My masked man is watching right now. Probably on a dozen screens. Probably stroking that massive cock of his while three strangers touch me in a bathtub built like a gynecological nightmare.
This is his fetish.
Voyeurism.
I've written about it in—god, how many stories? Twelve? Fifteen? The protagonist watched through hidden cameras, touched by strangers while her captor observes from somewhere else, getting off on her humiliation, her helplessness, her?—
"Fuck," I whimper.
The attendant between my legs increases pressure. His thumb works my clit in tight circles while his fingers tease my entrance. Not penetrating. Just... threatening to.
The one at my breast leans in and whispers, "You're so wet, beautiful. We can feel it."
I am. God, I'mdripping. The water around my thighs probably has my arousal floating in it like some kind of sick evidence of exactly what I am.
A slut who gets wet when strangers touch her.
A broken girl who craves this.
I could come right now. Right this second. His thumb is in exactly the right spot, the right pressure, the right rhythm. Mypussy is clenching around nothing, desperate,beggingto be filled.
But I hold it.
Because I don't know what he wants.
Does he want me to come? To lose control in front of these men while he watches from wherever he is?
Or does he want me to be strong? To deny myself? To prove I'm saving myself for him?
I don'tknow.
The attendant washing my hair rinses it, his fingers massaging my scalp with firm, possessive strokes. The one at my breast soaps down my ribs, my stomach, my hips. The one between my legs?—
His finger slides inside me.
Just one. Just to the first knuckle. But enough to make me gasp, and arch, and nearly come on the spot.
Then he withdraws.
The water starts draining. It quickly lowers to knee level, then stops with a weirdglugsound. "What's happening?" I ask, trying to sit up and look around.
One of the men shushes me, pushing me so my back is resting against the stone tub.
A mechanical noise—then my hips begin to lift out of the tub. Again, I try and sit up. Trying to figure out what the hell is happening.
And again, the attendant gently—but firmly—pushes me back.
I'm lifted.
Not by hands—by thetub itself.
My hips rise out of the water with a mechanicalwhirrthat sounds like something from a sci-fi horror movie. The stone beneath my lower back tilts up, up, up, raising my pelvis while the rest of me stays submerged to my ribs.
Then the stirrups swing wide.
Metallic clicks. One after another.Click-click-click-click—like some medieval gynecological Transformer unfolding for battle.
Oh my god.
