Chapter 8
Caleb
The Master Suite lives up to its name.
Sixteen monitors mounted on the mahogany-paneled wall, each showing a different woman in various stages of preparation. Some crying. Some defiant. One laughing nervously with her attendants like this is a spa day and not exactly what it is.
I'm not interested in fifteen of them.
The other panel of monitors—all six that I've configured myself—show different angles of Scarletta's preparation suite. Camera one: wide shot of the entire bathroom. Camera two: close-up of the tub. Camera three: overhead view. Camera four: profile angle. Cameras five and six I can control manually, zooming and panning as needed.
Right now, I need camera two.
The washcloth has traveled south. Between her legs. The blonde one—I should've gotten his name, tipped him extra—moves with professional efficiency. Not groping. Not violating boundaries. Just washing.
Thoroughly.
Scarletta's eyes go wide. Her mouth opens slightly. I watch her chest rise and fall faster.
She doesn't stop them.
Doesn't close her legs, doesn't push his hand away, doesn't say a word.
The cloth slides over her pussy. Once. Twice. A third time that lingers.
Her thighs part slightly.
There it is.
I zoom camera two until I can see the flush spreading across her chest, the way her nipples have gone hard, the slight tremor in her breathing.
She's written this scene seventeen times across her portfolio. Different setups—kidnapped and bathed by her captor's servants, prepared for a wedding night by handmaidens, cleansed before a ritual. The details change but the core fantasy stays consistent: being touched by strangers while powerless to stop it, shame and arousal tangled so tightly she can't separate them.
In "The Arrangement," her protagonist Isla is bathed by three male servants before being presented to a warlord.
They wash between my legs with detached aloofness, but there's nothing aloof or detached about my body's response. I'm wet and it's not from the bathwater. One of them notices. I see it in his eyes—a flicker of knowledge that makes my face burn. He doesn't comment. Just continues washing me like I'm an object being prepared for use. Which I am. God help me, which I am. And my body doesn't care about the shame. My body wants.
Scarletta moans softly on screen.
Not loud. Not performative. A small sound that escapes before she can stop it.
The attendants lift her from the tub. Water drips down her body. She's shivering despite the room's warmth. They wrap herin heated towels, patting her dry with the same methodical care they used washing her.
Then they guide her to the massage table.
It's positioned perfectly in frame. I made sure of it when I paid for this suite, when I arranged the camera installations, when I specified exactly which preparation room she'd be assigned to and what would be done to her there.
She lies face-up on the table. White marble surface. Heated from below. The towels disappear.
She's naked again. Completely exposed under the soft lighting.
One attendant produces a bottle of oil. Pours it into his palms, rubs them together. The scent would be jasmine and sandalwood—I specified the blend myself, matched it to what she uses in her stories.
His hands start at her shoulders. Kneading. Working the tension from muscles that have been clenched for years.
She makes another small sound. Relief this time. Her eyes close.
The other two join him. Six hands moving over her body. Professional massage techniques designed to awaken every nerve ending, to make skin hypersensitive, to prepare a body for touch that comes later.
