Page 17 of Twisted Love

“I didn’t pay for a half show,” he says coldly, his eyes narrowing. “Strip. Then touch your boobs. Squeeze them. Show me what I’m paying for. Convince me it’s worth it.”

My breath catches. He is determined to get his pound of flesh. With gritted teeth, I force my hands to move. The hoodie catches briefly on my hair before I tug it free, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. I stand there, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, refusing to let my vulnerability show. My eyes meet his, daring him to look away—but he doesn’t. His gaze is locked on me, piercing and unrelenting.

My hands slide up to cup my breasts, the weight of them heavy in my palms. My fingers tremble slightly, but I dig my nails into my resolve, refusing to falter.

I squeeze them gently at first, my thumbs grazing over my nipples, hard against the chill of the room. His gaze darkens, eyes fixed on every movement like a predator locked onto its prey.

“More,” he commands, his voice low and edged with impatience. “Don’t make me wait.”

My stomach twists, but I do as he says, rolling my nipples between my fingers, a reluctant heat pooling in my belly. His breathing grows heavier, the tension between us thick enough to choke on.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his lips curling into a smirk that makes my skin crawl and ignite all at once. “This is what you’re made for. Now keep going.”

His words make me freeze. Humiliation wells up, sharp and suffocating. I feel like a piece of meat on display, but I force myself to breathe. He won’t see me crack. He won’t get the satisfaction I want to see skin.”

My hands move to the hem of my hoodie, gripping the fabric tightly to still the slight tremor in my fingers. I lift it slowly, peeling it away from my body, the cool air brushing against my skin as it rises.

He leans back against the headboard, his eyes roaming over me with a mixture of hunger and something darker, something colder. His jaw tightens, and I can see the way he fights against his own desire. The tension between us is electric, charged, and I hate the way it makes me feel.

I unclasp my bra, letting it fall. My breasts feel heavy under his gaze, my nipples hardening against the cool air. His eyes darken, and for a moment, he seems lost in the sight of me.

“Happy now?” I ask, my voice sharp, cutting through the silence.

“Not yet,” he says, his smirk returning. “But I’m getting there.”

His words linger in the air, sharp and cutting, as if daring me to push back.

“Cup them,” he commands, motioning lazily with his hand, his voice low and edged with impatience. “Squeeze them. Take that skirt off as well. Finger yourself.”

My breath catches. Heat rushes to my face, but I force myself not to hesitate.

“I’m getting bored,” he taunts. “Don’t forget, at any point, this agreement can end. I’m afraid you’ll have to work for the money you want, honey.”

My jaw tightens as a storm of emotions churns inside me—humiliation, defiance, and something I can’t fully name. I do as he says, but make sure my movements are mechanical and deliberately unsexy. Even so, his eyes darken with a hunger that’s barely restrained. As I take my skirt off, I notice my fingers trembling slightly so I clench my teeth to steady them.

“Take off your skirt, sit on that chair, open your legs wide, and finger yourself,” he commands.

I should have felt a mix of hate, anger and shame, but infuriatingly, I feel unbelievably excited and turned on as I pull my skirt down, the fabric brushing my thighs. The silence is broken only by the sound of my own shallow breathing and the rustle of my skirt pooling on the floor.

“Do go on,” he approves, a wolfish grin appearing on his face.

My heart is pounding in my chest. I can feel his eyes on me, unrelenting, watching every movement I make. But what is worse is the heat pooling in my stomach. I hate the way my body betrays me even now. Even put to this unthinkable humiliation I can’t seem to stop my body from responding to him.

“Look at you,” he taunts. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

“No,” I snap, the word almost a growl. But the way my body shakes betrays me. I can feel the flush spreading across my skin, the tightening in my chest as I fight to maintain control.

“You can’t even lie properly,” he mutters, his mockery vanishing. “Take a seat and get on with the show, I haven’t got all night.”

I perch at the end of the chair and slowly open my legs.

“Damn! How wet your little cunt is. It’s dripping,” he notes interestedly.

I glare at him, but say nothing. What can I say? It is the truth. I am so aroused my sex is wet and throbbing wildly.

“Lean back,” he orders, “and raise your legs up in a V shape.”

I obey, exposing my pink flesh completely to him.

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