Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 44972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 225(@200wpm)___ 180(@250wpm)___ 150(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 225(@200wpm)___ 180(@250wpm)___ 150(@300wpm)
With one of his giant palms on the small of my back, he uses his other hand to play with my breasts again, glancing at me. He’s smirking.
I’m cold, standing here in the chilly air, but my face heats as my pulse increases. It feels so odd having him touch me like this, but I like it.
Eventually, he slides his palms around to my butt and then runs them up the fronts of my thighs. His head tips back to meet my gaze while he drags his thumbs higher and higher, coming too close to my private parts.
On a sharp inhale, I try to move away and avoid the odd sensations, but the man reaches around and swats my bottom. Hard. Shocking me. All the air leaves my lungs.
He gives me a sharp, intense look and shakes his head.
I’m panting as I inch forward. For some reason I can’t explain, I don’t want to anger him.
The man holds one of my butt cheeks firmly and wiggles his fingers between my thighs, prodding me.
When I part my legs a few inches, he nods but continues to tap my inner thighs. Does he want my legs even wider? I spread them, just in case, and he takes the opportunity to slide his palm all the way up until he’s cupping my most private parts.
Gripping my bottom tighter, he stares into my eyes while he drags his fingers slowly through my folds.
I gasp as my knees nearly give out, but he has a secure hold on me—both my butt and my crotch.
I’m tingling all over, my body shaking from sensations I’ve never experienced. His fingers are wicked, and he keeps stroking through my private parts, making me aware of a sensitive bundle of nerves I didn’t know existed. He even slides his middle finger back and washes my tight rear hole, rubbing it over and over until I think I might faint.
Suddenly, it’s over. He removes his hand and helps me sit on my bottom again.
FOUR
I’m trembling violently, grabbing the sides of the tub so I don’t slip underwater, panting as I try to process what just happened. I should have pushed him away. I have no idea why I let him touch me so intimately. Except, obviously, I couldn’t force this man to stop. He’s far too strong for me to be able to overpower in any way.
I’m having conflicting feelings because I want him to touch me like that again. In fact, I’m desperate. My body aches in a way that has nothing to do with lying in a metal cage for days.
My mysterious man drains the water out of the tub, wraps me in a towel, and lifts me effortlessly out of the basin. After returning to the exam table, he dries me and squeezes out as much water as he can from my hair. Then he surprises me by using a comb to carefully untangle every lock of hair until it’s been so cared for that it’s nearly dry.
He does all of this without giving me anything to wear. He also makes me sit tall, my legs dangling over the edge of the exam table. Every time I slouch, or he doesn’t like where I put my hands—which is anywhere but at my sides—he swats me. Sometimes he slaps the back of my hand; other times he gives a sharp spank to my thigh.
I feel like a trained animal, which isn’t a stretch since I just spent days in a cage.
Suddenly, the door to the room opens, and I immediately cover my breasts.
My savior grips my chin so fast, my breath hitches. There’s something about the intensity in his gaze. I’m not exactly scared of him, though I probably should be. Instead, I feel like a child being chastised.
I stare into his eyes as he disciplines me harshly with nothing more than a look.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, even though no one can understand me. Some strange part of me hates that I disappointed him. I want to please him. It’s totally irrational, considering I don’t know him or his intentions.
He’s both tender and firm. It’s giving me whiplash.
A man has joined us. I see him in my peripheral vision. He’s the doctor I recognize from a few days ago. He’s wearing the same blue clothes and a stethoscope.
My rescuer doesn’t move his gaze from me when he releases my chin, grabs both my wrists, and hauls them over my head, tucking them at the back of my neck. He still doesn’t look away as he speaks, though I know his words are aimed at the doctor.
The man in blue rounds behind me and clasps my folded hands, taking over for my savior. He pulls on my elbows, forcing me to arch my chest forward and sit taller.
Fear consumes me as I watch my many-faceted man turn toward the cabinets along the wall. He speaks to the doctor, who responds, then he opens a drawer and pulls something out.