Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
"OK," she finally whispers, the word barely audible.
"OK?" The word comes out sharp, dangerous. I reach back and fist her hair again, harder this time, yanking her head back at an angle that exposes the full column of her throat. The movement is brutal, sudden, designed to shock.
"OK, what, you little fucking whore?" I don't soften my growl. Don't add the velvet coating that makes dominance palatable. Don't pretend that I'm something I'm not—something safe, something civilized, something that won't actually hurt her. "Is that how you talk to your fucking master? You know the fucking rules, slut. You wrote them, remember?"
For a moment—a beautiful, crystalline moment—she's terrified. Genuinely afraid. Her whole body goes rigid against me, her breathing stops, and I can feel the rabbit-quick flutter of her pulse against my palm. She's unable to reconcile the switch in my demeanor, the sudden shift from the man who praised her for coming to the man who's calling her a whore with real venom in his voice.
But then, over the course of several long seconds, I watch understanding bloom across her features.
We're playing now.
It's time.
The scene has begun.
I'm in character—the Master she wrote about in her stories, the dominant who doesn't ask, or negotiate, or soften his commands.
She should be in character too.
Not Scarletta, the girl who can't pay rent and hides behind hoodies and bites her nails until they bleed.
Not the nervous woman who flinched when I stripped her, who trembled when I cuffed her wrists.
No.
Right now, in this moment, she needs to be the submissive she created in her stories—the one who knows her place, who understands the rules of surrender, who doesn't say "OK" to her Master like they're negotiating the terms of a fucking fast food order.
She needs to be mine completely.
That's the role she's playing now.
And if she doesn't understand that yet, I'll teach her.
But she does.
She did write the rules.
"Yes, Master," she says, bowing her head in a gesture of submission that looks almost instinctive. "I'm here to serve you. Please tell me what to do."
Perfect.
"Come with me." I grab her arm just above the elbow—not gently, not with care for her comfort—and start pulling her across the hardwood floor. She stumbles immediately, her bare feet sliding on the polished surface, her balance thrown by the blindfold and the cuffs.
She nearly trips, her body lurching forward. I don't stop the fall so much as drag her out of it, using my grip on her arm to keep her upright through sheer forward momentum. She recovers with a small, helpless whimper, her feet scurrying now to keep pace, hands still cuffed behind her back, eyes still blind—as I lead her toward the wide, curved stairwell that descends to my playroom.
When we reach the stairs, I stop. She's breathing hard, her chest heaving, a fine sheen of sweat already visible on her skin despite the cold air. I lean down and scoop her up without warning, cradling her in my arms like a child. The position pulls sharply on her shoulders, forcing her arms at an unnatural angle behind her back, pressing against the cuffs holding her wrists captive.
It's painful. I know it's painful. I can feel the way her muscles tense, the way her breath catches. That's precisely why I did it.
She whines—a small, animal sound of distress—and I feel the wet warmth of fresh tears soaking into the blindfold. But then we're downstairs, the temperature dropping noticeably as we descend into the basement level, and I'm striding quickly across the concrete floor toward the bondage table.
I set her down on the surface without ceremony. She gasps at the crinkle of white paper beneath her, the clinical sound at odds with everything else about this moment.
"Lean forward," I command.
She obeys, shifting her weight, and I reach for the key I left waiting on the small stainless steel tray beside the table. The metallic clink of the key sliding into the lock echoes in the quiet room, followed by the distinct snick of the mechanism releasing. I remove the cuffs efficiently, setting them aside, and watch as she brings her arms forward with a shuddering exhale of relief.
She's processing—I can see it in the subtle shift of her expression, in the way her mouth opens slightly as if to speak. The sound of medical instruments against stainless steel is doing something to her, triggering associations she's not ready to examine. But the relief from having her shoulders released dominates everything else. As it should. She doesn't have time yet to understand where this is going.
"Lie back now," I say, my hand pressing against the small of her back to guide her down.
She complies, lowering herself onto the crinkling paper. I'm already moving to the end of the table before she's fully settled, my hands reaching for her knees, pulling her bent legs down toward the stirrups, then spreading them open.