Page 29 of Under Fyre

I can’t decide what I like more. Her obvious humiliation, or the feel of her silky lips when I run my fingers over her skin to check if I’ve missed a spot.

When I run my fingers even lower, closer to her asshole, her muscles contract.

“Gideon, please, not—”

I don’t have to be a fucking deviant to know a slap stings so much more on wet flesh. Charlotte loses her grip on her ankles, her hips crashing down onto the bed as she lets out a ragged gasp of pain.

“Hands and knees, Toy. And don’t make me tell you to spread those fucking legs again.”

She scrambles up, and from the brief look I get at her face, she’s relieved that we don’t have to maintain eye contact anymore.

I wonder what she sees on my face.

Do I look any different from how Monroe looked when he did this to her?

I rinse the razor, my lips twisting angrily. I briefly consider getting another shot of liquor, but the thought of that sickly sweet taste on my tongue makes it easy to reject the suggestion.

When I tell her to spread her cheeks, Charlotte drops her chest to the bed and lets out a muffled sob against the sheets.

A slap to her ass brings her hands around in a flash. Her fingers dimple her flesh as she slowly parts herself for me.

Christ, I never thought this would be so fucking trying.

The urge to squeeze her, to shove a finger—mydick—inside her is nearly impossible to overcome.

But Peter was clinical with this procedure, and I don’t dare let myself go off script. Not until Charlotte’s anxiety reaches just the right level. She needs to be right back there in Peter’s basement. Her mind needs to dig deep to access those buried memories…and only once we make that contact—

So instead of laying a firm hand on her backside, perhaps leaving a big, red, handprint with a solid slap, I shave every inch of Charlotte.

My Toy.

It’s difficult, thinking of her like that. Like an object. Something to be used, discarded. But if I can maintain that thought concept, perhaps the rest of these triggering events we’re reenacting won’t be so trying.

When I touch her with the warm, damp towel, she shivers.

But doesn’t let go of her grip.

Because she’s a good little toy.

I wipe her gently, thoroughly, cleaning every trace of shaving cream off her skin. And in the process, discover just how fucking wet she is.

JesusfuckingChrist.

“Down on your stomach, Toy.” I leave her side, carrying my utensils into the bathroom and emptying the bucket in the sink.

I keep her in my periphery, watching for any sign that she might be going over the edge.

But maybe this procedure wasn’t as traumatic for her as the games Peter played. She definitely didn’t react like I thought she would. Her body’s response to the stimulation—her inadvertent arousal—that’s to be expected. I’m sure that happened when Peter handled her too.

When I come out and head back to the nightstand to fetch something new out of the bag, Charlotte rolls her head to the side and whispers, “Gideon?”

I give her a sideways glance. A few strands of hair are plastered onto cheeks damp with tears, but her gaze is unwavering.

“Toy?”

Her lips tighten. “I need the bathroom.”

“And I need to come inside your tight little pussy.” The words slip out from somewhere unknown. Charlotte’s face goes slack, a tremble of panic on her lips.

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