for what comes next. Straddle my lap. Now."
She climbs onto my lap with clumsy, reluctant movements that lack any grace. Ends up straddling me awkwardly, her knees on either side of my hips, her hands braced on my shoulders for balance.
Her nearly naked body pressed against my fully clothed one. The power dynamic crystal clear.
"Good girl," I murmur, sliding my hands up her sides. Feeling her shiver under my touch. "See? You can follow instructions when you choose to. When you stop fighting what's inevitable."
"I don't want to."
"Then why are you doing it?"
She doesn't answer. Can't answer honestly.
I slide my hands up her sides, feeling every curve, every tremor. "Because some part of you wants this. Wants to submit. Wants to give up the exhausting fight and just let me have what's mine. What's always been mine since the moment I bid two million dollars for you."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" I cup her breast through her bra, feeling her nipple harden immediately against my palm. "Your body doesn't lie, Eden. Even when your mouth does."
She bites her lip hard, trying not to react. Trying not to give me the satisfaction of seeing how much she responds.
"There's something else you need to learn," I say quietly, watching her face. "Something that will definitely be expected at the showcase. Something you need to be comfortable with."
"What?" Her voice is barely a whisper.
"How to please me. How to use your mouth to bring me pleasure."
Her eyes go wide with shock and understanding. "You mean—"
"Yes. I mean exactly that. Oral sex. Fellatio. Using your mouth on my cock."
"No. Absolutely not. I'm not—I can't—"
"Yes, you are. And yes, you can. Because this is part of your training.
Part of what you agreed to. And Eden—" I cup her face with one hand, forcing her to look at me.
"I'll teach you. Guide you through every step.
Make sure you know exactly what to do. But you will do this. You will learn this. Understand?"
"I've never—I don't know how—I wouldn't even know where to start—"
"I know. That's exactly why I'm going to teach you." I stroke her cheek with my thumb, a gesture that's almost tender. "Get on your knees. Between my legs. Now."
"Vaughn, please—"
"On your knees, Eden. Between my legs. We're doing this now."
She slides off my lap slowly, reluctantly, like she's moving through water.
Kneels between my spread thighs, looking up at me with fear and humiliation written all over her face.
With something else too.
Something that looks almost like curiosity buried deep beneath the terror.
"Good girl," I say softly, letting approval warm my voice. "You're doing so well. Being so brave."
I reach for my belt, unbuckle it slowly while she watches.
Every movement is deliberate, giving her time to process what's about to happen.
Her eyes track every motion. Wide. Terrified. Unable to look away.
I unzip my jeans and pull them down just enough to free myself.
I'm already hard.
Have been since she took off her sweater.
Since she climbed onto my lap.
Since she submitted to this position.
She stares at my cock like it's a weapon that might hurt her. Like it's something dangerous and threatening.
"It's not going to hurt you," I say, reading her expression easily. "Not if you do what I tell you. Not if you follow my instructions carefully. I'm going to teach you exactly how to do this."
"I don't know what to do." Her voice is small, scared.
"I know. That's why I'm here. That's why I'm teaching you. Put your hand on it. Just hold it first. Get used to the feel of it. The weight. The heat."
She reaches out with a hand that's shaking badly.
Wraps her fingers around my shaft tentatively, like she's afraid it might bite her.
The touch is uncertain. Inexperienced.
But God, it feels good anyway.
I groan at the contact, unable to suppress the sound completely. "Good. Just like that. Feel how hard it is? How much I want you? How much your body affects mine?"
She nods, not speaking.
Too overwhelmed to form words.
"Now stroke it. Up and down. Gentle at first. Learn the movement."
She moves her hand awkwardly.
Too tight, then too loose.
No rhythm. No confidence.
"Slower," I instruct, keeping my voice patient. "Firmer grip. Like this." I put my hand over hers, guiding her movements. Showing her the pressure, the speed, the rhythm. "Feel that? That's what feels good."
After a moment, I release her hand and let her continue on her own.
Better.
Still clumsy, still unpracticed, but better.
She's learning.
"Good girl. You're learning fast. Now—open your mouth."
She looks up at me with those wide, terrified eyes.
"Eden. Open your mouth."
She parts her lips slightly, just a fraction.