Page 23 of Writhe
Her body is stiff beneath my hands. Her skin is warm, burning against my fingertips. My pulse slams against my ribs. Too fast, toowrong.
“Five,” the doctor instructs. “Hard ones.”
My hands won’t stop shaking. I’ve never done this before.
Eliza presses her forehead against the plastic cushion of the bench, her breathing shallow—waiting.
I lift my hand. Hesitating.
The Doctor clicks his pen against his notepad. “Theo.”
I bring my palm down.Crack.Eliza jolts. A sharpinhale—wait, there was no sound. Ifeltthat—the heat of it. The way her body tensed, every muscle locking up for a second before she forces herself still.
“Again.”
My vision blurs. I don’t know if it’s shame or something worse.Crack. Eliza shakes. Not a lot, just a little. Just enough. Something dark unfurls in my stomach. My fingers burn. So does she. My body reacts before my mind can stop it—before I can stop myself. Fuck. No.No.I shift my weight, but it only makes it worse. The friction, the tightness, the way my breath shudders in my chest. I don’t want this, but my body does. I don’t know if she feels it. I pray she doesn’t.
“Three more.” The Doctor’s voice is steady. Watching. Studying.
I force my breath out and lift my hand again.Crack. Eliza makes a sound this time. A choked, angry gasp. Like she’s swallowing something. Like she won’t give him the satisfaction.
I close my eyes. I shouldn’t like this. I should be sick with myself—Iam.But my hands are steady now. My skin is on fire, my chest too tight, my pulse hammering low. I bring my hand down again.Crack. Eliza shudders. The sound is soft—quiet—but it digs into me. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my cock to stop reacting, to stop wanting.
I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.
“One more,” the doctor murmurs.
I exhale, shaking. Eliza shifts, her body rigid, herhands gripping the armrest of the bench. I don’t want to, but I do. And that makes me worse than him.
Crack.
I don’t know how long we stay like this. Eliza is still across my lap, her body warm against mine, her breathing slow and measured, like she’s forcing herself to be calm. I don’t move. If I move, she’ll feel how wrong this is. How wrongIam.
The Doctor shifts in his chair, adjusting his notepad. “Good, Theo. You’re learning.”
I don’t answer—I can’t. I feel sick.
“Eliza,” he says, ignoring me now. “You’ll be good for Theo now, won’t you?”
She doesn’t answer.
The Doctor clicks his tongue, amused. “I think she’s learned her lesson.” A pause. “Go on, Theo. Walk her.” He clasps the leash to the collar around Eliza’s neck. The remaining lead falls on the floor beside us.
My stomach twists and Eliza doesn’t move. The air in the room shrinks, pressing against my ribs, tightening around my throat. Walk her. Like a dog. My fingers tremble as I reach for the leash attached to the collar.
“Eliza.”
Her jaw is tight, her shoulders are rigid, but she moves. Slowly, she slides off my lap, her hands pressing into the floor, her breathing sharp and uneven. She doesn’t look at me and I keep my eyes on the leash—on the floor. Not the doctor. Not on her. My mouth is dry. My hands sweat. This isn’t happening. This isn’t me.
But my feet move anyway and Eliza crawls. I don’t know what’s worse—the sound of her hands and knees against the tile, or the way she moves, her back arching slightly, her breathing uneven, like her body is betraying her too.
Like she feels something she doesn’t want to. Like she doesn’t hate this. I keep my steps slow, not making her struggle to keep up as we walk a circle around the room. I can hear the doctor shifting in his seat behind me, the faint rustle of fabric. I don’t have to turn around to know.
I know he’s aroused and it makes my stomach turn. How can a man get off on watching another man degrade and humiliate a woman?
Maybe I should say something to my cock that is currently rock solid.
Guess we are both animals.
