"Yes." The word is barely a whisper.
"Louder."
"Yes!" It comes out desperate. Broken. "Yes, I think wanting this makes me broken. I think—I think there's something wrong with me. I think normal people don't fantasize about being owned and controlled and—and watched without consent and?—"
His fingers keep moving, so I stop. feeling it. Wanting it. Enjoying it.
"And you think if I really see you—all of you—I'll realize you're damaged goods."
It's not a question.
He's quoting me. My own words from the questionnaire. The section about shame.
Damaged goods.
That's what Derek called me. When I used my safeword. When he ignored it and kept going anyway and then told me I was bad at this, that I didn't know what I really wanted.
"Your ex was wrong."
My breath catches.
He knows about Derek?
"You're not damaged. You're not broken. You're exactly what I want. But you need to stop lying to yourself about what you are."
His fingers slide inside me. Two of them. Deep.
I gasp and my hips buck forward and it's too much and not enough and?—
"What are you, Scarletta?"
I don't know. I don't know what answer he wants.
"I—"
"Say it. The thing you're most afraid of. The truth you hide behind your stories."
No.
Please.
"I'm a—" My voice breaks. "I'm a submissive. I'm—I want to be owned. I want someone to see all the dark parts and want me anyway and?—"
His fingers curl inside me. Finding that spot. The one that makes my vision white out.
"And?"
"And I'm terrified!" The words explode out of me. "I'm terrified you'll see everything and leave anyway because I'm too much, and not enough, and I ruin everything I touch and?—"
He pulls his fingers out.
The loss is devastating.
I actually sob.
"Good girl."
I don't even know how to respond to that. Good girl? I mean, I understand why he's saying it and what it's supposed to convey—I'm his plaything, his little sub, his, his, his to command and control. To collar, to bind, to choke, to fuck, to eat, to display. It's simultaneously degrading and affectionate, but?—
