"You make me feel this way."
There is amusement in his voice as he says, "I know."
"What about you, Sir?"
"Your pleasure is for me." He adds a third finger and it's unbearably snug inside me, so when he starts to move all three with the talent of a well-oiled machine, I'm blanketed in stars. "I need to stretch you. You're tiny. You have a little hole and a small frame. Every time I fuck you, you end up sore, and I need your body ready to accept mine. I need you weeping the moment you feel me, hear me, see me. I need you ready to take me. You will be shaped to fit my cock, walking around with my cum filling your knickers—"
My orgasm rips through me with a husky cry. "Oh." I pulse around his fingers as he rubs and wrings my climax from me. "Sir,sogood."
His cock bucks with bruising need between us, but he is the master of control, ignoring his obvious arousal. With the gentle massaging motion of his fingers sliding leisurely in and out of me, he brings me down from my second orgasm instead of thrusting into me like I know he wants. He hasn't taken me in such a way in weeks. Not since I saw the recording and watched my body being used like a toy by my foster brothers.
I squeeze my eyes at the thought. Focus on him. He peppers kisses over my face as he says, "You haven't had many pleasures in your life, sweet girl. I promised to spoil you. I'll spoil your sweet pussy for attention."
I roll my head on the ottoman, groaning.
His kisses gently bring me down from the wave of pleasure I'm riding. They simmer with sentiment as my muscles unfurl and relax to the reverent affection.
Looking at him again, I tilt my head to see his are now closed, his dark brows pinched, his lips a tender rushing stream over my skin.
Then they are gone, and he is standing with me in his arms. A weightless extension of him. He walks me over to the bed and lays me down on the mattress, placing a hand either side of my head. And I know this routine.
"What will you do today?" he asks, and I deflate, knowing he'll be gone all day and I'll wait for him. "Don't look so sad, sweet girl."
I break our gaze, looking absently into a corner of the room. "What can I do?"
"Anything you want."
"You won't let me leave the house."
He grips my jaw gently, moving my face until my eyes relent and meet his—crystal-clear blue orbs bordered by dark lashes. Breathtaking. Commanding. "We have been over this."
"I know," I say, disappointment coiled around my tone. "I know.It's not safe.I guess I'll have more clothes brought up, or perhaps I'll cook that pork belly again or watch another movie or hang out with Jas—"
His brows weave. "This doesn't please you?"
"I should be grateful," I mutter honestly, although the humility is seemingly a tatted echo in my mind. I want to want things. I want to demand them. Yet, there is this voice, the same outdated voice, a small and breathy resonance, that reminds me to accept, to shrink myself, to fit in.
He steels. Then pushes off the bed, striding over to the dressing room, the lights growing at his presence. "I'm taking care of you, little deer." He speaks to the room as he dresses. "What do you want? Use your voice. Tell me."
I sit up and watch him. "I don't know."
His phone comes to life, cutting through the air like a knife severing our conversation. I frown as he stares at it. "Whatever you desire, I will do. Think about what you want." He grabs his suit jacket and the phone as it rings perpetually.
Then he approaches the bed, leaning down on his hands, his shoulders rolling, his chin dipping so his lips can take mine. His intent is a quick, firm, breathtaking kiss, but I know this, so I cup his strong jaw to demand more than a moment of goodbye. Deepening the motion of his lips, I channel all my want into them until a groan moves through his throat.
He breaks our kiss, his lips hovering close, commanding mine to stay still as he talks against them. "I want a list. Think on it. You will tell me what you want, sweet girl, and I promise to give it to you.”
He vanishes through the door, and I'm left confused. I don’t know what I want. Does he think I'm withholding something? Is that a thing? Like the charades of my intentions?
I don’t know who I am.
How am I supposed to know what I want?
* * *
The waterof the swimming pool ripples as I swing my legs through it and watch distractedly as the substance twinkles and moves below the sun.
What do I want?