"Vaughn, please, not with the camera running?—"
"Especially with the camera. You need to get comfortable with this. With performing. With being watched while you please me. The showcase will have an audience. This is necessary."
"I can't?—"
"Yes, you can. You've done this multiple times now. You're getting quite skilled at it, actually. Now kneel."
I kneel between his spread thighs because what else can I do?
What power do I have to refuse?
None.
The answer is none.
He's already unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness.
Already unzipping his jeans.
Already freeing himself.
Already hard from watching me, from commanding me, from seeing me obey.
"You know what to do," he says.
I do.
God help me, I do.
I've done this enough times over the past two weeks that it's becoming routine.
I know what he likes now.
Know what makes him groan.
Know what brings him to the edge quickly.
Know exactly how to use my tongue, my lips, my throat to give him maximum pleasure.
When did I learn these things?
When did my body memorize the script so thoroughly?
I lean forward and take him in my mouth.
And try desperately to forget that the camera is recording every moment of my degradation.
That somewhere there's now a video of me doing this, proof of what I've become.
Try to forget and fail completely.
Because I can feel the camera watching.
Can sense its lens capturing everything.
Can imagine what the footage will show—me in black lingerie on my knees, submitting, serving, proving exactly how well-trained I am.
The thought should repulse me.
