Page 4 of Cruel Master
Alex: It’s time you got on your knees for me. You’ll come to me Friday, and you’ll be my toy for the weekend.
Fuck.
This is where it always starts to go wrong.
I love the fantasy of submitting to a man, but reality never manages to live up to what is in my head. The minute we startdiscussing limits and safe words, my pussy mimics the Sahara Desert. What is the point of submitting when you have all the power anyway?
Stop it. Remember where that line of thinking got you last time?
I rub a finger over the three circular burn scars on my inner thigh and force myself to remember. Trent ticked all my boxes but had a million red flags waving above his head, all of which I chose to ignore. Rushing things. Insisting we meet at his place. Immediately jumping into play without any safety discussion.
I was in heaven, right up to the point he stubbed the lit cigarette out on my thigh. And as I screamed and cried, he did it again. And again.
When he finally untied me, I ran sobbing from his house. The fucker stood in his driveway, arms crossed over his chest, and watched me go. When I screamed out of my car window that I was calling the cops, he smirked.
“Good luck with that. I’ve got screenshots of all the messages you sent begging me to hurt you. They’ll laugh you out of the room.”
I should have been brave and gone to the cops anyway, but I didn’t. I just blocked him on everything and told myself I’d be more careful in the future.
And I have been. Sort of. Most of the time. Two years later, and nothing else bad has happened, anyway. Maybe he was just a poison apple in a barrel of good ones.
My phone buzzes again.
Alex: I just said you’re going to be my fuck toy for the weekend. Don’t make me say it again, or you won’t like the punishment you get.
The familiar shivery thrill runs through my body at his words. Why am I built like this? I want him to punish me. God, I need it.
My clit throbs as I imagine what those words could mean. I start to type “Yes, sir” but force myself to stop. What am I doing?
Don’t rush into this. Be sensible.With a sigh, I type.
Juliet: I want to meet up. But we should have a coffee first. Discuss safe words, etc.
There it is. The Sahara. The thrill I’ve been riding dies as I read the words back to myself. We’ll meet. We’ll talk. I might even go to his place. But the fantasy will be dead, and with it, my interest. Soon, I’ll be ghosting him.
Fuck. I’m messed up.
The answering buzz comes quickly this time.
Alex: You don’t get a safe word. When I say you’re my toy, I mean it, Juliet.
Oh God.
My head fills with images, all of them filthy. The ache between my legs returns threefold, and I squirm on my seat. That’s it. That’s what I want. What I need.
Don’t be a fucking idiot.
I know. I shouldn’t. It’s stupid.
A knock on my window drags a shriek from my lips. I sit up straight and press my legs together before rolling it down to reveal Rob, the security guard. “Sorry. Boss says if you’re not off the roof in five, he’s calling a tow truck.”
That fucking asshole. I manage to nod politely to Rob and start the car. The phone buzzes again, and I snatch it up.
Alex: Don’t keep your master waiting.
Blood rushes in my ears, and I can’t tell if it’s anger or pure adrenaline. My heart pumps, and as I stare at the message, everything else recedes. I want this. I need it.
Fuck it.
