EIGHTEEN
Scarf. Mask. Contacts – I assembled Scarlett, piece by piece in the lavatory.
Walking the corridor with my shoulders drawn tight, I cast a quick glance over my shoulder.
Down here, the walls were raw, pockmarked with plaster bubbles and sweat stains, as though the building itself had once tried to purge something and failed.
It didn’t feel neglected. It felt deliberately unfinished, as if anyone who had wandered down here was meant to feel unwelcome. Or warned.
But I wasn’t here by accident.
Ghost had given me instructions: ‘Past the toilets. Through the hall. Down the steps. The light will be on.’
It was.
And the heat – my God. It wasn’t the comfortable kind. This was the thick and cloying summer heat in a sealed tomb, as if it had been caught in the walls and left to rot on purpose. I could smell the dust on the floor before I stepped over it.
No air conditioning. No windows. Just deafening silence and pressure.
I slipped a hand over my purse, fingers brushing the familiar hard edge of my gun.
Then I saw it.
In the centre of the room.
Not a table.
Maybe a chair? It looked like it in a way.
Stainless steel, welded to the floor, with restraining cuffs on each armrest, padded stirrups spread at an unforgiving angle, and a network of black tubes running into a small mechanical control box.
Shiny. New. Industrial. The black leather of the seat gleamed under the ceiling light as if it had been wiped down minutes ago.
When its purpose dawned on me, my throat closed around a breath.
I knew that machine. I wrote about it – where pleasure and humiliation blurred until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other devoured.
Oh, my God…
Did I want this?
I imagined his eyes on me as he secured the toy where the empty holders gaped, as he watched through half-lidded eyes while it moved rhythmically.
And yes – God – I wanted it.
I loved watching him relish my pleasure. There was something liberating about it. About the way he made my body feel… wanted. Even when bruised and broken.
As I neared it, I found a note. And a shimmering, black blindfold.
Both looked like invitations to a dinner party from hell. And I was the willing meal.
I stepped closer, warmth rebounding from the chair like it was projecting the heat of my body strapped to it.
I reached for the note with slow fingers. The edges were crisp, folded with meticulous care. Just the black ink in harsh, masculine handwriting: ‘Strip. Sit back against the chair. Blindfold on. Safe word. Wait.’
Breath scraped down my throat. Something twisted and hot unfurled within me.
I glanced around. The light above buzzed faintly, and the stillness pressed in, thick as fog. I couldn’t see him – but he was here. I felt it. That low hum across my skin like a magnetic field. He was watching.
A thrill curled up my spine.
I didn’t hesitate. And it came as a surprise. Travis never made me feel this way.
I stepped closer to the chair, letting the purse fall from my shoulder with a soft clatter.
‘Where are you?’ I asked softly. My words echoed in the empty space.
‘Sit,’ came the familiar, deep growl that tickled up my back.
I moved to turn my head sideways, but I knew he was hidden. And I wondered if it was because he hadn’t brought his mask with him.
Closing my eyes with desperation to know what he looked like, I let my fingers touch the zip of my dress, slow enough to make the sound last. The hem hit the patch of deliberately polished tiles beneath the machine, the fabric pooling at my feet.
I glanced at the seat.
If he wanted obedience, I’d give him more. I’d give him a performance.
I turned in a slow circle in front of the chair, bared my feet, like I was dancing for him. Then unhooked my bra, the straps slipping down like silk ropes, breasts exposed, nipples tightening under the breathless heat. Every movement purposeful.
And the longer I moved, the more aware I became of myself. Of how the heat made my skin glow. Of how arousal unfurled between my thighs like a secret only he knew how to claim.
I stepped closer to the machine.
The seat was cool against my skin as I climbed onto it, the metal smooth, almost surgical. I aligned my spine to the chairback just as instructed. My thighs parted over the stirrups, spreading me wide, baring everything. No straps yet. Just surrender.
Clutching the blindfold, I tied it behind my head, plunging myself into velvety black. The pin at the back holding my hair together was punishing, but I didn’t move to take it out – I’d have to remove the scarf first.
Breath in.
Breath out.
Need. Tension. Submission.
Salvation.
The heat kissed every inch of my body, and I let it. Let it soak into my skin. Let it magnify the sensation of his eyes on me – the curve of my hips, the gleam between my thighs, the way my chest rose, slow and inviting.
I smiled into the dark and finally said, ‘Green.’
