Page 108 of For a Price

He’s savoring this. He’s enjoying making me squirm.

My visual discomfort.

“Lay back,” he says, his voice strangely familiar. “Spread your legs.”

The sob I’ve been holding in bursts out of me. I bite down hard on my tongue and clamp my mouth shut to keep more from pouring out. Then I do as he says. I scoot back on the bed and lay down, parting my thighs. The heavy beat of my heart makes my chest ache. It makes it so difficult to breathe.

“I want you to pleasure yourself. Don’t be shy.”

The request is so specific, so intimate, that more tears roll down my cheeks.

I’d almost rather he take me now. Get it over with.

Anything instead of dragging the moment out like this. Making me pretend I’m feeling good.

“Now,” he adds when seconds go by and I remain stiff as a board.

My hand creeps between my thighs as if I’m unfamiliar with my own body. I’m not sure how to even start with such a twisted command that every movement becomes awkward and hesitant. If I can just pretend, then maybe he’ll be satisfied and I can stop.

My skin heats up for all the wrong reasons. Deep shame and humiliation anchor me to the bed as I touch my pussy and try to make it seem like I’m pleasuring myself.

None of it feels good. None of it even feels like my own touch.

I force a moan out to pretend that it does. Pretend I am enjoying doing this.

He gives no further direction as my fingers explore myself. He simply remains in the armchair and watches the show.

“Mmmm…” I hum again in a fake moan, hoping it sounds real.

Then I can fake an orgasm and pray he’ll leave me alone.

But as my fingers slide in and out of me and I pant and moan, it seems to fall flat.

He slams down his drink and the armchair creaks from his movement. He’s getting up. His footsteps thump on the wooden flooring as he makes it closer to the bed.

The mask intensifies the moment. All I have are the audible clues he gives me.

I freeze up, holding my breath. Hand still between my thighs, I’m not sure what to expect. My skin crawls at the possibility he’ll touch me instead.

“You are pretending,” he says, standing over the bed. He grabs my wrist and lifts my hand from between my thighs. “There will be no pretending.”

A gasp gets stuck in my throat as he replaces my hand with his.

I want so badly to shove his hand away, yet I find I can’t move. I’m paralyzed in place, forced to endure the slow sweep of his fingers along my folds.

His fingers on my clit.

The slow motions he begins, rubbing circles ’til tingly sensations follow.

No.

NO!

I catch my lip between my teeth to block out more frustrated cries. Tension clenches through me, leaving my body stiff as a frightened cat.

Yet there’s no stopping it.

The motions continue. They gather speed.

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