Scarletta doesn't know just how thorough I am… yet.
She will.
"Sold. Lot Number Twelve to Buyer Number Seven for one hundred fifty-seven thousand dollars."
Scarletta's knees buckle slightly. She catches herself.
The announcer's voice turns professional. Courteous.
"Miss Desmond, please exit stage left. Your experience starts now.."
She picks up the white robe, wraps it around herself with shaking hands, and walks off the platform on unsteady legs.
I drain the rest of my whiskey, set the tumbler aside, and stand.
The monitors show her being led down a hallway. Into a private room. The severe woman with the clipboard speaks to her but I've muted the audio.
Don't need to hear it. I know what she's saying.
Your buyer has requested immediate transfer. You'll be transported to his location now. The contract terms have already begun. This is how he wants you presented…
I cross the control room to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the helipad.
It's a beautiful morning. Nearly noon. Twelve hours ago, she had no idea.
Five minutes from now, her understanding will begin.
She'll arrive terrified.
Perfect.
I turn toward the full-length mirror mounted on the opposite wall and study myself. Black boxer briefs cover my raging hard on, bare everywhere else. Ink covers my torso, arms, thighs, back. Every piece of art depicts the same thing.
A woman in submission. Bound, choked, fucked, eaten, displayed by a man in a black ski mask.
Every woman's face, the same face. Wearing an expression between fear and ecstasy.
I commissioned these pieces over the course of many years, one by one, each session lasting hours under the needle. This face of this woman invaded my dreams every single night—the curve of her jaw, the vulnerable slope of her neck, the way her lips would part in surrender.
A fantasy woman I was convinced existed only in my subconscious, some amalgamation of desire I'd never find in flesh and blood.
And then... I saw her writing.
Six months ago. A random link on DarkDesires forum. "Captive" by ScarletSins.
First paragraph and I knew. The voice. The darkness. I read every story she had at the time over the course of three days. Read every comment she'd ever left. Every response. Every fragment of herself she'd scattered across that forum.
I read all her most secret, filthy desires. Things she'd never tell another living soul. Things she was ashamed of craving.
I didn't know what she looked like then. Didn't have a name, an address, a face.
I just knew it was her.
It wasn't until after hiring a private investigator to trace her digital breadcrumbs that I came up with her real name.
Scarletta Mae Desmond.
When I saw photos of her face for the first time from socials, my heart stopped.
