Page 113 of Bared Betrayal
I have also been attending group therapy sessions with other survivors dealing with PTSD. This group is a little more tailored to those whose trauma has also led to some intense kinks. It’s a safe space for us, and it has helped me really come out of my shell and deal with, well, everything. It’s a touch-and-go process. Some days are better than others, and I still visit Maya almost every week.
Elenor was recently arrested for tax evasion. Another thing Gabriel swears he had nothing to do with. Last I heard, she was bragging about being in the same jail as Martha Stewart. I haven’t bothered keeping tabs on Sebastian’s career. I wish him nothing but the best, but he is no longer my problem.
“You ready, baby girl?”
I bite my lip and nod.
We walk into the glass room—the same room where he had me tied to the St. Andrew’s Cross a while back. Several guests are already standing and waiting, all wearing masks. Some men are seated on high-backed lounge chairs while their women are perched on their laps or kneeling at their feet. By the end of tonight, I expect most of those women will be sucking or fucking the men who own them.
I can feel the eyes of everyone on me as I go to stand next to large porcelain containers filled with fresh paint. Red. Green. And of course, cobalt blue. A shudder of excitement moves through me just thinking about what Gabriel is going to do with it.
Gabriel walks from behind a curtain, and he looks mouthwatering wearing nothing but a pair of jeans hanging low on his hips. The last thing we want is to get paint on one of his expensive suits.
He eases his hand into the front of my coat, and my skin prickles as he peels it off me, letting it pool around my black stiletto heels.
My insides twist into knots as I watch him take me in. “What do you think?” I ask, and he licks his lips.
“I’m thinking these people are going to be disappointed because this show is going to be over real quick.”
I’m wearing a pink bondage harness around my waist, straps enclosing my upper thighs with little pink bows attached to the straps that cross down my ass. It comes with matching cuffs, the restraints dangling down the sides.
He takes a finger and gently brushes it against my bare pussy lips, causing my pulse to pick up the pace. “I want you to get more of these,” he whispers. “One in every goddamn color available.”
“Yes, sir.”
He takes my hand and pulls me close, slamming his lips against mine, kissing me as if he’s using his last breath to do so. My life has changed since being with him. I’ve never felt this free. He has managed to fling open the gates of my inhibitions and show me how to embrace my true self. I don’t know where I would have ended up if it wasn’t for him.
I move to the canvas and step on the little stool at the bottom. Metal poles hang from the ceiling with leather cuffs attached, and Gabriel secures my wrists to it, then gently eases his fingers down my back.
“What is your safe word, baby girl?”
“Shadow.”
“Good girl.” He slides his hand between my legs, rubbing my sex through the lace. “We haven’t even started yet, and you’re soaked,” he rasps, and I’m practically panting already.
His hand is on my back again, and with slight pressure from his wrist, he pushes me forward, pressing my front flush against the canvas. I press my forehead down and close my eyes. Inhale. Exhale.
The wet flogger strikes my back, and with the sting, I feel drops of paint splatter across my skin. It doesn’t hurt too much. This part isn’t about pain. This is about warming my skin, getting it used to the impact and allowing my blood to rise to the surface of my flesh.
Another strike, and I suck in a breath. Gabriel continues to flog me gently, wiping away my inhibitions with each stroke.
I can feel the paint seeping into my pores, melting like a waterfall down my back. I imagine the explosion of color on my back, how everywhere his whip lands is left with brilliant splashes of color—reds, greens, and blues portraying an inspirational work of abstract art on my body.
He mixes his strokes, from sensuously light to firmly powerful, slowly pushing me to pleasure. His onslaught comes harder and faster, sending waves through me as they impact my skin. My blood is rushing, and my heart is pounding in a steady beat.
He stops, and I feel him close behind me, his breath skidding along my sensitive flesh.
“Every man here has his cock out,” he murmurs, and I lean my head back. “I bet the thought of fucking you has their dicks coated with precum. You like it, don’t you, others watching you? Desiring you. Wanting your cunt.”
“No, sir.” It’s part of our little game. If I say yes, he punishes me for being a slut. If I say no, he punishes me harder for being a lying slut.
“Did you just lie to me?”
“No, sir,” I say.
“Are you telling me that if I reach between your legs right now, you aren’t going to be dripping wet thinking of other men’s cocks in their hands?”
His hand is between my legs before I can answer, his fingers pulling the lace panties to the side, sliding easily inside me.
