The books are better in that way.
I can use my imagination to really think about whether or not it’s me. But I don’t just want to use my imagination anymore. I need to know if I’m the only one out there who thinks about this. I can’t be, right? I mean, there are literally thousands of books written in the dark romance genre every year. So I can’t be.
Searching away, I click through website after website until I stumble upon one that looks like it might be exactly what I want. I click on it, holding my breath. The background is dark, why wouldn’t it be, but it’s simply a chat room. No pictures. No videos allowed.
Intrigued, I scroll through a few of the pages and check them out. There are pages that are blocked off unless you join, which makes sense, but the ones I can see are exactly what I want. Posts like…
Rape me.
Whip me until I bleed.
Make me your pet for the day.
That last one holds zero interest for me, but to each their own. I hit the first one, and I skim through the comments, the careful setup of fantasies and locations, what the OP wants done to them explicitly. But it still feels all too planned out—too manufactured.
Sighing heavily, I sit back in the chair and tap my fingers on the edge of the desk. This isn’t it.
I have to dive deeper.
Chapter 5
February 14 - Hour 3
“You’re such a dirty little slut, aren’t you?”
A sweet, amused chuckle reaches my ears and sends another wave of pleasure coursing through my body. I release those leather-clad fingers from my lips under duress, but I want more.
So much more.
I feel like a dirty little slut, and you know what, it feels fucking amazing. Impossibly, my pussy grows slicker with every step my captor takes. The sound of their shoe hitting the cement is a cinch in the collar of anticipation and pleasure, and I can’t wait for whatever’s next.
Another step.
A shiver runs through me. What will they do?
A crunch of a pebble underfoot.
Because if it’s as good as that last orgasm, I might find out if it’s possible to pass out from pleasure.
“Pay attention, slut.” Wet leather slaps against my ass.
I suck in a sharp breath and hold it. Every nerve in my body is on fire with waiting. What touch? What slide of fingers? What pressure will I find against my cunt that will send me off into the blissful fantasy I’ve dreamed of for years?
“How many men have you let touch you like this?” The demand is sharp, still mechanical, some device obviously changing the sound of their voice.
I shiver. “N-never.”
“Not even your husband?” A slide of that leather-clad palm across my back leaves a wake of heat before it vanishes.
“No.”
“Does he know how dirty you really are?” That voice is right in my ear, their breath brushing across my skin.
My nipples harden again. I rock forward on my toes, the floor still wet around my feet from where I squirted everywhere. I wish I had something to rub against, something to find that pressure I’m seeking.
“No,” I whisper, but even I can tell that my voice sounds far stronger now than it did before. I’m not as scared anymore. I just want to be touched, to be fucked, to be broken—shattered into a million little pieces and sewn back together again.
“Liar.”
