Page 39 of Imprisoned

Sending that message feels like diving off a cliff into unknown waters. I’m letting go of every inhibition and embracing my deepest, most scandalous desires.

My heart is pounding so loud I can barely think. What am I doing? But my body is already moving, my breath coming in short gasps as I let myself be carried away by the rising tide of lust.

I shut myself in my room, locking the door. My throat tightens as I undress, peeling off my pajama bottoms and panties together. My skin feels electric, each nerve ending alive and sensitive. I lie on my bed, legs spread, that forbidden image already burned into my memory.

The phone buzzes with a message.

Show me how much.

I bite my lip, poised to protest, but I can’t deny him—or myself. My better judgment is drowned out by a chorus of want.

My thighs part wider, and I feel a rush of wetness between them as I lift the phone, my knees bent. I frame the shot, the camera catching my most private places, and my belly flutters in anticipation of his reaction.

As I snap the photo, I pause, considering the ramifications of my action. This is crossing another line, a new depth of scandal to traverse. I can never take this moment back, but the inferno rages for more fuel.

I just captured a photo of my soaking wet pussy.

I simply stare at the image briefly, struggling to recognize myself. This woman baring herself so wantonly, so brazenly to a clinically diagnosed and violent psychopath, is not the Willow I know. Yet there’s something so liberating in this newfound persona, a secret seductress hidden inside the shell of my professionalism.

With a trembling finger, I press send, releasing my wicked confession into the digital ether.

My body is flushed, and my breath comes in rapid gasps as if I’ve just run a marathon.

The phone chimes, and I jump, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

Fucking hell. You’re so wet for me.

His words spark a fierce desire within.

Wish I could push your thighs apart and bury my face in your sweet pussy right now.

I close my eyes, picturing it, feeling the scandalous pleasure of it, even as my rational mind screams in protest. I type another message.

This is crazy. We can’t keep doing this.

But I don’t want to stop. My fingers are already sneaking between my legs, my toes curling at the possibility of ending this all now while I still can.

His response makes my heart stutter.

I know, but I’m gonna keep corrupting you anyway. It’s become my new favorite fucking pastime.

I can’t hold back anymore. With his words burning on the screen, I circle my clit faster, imagining his mouth there instead of my fingers. The pressure builds quickly, my back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crash through me. I come with his name on my lips, my body shaking with an intensity that leaves me gasping.

As the aftershocks fade, I slump against my bedroom wall. What have I done? More importantly—what am I going to do now?

My thighs still ache from our encounter, a constant reminder of how thoroughly he claimed me on my desk. I close my eyes,but that only makes the memories more vivid - his hands on my skin, his voice in my ear, the way he filled me so completely.

“He’s clinically insane,” I tell myself. “A diagnosed psychopath.”

The words sound hollow even to my own ears. I’ve read his file. I know exactly what he’s capable of—the manipulation, the violence, the complete lack of empathy. And yet...

My body betrays me at the mere thought of him. No one has ever made me feel so alive, desperate, or completely owned. It’s like he’s awakened a beast inside me that I can’t put back to sleep.

I slide down to sit on the floor, pressing my forehead to my knees.

The rational part of my brain, the part that spent years studying criminal psychology, knows this is textbook manipulation. Axel is playing me, using my own desires against me. But knowing that doesn’t change how my body responds to him, how I crave his touch.

I trace my fingers over the marks he left on my neck, hidden beneath my collar. Each bruise is a reminder of my complete surrender to him. There’s no going back now. There’s no pretending this never happened.

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