"Somuch," I breathe. "Somuch, Master. I've been thinking about it since the platform. Since you kissed me on the plank. I can't stop thinking about how you felt pressed against me, how hard you were, how badly I wanted you inside me right then."
"What would you do for it?"
"Anything." The word comes out without hesitation. "Anything you want. Whatever you tell me to do. I'll be good. I'll be so good for you."
His finger traces lazy circles on my lower stomach. Each pass brings him closer to where I need him, but he never quite arrives.
"You were good on the zip line," he says. "I watched you. Watched you conquer your fear. Watched you trust me enough to jump."
"I trusted you."
"I know." He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "I also watched you get wet listening to those voices describewhat they wanted to do to you. Watched your pretty little pussy drip while they talked about fucking your throat and fisting your cunt."
My face burns.
"Did you like that?" His tongue traces the shell of my ear. "Did you like knowing they were watching you? Wanting you?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"Louder."
"Yes, Master. I liked it."
"You liked strange men looking at your naked body."
"Yes."
"You liked hearing them describe how they'd use you."
"Yes, Master."
"Would you let them?" His hand cups my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple. "If I gave permission? If I told you to spread your legs and let all three of them take turns?"
My pussy clenches hard enough that I feel it pulse.
"If you—if you wanted me to," I manage. "If it would please you."
"Such a good answer." He pinches my nipple, rolling it between his fingers until I cry out. "Such a perfect, obedient little slut."
He steps back.
I make a sound of protest that I'm immediately ashamed of—a desperate, needy whine that belongs to someone with no pride left.
But he just watches me with that knowing smile as his hands move to the buttons of his shirt.
He undoes them slowly. Deliberately. Making me watch each one reveal more of the chest beneath. The fabric parts to show tanned skin, defined muscle, and then?—
Tattoos.
God, the tattoos.
They cover his torso in an intricate tapestry of images that makes my breath catch in my throat. I see curves, and shadows, and the woman who looks like me.
He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders and lets it fall to the jungle floor. His chest is a canvas of dark lines and careful shading, depicting scenes that feel hauntingly familiar. A woman bound. A woman kneeling. A woman with her head thrown back in ecstasy.
Me.
All of them are me.
