This was a different man talking. Not a man. Voice-to-text. A boilerplate British accent with robot undertones. He squintedand saw the figure—Beth?—was wearing a white rubber mask. They looked like No-Face from Spirited Away. “The hell?”
“Put your phone in the tripod in front of the bed.”
“Why?”
“Because if you ever want to see your cunt wife again, you’ll do what you’re told.”
All the air rushed out of his lungs. He almost shouted at Beth that he didn’t give a fuck what they were doing—no one talked about Mara like that—when it clicked again: No-Face wasn’t Beth. No one they knew would say something that horrible about Mara.
It was her, his wife, making whatever was about to go down just between them. Derek looked away so she couldn’t see his growing awareness. If this was what Mara wanted, he was all in. Ready to show her he could wear the saddle and not just carry the whip.
“Fuck you,” he told No-Face. “Let me talk to Mara.”
“She’s a little busy right now. Put your phone in the tripod and sit where I can still see that famous cock.”
Derek complied, arranging the tripod so that his dick was in the frame. He gripped his shaft and displayed himself to the camera. “This what you wanted?”
“Not quite,”the voice-to-text said.“You’ve been with a lot of women, haven’t you, Mr Hardiman?”
“How’s that relevant?”
“Ha-ha-ha,”came the mechanical reply.
Goosebumps spread down his arms. No matter what this scene was, he was still naked and hard in front of a camera anyone could be recording from. He let go of his cock, his heart pumping so fast it hurt.
“I’ve got a question for you, Mr Hardiman,”whirred the robot.“Do you want Mara to die today?”
Somehow, his heart beat faster. He could feel his pulse in all his fingers. “No. Fuck, please?—”
“Get your hand back on your cock and answer my question.”
Derek clenched his teeth. He’d never been on this side of BDSM—being put in your place and straining to get out. His frustration bordered on rage, and it was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Not after the most humiliating football losses, not after getting dragged out of barfights where guys hit him from behind so that they could tell their mates they’d punched a pro. Yet he was still hard, and when he re-wrapped his hand around his dick, he grunted at how good it felt.
“That’s it,”the robot said.“Now talk. Have you been with a lot of women?”
“Yeah, I’ve been with a few.”
“But you’re always in charge, aren’t you? The big man outside. The big man in bed.”
Against his will, Derek started squeezing himself. He realised what he was doing and loosened his fist, his face burning. “It’s what I like.”
“Ha-ha-ha,”came the response.“And how do you like being submissive? How do you like being under my control?”
“I don’t.”
“Really? Because you seem to be masturbating.”
Derek swore. He let go of his cock altogether, then remembered his orders and grabbed it again. “That’s what you fucking want, don’t you?”
“It is.”
“What’s your fucking problem?” he snarled. “I smash your missus or something?”
He felt a surge of shame as soon as he said it. He never talked like that in front of Mara. Showing that side of himself to her felt as degrading as everything else. And yet, he began to pumphimself, embracing this scene as he’d once had to embrace his seedy past. Let her see. Let her fucking know.
“Ha-ha-ha,”came the response.“We’ve never met. You don’t know me. I just want to make the famous Derek Hardiman demean himself. Then I’m going to show the whole world what it looks like when a has-been loses control.”
The words stung like a whip. “You fucking?—”
