Chapter 11 #3
Know exactly how to use my tongue, my lips, my throat to give him maximum pleasure.
When did I learn these things?
When did my body memorize the script so thoroughly?
I lean forward and take him in my mouth.
And try desperately to forget that the camera is recording every moment of my degradation.
That somewhere there's now a video of me doing this, proof of what I've become.
Try to forget and fail completely.
Because I can feel the camera watching.
Can sense its lens capturing everything.
Can imagine what the footage will show—me in black lingerie on my knees, submitting, serving, proving exactly how well-trained I am.
The thought should repulse me.
Instead, some sick part of me responds to it.
Gets wet from it.
Wants to perform well for the camera, for the future audience, for him.
What's wrong with me? What have I become?
Afterward—after he comes in my mouth and I swallow without being told because I know that's what he expects and I hate how automatic that obedience has become—he makes me watch the recording.
"No," I protest weakly, though we both know it's futile. "Please, I don't want to see—"
"You need to see. Need to understand how you look to others. What the audience will see when you perform at the showcase. This is crucial feedback for your training."
He pulls up the footage on his laptop with a few efficient keystrokes.
Positions the screen so we're both watching, sitting side by side on the couch.
I see myself on screen.
Kneeling between his legs in the black lingerie.
Taking him in my mouth with a technique that looks practiced, skilled, eager.
Looking—
I look willing.
That's what horrifies me most.
I don't look forced or coerced or terrified.
I don't look like a captive performing under duress.
I look like I'm choosing this. Like I want it. Like I'm deriving pleasure from pleasing him.
The woman on screen looks devoted.
Submissive. Perfectly trained.
Like property that knows its purpose and fulfills it gladly.
"See?" Vaughn says, his voice warm with satisfaction. "You're perfect. Completely natural. You don't look uncomfortable at all. Don't look like you're being forced. You look like you want to please me."
"I was uncomfortable," I whisper, unable to look away from the screen even though watching makes me want to die of shame.
"But you don't show it. That's what matters. The audience won't know you're struggling internally. Won't see your doubts or your resistance. They'll just see a well-trained woman who's devoted to pleasing her owner. Who knows her place. Who accepts what she is."
The words make bile rise in my throat.
Because he's right.
The woman on screen looks exactly like what she is—an acquisition.
Property.
Something owned and trained and obedient.
Something that belongs to Vaughn Sutherland completely.
"Is that really me?" I whisper, though I know the answer.
"Yes. That's who you're becoming. Who you are now."
"I don't recognize her."
"I know. But that's good, Eden. That means you're changing. Growing. Becoming who you were meant to be instead of who the Sanctuary tried to make you."
"How can you say that? How can there be no shame in—in what's on that screen?"
"Because you're choosing it. Because your body wants it. Because submission isn't weakness—it's trust. It's surrender. It's allowing yourself to be vulnerable with someone who can handle that vulnerability without abusing it."
"You are abusing it. You're using it to train me for a showcase. To make me perform for an audience. To prove to the Consortium that you're worthy of their inner circle."
"Yes. But I'm also protecting you while I do it. Caring for you. Making sure you're ready so the experience isn't traumatic. Both things can be true."
There's that phrase again.
Both things can be true.
I hate it.
Hate how it makes impossible sense.
Hate how it lets him justify everything.
"Am I forcing your mouth open in that video?" he asks, gesturing to the screen where I'm clearly performing without any visible coercion. "Am I pushing your head? Am I holding you down? Or are you doing it yourself? Following my instructions because some part of you wants to please me?"
I don't answer because I can't.
Because he's right and we both know it.
I am choosing it.
In some twisted, fucked-up way that I don't fully understand, I'm choosing this.
Not because I want to.
But because not choosing feels worse.
Because disappointing him feels worse than the humiliation.
Because his approval feels better than any pride I might salvage from resistance.
Because I'm being conditioned and I know it but can't stop it from working.
The conditioning has already won.
The afternoon session is worse.
Or better, depending on how you measure these things.
Worse because of what he makes me do.
Better because of how my body responds.
I don't know anymore.
Don't know how to evaluate anything that happens in this room.