Every piece of fabric she peeled off was a prayer answered. Every breath she took fed my hunger. Not Ghost. Me. She just didn’t know it yet. Like it had always been – like it was supposed to be.
I stood behind a pillar, breath barely contained, one hand pressed to the cold concrete wall to stop myself from storming forward. The other gripped the front of my jeans, where the pressure had built to the point of pain.
She followed the instructions perfectly – every step I had given her.
Being the owner of Obsidian made it easy to hack into accounts – not that I ever did that. But for her, I was ready to break all the rules of this miserable life.
From the moment she’d stepped into my club, and my eyes had clocked her on the camera, I’d recognised her. She’d always been mine. She’d walked into my arms right then and there.
I knew no amount of therapy would make me right. I didn’t want to be right. Not with her lips so soft, and her body so ready to take all of me.
I’d written the note with a black pen. I hadn’t known what kind she liked.
I’d never cared about things like that before.
But I’d seen the way she’d turn things in her hands when she was nervous, the way she’d tuck receipts into her wallet like they mattered.
So I’d folded the paper just so, crisp and neat, the way I’d imagined she would fold a note if she had been leaving one for me. That was what love was, wasn’t it?
Filling in the gaps. Completing the parts they didn’t even know were missing.
Not like D’Angelo, who spoke in cliches and fucked like he was proving something. Whispering all that brave-boy dominance into her ear. No… the real monsters didn’t need all that glitter.
He didn’t see her – not the way I did.
He didn’t know her.
He never watched her sleep. Never followed her home to make sure she was safe.
Never counted the few freckles on her nose, just to have something to repeat to himself when he missed her too much.
But I did.
And now, here she was.
Blindfolded – for me.
Legs open – for me.
Glowing – for me.
I adjusted the voice changer strapped tight across my mouth, a black polymer half-mask fitted along my jawline.
The modulator inside thrummed softly, primed with hours of D’Angelo’s voice.
I’d studied him well, captured every cadence, every breathy pause, every smirk tucked inside a word.
It was perfect now. When I spoke, it wouldn’t be me she heard.
But that was okay. For now.
As I approached, the glow of her skin captured my gaze like alabaster anointed in sacred oil. The swell of her breasts, the tiny tremble of her fingers, the glistening between her thighs.
She was trying to stay composed. She thought she was in control. That this was his game.
But she was wrong.
The chair – my chair – was for her. I’d bought it just for this.
I’d bargained with the owner of this shithole for privacy and paid dearly for it.
I’d polished the straps of the chair, studied hours of her body to memorise the angle her legs parted when she shifted in bed, just to get the fit right.
She was made for this. Made for me.
Every part of her was mine. Her pain. Her fear. Her ache – especially her ache.
I watched her breath catch as she shifted – undoubtedly sensing my presence – and I nearly fucking moaned.
Not yet, not yet, not yet.
I was almost giddy.
I wanted to watch her a moment longer. Let the silence caress her. Let her feel herself being watched and chosen for something beyond this life.
She angled her chin a little.
She was trying to look proud. Even now.
My woman.
My altar. My offering.
My fucking prophecy.
And I? I was everything she’d ever begged the dark to take from her.
Watching her thighs tremble against the stirrups as I tightened the belts, I zeroed in on the muscles twitching as if she were trying not to shiver. The machine hadn’t even been turned on yet, and already she was writhing, wet and open for me.
I was about to come in my goddamn trousers.
Then, anxious, she whispered it again, ‘Green.’
The word slid past her lips like sin.
A permission. A plea.
My cock stirred, straining against my zipper.
I closed my eyes.
Fuck. She had said it. She had given herself to me again.
I took my time moving. Not out of hesitation, but out of reverence.
Every step around the machine was calculated.
Silent. I walked the perimeter like I was approaching a shrine, my fingers brushing the switchboard, the tubing, the shaft I had just buried where it belonged – all programmed to respond to every setting I had customised.
I didn’t look at her. I wanted to earn it.
From the box beside the chair, I pulled out the sealed vial of lubricant.
Hospital-grade. Unscented. Twisting the cap, I poured it slowly over the machine’s sleek, human-coloured shaft, already warmed to body temperature.
I’d made every effort to find a size as close to mine.
Then I watched the gel coat the surface, sliding down with torturous slowness – ritualistic.
She deserved perfection.
I didn’t touch her.