Page 40 of Deadly Rival

He moans again, and I close my eyes, lips parting as he lets go, splattering sticky fluid across my face, neck, and tits.

“Oh, good girl. Good girl.” It doesn’t come out as mocking this time. I don’t open my eyes. If I keep them shut, it’s not real.

I taste salt on my lips, and they sting. Reality crashes in, popping my bubble. They’re sore because of what he did to me. This isn’t one of my harmless fantasies. He’s my captor, and as I open my eyes, what I see rips any lingering pleasure away.

His phone is clutched in his hand, and he’s wearing the smirk that makes my hands itch to slap him again. “Say cheese.”

He snaps another picture.

That bastard.

He spins the phone around. The photo he took before I realized what he was doing fills the screen and stops my breath. My eyes are closed, my stupid bee-stung lips are parted, and I look, for all the fucking world, as if I’m enjoying myself. What the hell?

He presses buttons. “That’s my new background. Perfect.”

I can’t find a single thing to say.

The rest of the day passes in a haze. I’m naked for all of it, and Sebastian's hands are on me for ninety percent of the time. At least he removes the collar. I even eat naked, picking at a platter of food spread out on the bed.

Once he finally gets bored of the looped video, he hands me the remote and tells me to put on whatever I like. I stare at it, confused as a time traveler confronted with some strange new device. “What?”

He stares between me and the TV. “A TV show or a film. Choose one. If it’s a tricky concept, I can find you an instructional video to watch?”

“No. It’s…” I gesture around the room. “You kidnapped me. I can’t just choose a show. It doesn’t make sense.”

He shrugs and snatches the remote back. “Fine. I’ll choose.”

Then he stretches his long legs out beside me on the bed and chooses a thriller.

He forces four more orgasms on me and follows up by painting me with his own each time. Either he’s got the stamina of a marathon runner, or he’s been deprived as long as I have.

I’m yawning by seven and dozing off by eight. Every time I try to needle my brain into thinking about my predicament, it shuts down. Too much has happened, Sebastian is invading every inch of my personal space, and all I can focus on is what his hands are going to do next. I’m freshly showered, my skin clean, but his scent is everywhere. On me, around me.

I’m drowning in it.

My eyes slip closed again, and when I force them open, he’s watching me. His thumb brushes over my cheek. “Time to get you set up for bed, pet.”

I’m in bed. I’ve been in bed for hours. He nudges me with his shoulder. “Go on. Brush your teeth, all the usual stuff.”

I should snap back, but I’m far too tired. I trudge to the bathroom. As I brush, a few bumps and bangs grab my attention. A tight, anxious thread pulls me out of my daze.

What now? I open the door.

On the floor, next to the bed, is a monstrosity that clashes so horribly with the tasteful decor it hurts my eyes. A giant pillow, pink and white striped with a frill all around the edge.

I take a step forward, trying to make it make sense. Then I see the name embroidered in loopy script across the top.

Ophelia.

Seventeen

Sebastian

I’d love to filmher reaction to the bed, but I’m annoying myself with my constant need to record Ophelia. I’ll just have to remember this the old-fashioned way.

Ironically, the revolting bed is one of the most expensive items in my apartment. It turns out custom-made memory foam beds cost a lot, and persuading a reputable luxury craftsman to upholster it like a five-year old’s drawing costs even more. It’s sized to allow her five-foot-seven frame to stretch out and should give her an excellent rest.

If she can get over the shame of actually sleeping on it.

---