If I hesitate, if I so much as falter, he might call me back.
And there’s no way in hell I’d refuse.
My body aches for more, even though I’m certain he has a girlfriend or a wife. From the way he was talking on the phone, it sounded like she might be in a hospital or maybe a rehab clinic.
What else could ‘I trust you will keep her in good health mean?’
Several heartbeats later, I open the door and slide into the back seat. Through stuttering words, I confirm my identity, my destination, and hold my breath as the driver starts the engine.
I’m a hundred percent certain that Professor Segul is still watching, but I don’t dare to turn my head toward the front door. Doing so would make me crumble in the face of temptation.
“You alright love?” the driver asks as he pulls out.
“Fine.” I close my eyes and pretend to sleep, hoping he’ll get the hint and leave me alone.
The car continues down the road and makes a left turn into Marina Promenade, where it accelerates. It’s only then that I finally exhale, safe that Professor Segul won’t order me back for more.
I woke up this morning, alone in a strange, leather bed. Everything ached—the limbs he had tied to the furniture, the nipples he’d tortured, and the pussy and clit he had manipulated with back-to-back climaxes.
The pleasure had gotten so intense that my mind collapsed within itself and I’d blacked out.
The worst part of it all was that I loved it.
Loved every moment of humiliation and pain. Even the scene with the bottle and wine had been exhilarating. I’d even gotten my first multiple orgasm. And when he carried me over to the bed and massaged my aches, my heart melted like fondue.
Then he brought me food and took care of me like I was special. I had no idea men could nurture. It had been bliss. But the moment I felt comfortable and loved, he tempted me to do the unspeakable with chocolate fondue.
Arousal surges to my pussy, adding to my slick heat. Who would have thought I’d have an erogenous zone in the back of my throat?
I clutch at my temples, squeeze my eyes shut, and breathe hard through my nostrils. I should be horrified with myself but instead, I’m appalled that I’m not.
Was Dad right?
All those times he’d screamed that women couldn’t love a good man because we were worthless cunts. That women were ungrateful and could only love a man who treated her like shit.
Those words had confused me at first, then caused me anger, but I finally saw him as being bitter at having been rejected.
Dad always said I would turn to trash the moment his back was turned. Now, look at me. The sudden freedom since he disappeared has put my mind in a tailspin.
If I’m not the oppressed daughter of a controlling man, then does that make me the plaything of another?
No. I shake my head for emphasis.
Back then, I might have been a victim but not anymore.
I started this, thinking I could handle a sugar daddy. It was me who had spotted him through the Red Room’s window, me who had opened the door and stepped into the store. Me who had talked myself up as a no-limits slut because he had dismissed me with a glance.
Bloody hell.
Then I escalated it with phone sex and nude texting. When I discovered that the man I’d wanted to date was my professor, I should have backed down, apologized, and found another way to pay for my studies.
But I was never one for having common sense.
Nope.
I doubled down and blackmailed him. I could have chickened out yesterday afternoon, but I trekked across town and yelled outside his home until he let me in.
He gave me chances to leave, to tell him to stop, or even slow down, but I wanted it. Wanted it all, even though my knowledge of kinky sex was restricted to books.