I see shame. I see fear. I see humiliation.
I'm fine with all of those. In fact, they're exactly right.
What I don't see is "no."
My hand continues its path, moving over the curve of her hip, hooking into the thin fabric still bunched at her waist. Little tremors work over her skin, tightening it.
Her breath hitches. Her eyes squeeze shut, like she can't bear to watch. Like if she doesn't see it, it's not happening.
I pull.
The rest of the baby doll slides down her legs, whispering over her skin to land in a heap at her feet. She stands there in nothing but a pair of flimsy white panties.
My gaze drops. Her body is perfect. Soft and curved in all the right places. My God, she’s beautiful.
My hand rests on her hip, my thumb stroking the soft skin there. I can feel the goosebumps rising under my touch.
Her eyes are still closed.
“Look at me,” I command.
Her lids flutter. She blinks, her eyes focusing slowly.
The blue of them is darker now. Almost stormy. Her pupils are wide, swallowing the light.
Her lip trembles. She bites it, stilling the motion.
My other hand comes up, my thumb tracing her jawline, tilting her head back slightly. I can feel the frantic beat of her heart in the delicate skin of her throat.
“Are you going to be a good girl for me, Erica?”
She sucks in a sharp breath, her chest rising.
“Or what?” she whispers. It comes out breathy and unsure. She doesn't know she just stirred something else in me. The need to punish, to bend her to my will.
I tamp it down. Not tonight; it's too much.
“There is no 'or what',” I say, my thumb stroking her pulse point.
I feel the motion of her throat under my fingers as she swallows.
“Now, say it.”
“Say what?” she whispers.
“Tell me you'll be a good girl.”
Her throat works, a visible swallow.
“I'll be a good girl,” she whispers.
The words are a surrender. A capitulation. They're exactly what I want to hear.
But it's not enough, not quite right.
"I'll be a good girl,sir," I whisper.
Her shaky breath comes out on a weak exhale.
