My master chuckles, a low sound that vibrates through the charged air between us. He looks at the pen in his hand, then slowly, deliberately, shifts his gaze to my face. Studies me with pale grey-blue eyes that I still can't fully see in the dim lighting but canfeeldissecting every involuntary response.
"I see this excites you," he observes, his voice carrying that note of dark amusement that suggests he knowsexactlywhy my breathing just changed, exactly what's running through my mind right now, exactly which scene from which story that cheap blue pen is calling back to.
"It's familiar, isn't it?" he asks, his voice deceptively casual. He turns the pen between his fingers—slow, methodical rotations—studying it like it's some fascinating artifact he's never encountered before. Like he hasn't read that scene a dozen times. Like he doesn't knowexactlywhat this particular implement means, what it represents, what I wrote about it in excruciating, humiliating detail.
My throat feels like I've swallowed sand. I swallow hard anyway, trying to work moisture back into my mouth. Then I nod—a jerky, graceless movement that makes the restraints creak.
Then I remember. The rules. His rules.MYrules. No gestures without words.
"Yes, Master," I manage, the words scraping past my lips.
A pause. He's waiting. I can feel the weight of his expectation pressing down on me, patient and inexorable as gravity.
"Refresh my memory," he says finally, and there's a thread of steel beneath the silk of his tone.
This is it. This is where I die. Not from anything he does to my body, but from pure, crystallized mortification. My own words, weaponized against me.
"Scarletta?" My name cuts through the haze of panic.
"Yes, Master." Automatic now. Pavlovian.
"Recite the scene to me." He pauses, lets that command settle into my bones. Then adds, almost conversationally, "It's... one of your best."
Forty-four thousand dollars, Scarletta.The number blazes across my consciousness like a neon sign.Forty-four fucking K. You sold this. You wrote this scene, you put it out into the world for strangers to read and touch themselves to, and now you're going to say it out loud to the man holding that pen.
I draw in a shaking breath.
It's your scene. Your words. Just... fucking say them.
I close my eyes. Open them. The examination light burns into my retinas.
"It's from 'The Appointment,'" I whisper.
"Louder."
"It's from 'The Appointment.'" My voice cracks. "The story where—where the protagonist goes to see her gynecologist and she has this whole elaborate fantasy about him while she's in the stirrups and?—"
"I didn't ask for a summary." His tone is patient. Relentless. "I asked you to recite the scene."
Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh Jesus Christ and every saint who's ever existed.
My face is on fire. My entire body is burning with shame so intense it feels physical, like my skin might actually combust from the sheer mortification of what he's asking me to do.
The thing is—thethingis—that scene wasn't even supposed to be hot. It was supposed to be funny. Absurd. A satirical commentary on the way we sexualize completely inappropriate situations, the way our minds wander during mundane medical procedures, the disconnect between reality and fantasy.
Except apparently I'm shit at funny. Or maybe everyone else is shit at recognizing my brand of humor, because when I posted that story, when 'The Appointment' went live on DarkDesires, the comments section exploded. People loved it. Called it revolutionary. Said it was the hottest thing they'd ever read. That scene—the pen scene specifically—became legendary. Made ScarletSins a name people actually knew on the forum.
And now I have to recite it. Out loud. To the masked man standing between my spread legs holding the exact object I wrote about.
"I'm waiting, Scarletta."
My throat works. Words stick like broken glass.
"She's—" I start, then stop. Clear my throat. "The protagonist, her name is Sindy?—"
Sindy, Scarletta, SINdy? As in ScarletSins? My god…
"Scarletta?"
