Total pages in book: 216
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
“Not unless you beg me. Not until you learn how to obey, little pet. It’s so easy.” He spanks me again. “Sir, may I please have another. That’s all you have to say, ten times while you count, and I can give you what you want. What you need.”
His hand comes back around to my clitoris.
Yes. Yes, fuck yes.
Tears well up at the release that’s right there. It’s going to burn me up from the inside out. I’ve never needed anything so badly in my life. The wave is climbing, climbing, climbing, and then finally it starts to crest—
My mouth drops open right at the very moment.
But. Then. He. Pulls. His. Hand. Away.
Immediately the high drops.
I cry out in devastated loss at the denied peak.
He clucks his tongue in disappointment and spanks me again.
And oh God, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Please, Sir may I…
Pleasure and oblivion are right there. So close. Just there— My whole body strains toward it.
But the slight dip in consuming pleasure without his hands on me allows my brain to finally catch up with my runaway body.
And no!
Holy shit, no.
What the fuck am I thinking?
I will not be reduced to some pathetic little girl, begging her captor for pleasure. Even if I am the one currently captivated by him. He’s speaking so much more than the bare monosyllabic phrases I’ve heard him utter before now. I’m getting more of a peek at the man himself. Even if that man is a filthy, sex-fiend control freak.
“Last chance,” he lands yet another smack on my ass, which has to be red as a ripe strawberry by now.
I bite down on my bottom lip. Rational mind wars with sex-starved body.
“Stubborn little pet,” he growls, leaning over and biting at my neck as he thrusts in and out of me. Each time he bottoms out I’m teased by a pleasure that threatens to light me up but never quite does.
Then he thrusts hard and stills inside, clutching me to him.
And I don’t know how I can be so totally full and yet feel so empty at the same time.
Eight
I wake to the heavenly smell of frying bacon. I’m famished, I suddenly realize as I sit up in bed and clutch the covers to my chest. I barely ate a thing yesterday and God, that smells good.
In spite of my hunger, I linger in bed a moment. All the memories of yesterday run on an unforgiving reel in my brain. My body’s absolute lack of self-control.
I can’t believe I... that I was like that.
My hand drops down between my legs and I wince slightly at the soreness there. I squeeze my eyes shut and force all my confused thoughts away.
Thinking about all of it won’t help anything. There’s just today to face. One foot in front of another, one day at a time.
I take a fortifying breath and then get out of bed and head for the dresser. I know from my exploration on the previous days that all I’ll find inside are lacy underthings that are nothing like the no-nonsense supportive undergarments I usually don.
I hold up a see-through red lace demi-bra with dismay. But then my nose catches the scent of bacon again and I shake my head and put the damn thing on. It’s better than nothing. I slip on the matching underwear and head to the closet.
Here is another crime against Melanie Van Bauer’s personal aesthetic: Dresses line the rack from one end to the other. And not just any sort of dresses—flowy, pastel, floral print dresses. Did you hear me? I said floral print.
I’m a woman who wears power suits. Black is the only color in my palette, I’ve often joked. It makes up most of my wardrobe, interspersed with the occasional gray.
When you’re a woman striving to be taken seriously in a man’s world, you have to go to certain lengths to make them forget about the fact that you’re actually female. Not that it ever actually works. It still always felt like a boy’s club. But I was used to chopping my brown locks short and maybe it felt good to continue being the opposite of everything my mother had been. I abandoned any color even remotely feminine—aka, all color.
This closet, though? It positively drips with color. And the dresses are the most ridiculous little frilly things. My first day here, I slammed the closet shut with a gasp after one glimpse.
Now that my Gucci suit is shredded, though, there’s no choice but to don one of these—I pull out the least offensive dress—things.
It’s a dark-blue A-line dress that reminds me a bit of every dress Maria ever wore in the Sound of Music. A lot of the dresses in the closet have a similar shape. So maybe Xavier has a thing for the 50s?