"Today we're going to practice something new," Vaughn says once I'm back in position—standing in the center of the room in the lingerie, the camera recording, the mirror showing me from every angle.
"What?" I ask, wary of what "new" might mean.
"Asking permission. Begging for what you want. Using explicit language without hesitating."
"I don't want anything."
"Liar. Your body always wants it now. You just won't admit it yet. Won't give yourself permission to acknowledge the desire."
He's right.
Again.
Always right about my body even when I wish he wasn't.
My body does want.
It craves.
Needs in ways I'm only beginning to understand.
Especially after this morning.
After kneeling for him.
After the praise and the way he looked at me like I was precious.
My body has learned to obey him before my mind can even process the command.
Trained to associate submission with pleasure, obedience with orgasm, his approval with dopamine hits that feel better than anything I've ever experienced.
"I'm going to touch you," he says, moving behind me so I can see both of us in the mirror—him fully clothed and in control, me in lingerie and completely vulnerable.
"And you're going to ask me for permission to come.
You're going to beg me for it. Use explicit words.
Tell me exactly what you need. No euphemisms. No vague requests.
Specific, detailed begging. Understand?"
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can. You'll practice until you can do it without even thinking about it. Until the words come naturally, automatically. Until begging is as easy as breathing."
He slides his hands up my sides slowly, deliberately. Cups my breasts through the lace bra with possessive certainty.
I gasp despite myself, my body responding before my brain catches up.
"Feel good?" he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot on my skin.
"Yes," I breathe.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, it feels good."
"Good. Now watch yourself in the mirror. Watch how your body responds to my touch. See what I see."
I watch.
See my chest rising and falling faster.
See my nipples hardening through the lace.
See the flush spreading down my neck.
See proof that my body wants this even when my mind is still trying to resist.
"Tell me what you want," he commands softly.
"I don't—"
His hands still completely. "Tell me, Eden. Or I stop touching you entirely. Your choice."
The threat works because it always works.
The idea of him stopping, of losing the pleasure, makes panic spike sharp through me.
"Please," I whisper.
"Please what? Be specific."
"Please don't stop."
"What do you want me to do? Where do you want me to touch you?"
I can't say it.
The words stick in my throat.
His hands pull away from my breasts. "Then I guess we're done."
"No!" The word bursts out desperate and needy before I can stop it. "Please, I—touch my breasts. Please touch my breasts."
"Better. But you can be more specific. How do you want me to touch them?"
My face burns hot enough that I can see the color in the mirror. "Squeeze them. Please squeeze my breasts."
"Good girl. See how easy that was?" His hands return to my breasts, squeezing gently through the lace. "What else do you want?"
"I—" I swallow hard. Force the words out. "Touch my nipples. Please."
He pinches my nipples through the lace, making me gasp. "Like this?"
"Yes. God, yes."
"Good. Now tell me where else you want to be touched."
His hand slides down my stomach, stopping just above the waistband of the lace panties.
Waiting.
"Between my legs," I whisper.
"Be more specific. Use the proper anatomical terms."
"Touch my—my pussy. Please touch my pussy."
"Such a good girl, using your words." His hand slides into my panties, finding me already soaked. Already desperate. "So wet already. Your body knows what it wants even when your mind is still catching up."
He circles my clit with maddening lightness, building pleasure without giving me enough to come.
Teasing. Tormenting. Training.
"Now," he says, his voice low and commanding in my ear, "when you're close, you're going to ask me for permission to come. And you're going to beg for it. Make me believe you need it more than air. Make me believe you'll die if I don't let you. Understand?"
"Yes."
His fingers circle and press and tease until I'm trembling on the edge of release.
He knows exactly what I need.
I'm gasping.
Watching myself in the mirror fall apart under his hands.
So close. So desperately close.
"Ask," he commands.
"Please—please can I come?"
"You can do better than that. Beg properly."
"Please, Vaughn, please let me come. I need it. I need it so much. Please—"
"Keep going. Tell me why I should let you."
"Because I—because I did what you asked. Followed your commands. Used the words. Please, I've been good, haven't I? I've been so good. Please let me come, please, I'm begging you—"
"Why should I let you?"