Trying so fucking hard to control herself.
I can see it in the way she's clenching her jaw. The way her hands are fisted at her sides instead of reaching for them. The way she's staring at some fixed point on the far wall, refusing to look down at what they're doing to her body.
Fail, baby.
Give in.
Let them make you come.
I want to see it.
Want to see what you look like when you surrender to strangers touching you, pleasuring you, working you over like a team of professionals whose only job is getting you wet and desperate.
And then later—hours from now, when you're deep in the jungle thinking you've escaped me—I'll drag you back by your hair and punish you for it.
Spank that perfect ass until you're sobbing apologies for letting other men make you feel good.
Use your own weakness against you.
Make you beg for forgiveness while I fuck you so hard you forget your own name.
I'm not jealous.
Jealousy would imply I've lost control, that something's happening outside my orchestration, that she's choosing them over me.
None of that is true.
I told them exactly what to do to her. Where to touch. How to position her body so every camera angle captures her face, her hands, the moment she breaks.
I own this.
I own her.
I own every second of pleasure they're about to give her, because I'm the one who scripted it.
The dark-haired one pinches her nipple and she gasps, arching into his hand.
The blonde one hooks his fingers into her panties, dragging them down.
"Look at you," he whispers, running one finger through her folds. "Already so wet for us."
She whimpers.
The tall one's hand finds her other breast, kneading roughly while his mouth works against her neck.
They're coordinating beautifully—three sets of hands, three different sensations, overwhelming her nervous system until she can't think straight.
Can't resist.
Can't do anything but feel.
And then the dark-haired one guides her backward.
Toward the centerpiece of the staging suite.
The tub contraption.
I almost laugh watching her eyes go wide when she sees it.
