Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
“I… I need to go,” I finally confessed, my voice barely audible.
Mateo nodded. “You need to ask properly, though.”
“Please, may I use the toilet?” I whispered, my voice trembling with humiliation.
Mateo nodded. “Yes, you may.”
Feeling faint with shame and need, I followed him into the adjoining bathroom. It was small, but well appointed, with the same childish pink décor as the bedroom. Mateo stood directly in front of the toilet, arms crossed, watching me with clinical detachment.
“Go ahead,” he instructed.
My hands shook as I sat down on the toilet. I closed my eyes, trying desperately to pretend I was alone, but the awareness of Mateo’s unwavering gaze made it almost impossible to relax. After what felt like an eternity, my body finally cooperated, and I began to pee. The sound seemed obscenely loud in the small bathroom, and I wanted to die of embarrassment.
When I finished, Mateo handed me a damp washcloth. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he directed. “Especially between your legs, since your daddy used you this morning. Mr. Walton expects his property to be kept clean at all times.”
I took the cloth with trembling fingers, mortified at having to wipe my well-fucked pussy while this stranger watched. Jax’s semen was still leaking from me, making the task even more humiliating. Mateo observed with professional detachment as I cleaned myself, his eyes never leaving my most intimate areas.
“Turn around and bend over,” he instructed when I’d finished. “I need to make sure you’re properly clean.”
Swallowing hard, I obeyed, turning to face the wall and bending forward. I felt his clinical gaze on my exposed backside, still red and welted from Jax’s belt.
“Acceptable,” he finally pronounced. “Let’s get you diapered now.”
He led me back to the bedroom and opened the top drawer of the white dresser. I watched in horror as he removed a thick cloth diaper, powder, and plastic pants.
“Lie down on the bed,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I hesitated only briefly before complying, lying back on the childish comforter. Mateo worked efficiently, sliding the thick diaper under my hips and sprinkling powder between my legs. The scent of baby powder filled my nostrils as he brought the material up between my thighs and fastened it with the Velcro tabs. The plastic pants followed, rustling loudly as he pulled them up my legs and settled them over the bulky diaper.
“There,” he said, stepping back to survey his work. “All done.”
I sat up gingerly, the thick padding forcing my thighs apart. The sensation was both infantilizing and a mortifying indication of my new status in this household.
“Can I have my phone?” I asked, hoping for some connection to the outside world, some way to contact help, even.
Mateo shook his head. “Mr. Walton believes phones are for big girls.” He gestured toward a small bookshelf beside the bed. “But there are plenty of books you can read when you’re alone in your room.”
I glanced at the shelf, my heart sinking as I took in the titles. The Bobbsey Twins, The Borrowers, Beezus and Ramona, Georgia Jones—all children’s books, the kind a girl from half a century ago might have read when she was nine or ten years old. Nothing that could possibly interest an adult woman or help me understand my situation better.
“What about TV?” I asked, desperately seeking any distraction from my reality.
“There’s no television in your room,” Mateo replied. “Entertainment privileges are earned through consistent good behavior. For now, reading is your only approved activity when alone.”
He moved to the window and gestured to the view of the city skyline. “The glass is reinforced and can’t be broken. The window only opens three inches for air circulation. The door will be locked when Mr. Walton or security staff is not with you.”
The clinical way he described my imprisonment made it somehow worse—like I was being given the orientation tour for a very bizarre hotel stay rather than being held captive.
“What time is it?” I asked, suddenly aware that I had no idea how long I’d been here or even what day it was.
Mateo glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s 9:07. Mr. Walton takes breakfast at ten. I’ll come for you then to bring you to breakfast with your daddy.”
I nodded numbly, struggling to process everything that had happened since last night. Had it only been hours since I’d walked into Walker’s apartment with Charlie? It felt like years.
“Any questions before I leave you?” Mateo asked, his tone suggesting he was simply completing a checklist rather than speaking to a human being.
I had a thousand questions, but most of them would reveal too much of my thoughts. Instead, I asked the one that seemed safest. “How long will I be here?”
Mateo’s expression remained carefully neutral. “That’s not for me to say. Your stay depends entirely on Mr. Walton’s assessment of your progress.”