Mine.
Other girls. Other girls who disappeared.
I’m playing a dangerous game.
“Anastasia.”
I’m learning that when he says my name and not one of my nicknames, the danger is approaching. That he’s getting impatient, too angry to play games with me. That I can’t stall any longer.
Slowly, I reach for my skirt, pulling it partway up my thighs.
“Higher.”
I pull it up a little more, another inch.
Alexandre lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not playing a game with you, Anastasia.” His voice doesn’t sound aroused, just irritated. “You know what I want to see, and you know that I know what you’ve done. So raise your skirt up to your hips, and spread your thighs. If you were shameless enough to orgasm here in my study, you’re shameless enough to show it to me.”
I don’t dare disobey him again.
My hands are shaking when I clutch my skirt and lift it up, all the way up to my hips, spreading my thighs wide. Wide enough for my pussy to open up, for him to see everything in the glowing light. The glistening moisture on my thighs, my folds, my flushed clit. Everything, bare and vulnerable to him.
Part of me wants him to react. To lose control. To be overcome with desire the way I was, and grab me, shove me back onto the rug. To eat me out, strip me bare, fuck me. To make mehis, the way he keeps saying I am.
To stop being so detached, so cold. So dismissive even when he’s clearly turned on.
I can see him getting hard again as he looks at my bare, exposed pussy. His cock is thickening as I watch, straining against his pants. He hasn’t changed, still in the black suit trousers and white button-down shirt that he’d worn out earlier with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair looks messier now around his handsome, stern face.
His piercing blue eyes drag upwards, all the way up to mine.
“You’ve been a bad girl,” he says, his voice cool, detached. As if it doesn’t matter to him, all of the earlier anger faded. “I told you last night to touch yourself. I knew you needed it, and you deserved it. You were well-behaved, even when Yvette tormented you. Were you a good girl today,petit?”
I swallow hard, my mouth going dry. I shake my head slowly.
“Answer me.”
“No, sir,” I whisper. And there it is again, the flush of arousal, turning my skin pink and making me wet.
Alexandre looks down. “You’ve made a wet spot on my rug,” he observes. “So horny that you’ve made a mess.” His eyes narrow. “Did I tell you that you could come when I left you here?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you think that I didn’t know you were aroused?”
“No, sir,” I whisper again. “I mean—I think you knew. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t you think I would have told you if I wanted you to come,petit poupée?”
His little doll. His to dress and undress, bathe and comb, feed and pet and allow pleasure when it suits him.
His to deny, when it suits him, too.
It should make me angry, not aroused. It should make me want to fight back.
But all I feel is a desperate, aching need to please him and an even deeper ache that can’t be satisfied with just my fingers. An ache forhim. To please him in every way, so that maybe he’ll be happy with me.
So that maybe he could love me.
I want so badly to be loved.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again.
“Not sorry enough to not still be dripping all over my rug.” Alexandre waves a hand, sitting back on the couch. “Do it.”
I stare at him, startled, my hands still clutching my skirt.He can’t mean it.
His eyes narrow at me as he leans forward, fixed on mine.
He can’t.