She smiles. This time, I am able to tolerate it a little better—but not much.
“That is very severe indeed. And if I feared God or the Church of England, I might think twice, Mr. Saintsbury. But your soul is a price I am willing to pay for my satisfaction.”
I bow my head. I hate myself for the pleasure that pulses through my cock, still hard, still aching, at her resolution. At the knowledge that my resistance is pointless. That I must surrender.
I raise my head.
“I am at your mercy.”
Something flickers across her face.
Her blue eyes go a bit softer and her mouth opens just a little.
Could it be desire?
For the first time it hits me.
This powerful, beautiful woman wantsme.
Why else would she go to all this trouble?
I almost come right there. I use all my willpower to keep myself together.
“Tell me, Mr. Saintsbury,” she continues. “Do you do anything else to slake your erotic curiosity? Do you look at dirty images? Do you read depraved books?”
I flush.
“Oh,” she says. “Not quite the innocent in that regard then.”
“No—I?—”
“Tell me.”
I have never been so ashamed in my life. It is actually painful. For some reason, discussing my green book here with her feels impossible.
“I command you, Mr. Saintsbury.”
I close my eyes. I must tell. She will punish me otherwise.
“Yes,” I say. “One.”
“Pictures or print?”
“Print. No pictures.”
“And does it describe sexual acts?”
“Yes.”
“Do you read it often?”
“Yes.”
I look up. She does not appear vexed.
“But you said you do not frig yourself.”
“I don’t. Or—not often.”
