Page 37 of Ruthless Keeper
Oh, fuck.
Chapter Thirteen
Greyson
My pretty little captive spends the next several hours orgasming for me. I keep track every time she comes, curious to see what her limit is, and create a plan to set new limits. There will be days where I only want to edge her, depriving her of an orgasm until she sobs for me. And then, there’ll be days like today, where watching her come helplessly will be my goal.
She takes everything I dish out like a good girl for me. The only protest comes after about three hours, during which I’m too distracted to get much work done, when she insists between sobs that she can’t come again.
I watch her impassively, assessing her body language.
“Monster,” she cries, trembling violently under the vibration. “I…I can’t—”
I reach forward and grab the suction cups on her nipples, releasing the air from them. Her back arches and she releases a cry that could probably be heard all around the compound—if I didn’t have the foresight to soundproof my office—as the blood rushes back into her pretty little nipples, turning them a dark red. I gently pinch them, brows raising when she jerks back and screams.
I guess the suction cups will be fun to use in the future.
“One more,” I tell her. One more orgasm from her will put us at ten, which is more than I expected for the first training session. “One more, and we’re done with this for the day.”
“Ughhhhh…” There are no more tears escaping her eyelids, but sobs still come from her lips. I brush my thumb back and forward over her nipples, playing with them, gently pinching them, and she jerks and cries with each touch. I release one to reach for the remote and slowly dial up the vibrations until they shake her entire body. It only takes a few more seconds before she comes with another resigned cry.
I let her ride out her orgasm, watching her reactions with a mixture of extreme arousal and clinical interest. Her head slumps forward, every one of her breaths shuddering in and out of her, and she looks like she’s just had the most intense workout of her life.
“Good girl,” I murmur. “Good fucking girl. You did so well for me, Scarlett.” I abandon my seat and crouch in front of her, pulling the dildo out of her pussy. She lets out another soft cry, shaking her head.
“We’re done,” I assure her softly, unhooking her mitts from each other and releasing her ankles from the spreader bar. She continues to shudder and moan. Unable to resist, I drag my fingers through her folds. She’s dripping wet, more soaked than I’ve ever felt her, and the satisfaction that blasts through me at her responses is unparalleled. God, she’s perfect for me.
I lift her up from the ground and carry her over to the couch, taking a seat and situating her on my lap. For once, she doesn’t push me away. When I wind her arms around my neck, she clings to me, resting her cheek on my shoulder. A long breath shudders out of me. I played hard with her today, and now I’m reaping the benefits of that. She’s clinging to me the way she never has before, holding me like I’m her lifeline and she needs me. In this moment, she does. I imagine she’s lostto confusion, chaos, and conflicting emotions, and I am more than happy to be her rock.
“You did so well,” I murmur, holding her against my chest and pressing a kiss to her hair. “You’re such a good girl, Scarlett. My perfect, favorite good girl. God…” I press my lips to her hair. She really is perfect for me; the perfect woman and the perfect sub. If we both had the bandwidth to have a scene like this every morning, it’s exactly what I’d do. Make her nice and clingy first thing so I didn’t have to deal with her resistance every step of the way.
But I won’t do that to her. It wouldn’t create the genuine emotional connection I’m looking for—this only forms a solid D/s dynamic, which could be a good building block for an emotional connection, but isn’t everything I want. Only a part of it.
I hold her on my lap, murmuring words of praise, until her trembling softens and her breaths even out. I feel it the moment she slips into an exhausted sleep, and I press another kiss to her temple. I should wake her and take her to shower right now, clean her up, but I don’t have it in myself to wake her up. Instead, I set about cleaning the beautiful mess she made by my desk, thanking God that I had the foresight to get a waterproof pillow cover for the pillow she kneeled on. I strip the pillow case and throw it in my washer, then spray down the floor with disinfectant and clean it. Finally, I grab a pack of baby wipes and kneel beside the couch, spreading Scarlett’s legs and cleaning her up. She stirs a bit and opens her eyes, gazing at me hazily before falling straight back to sleep. I kiss her forehead, cover her with a blanket, and get myself back to work.
She sleeps for a solid four hours, enabling me to blow through the rest of my work for the day. I’m just finishing up when I hear her breaths start to shallow. I frown a bit as I turn to gaze at her, sensing that something’s off. Her brows are furrowed and her lips arethinned; I think she might be having a nightmare. My concerns are confirmed when she lets out a whimper, and a soft, “no,” escapes her lips. Then comes another, louder no, and she starts to writhe on the couch, kicking off the blanket.
I stand from my desk and cross the room, gently grabbing her shoulders. “Scarlett,” I say. “Wake up, baby.”
She doesn’t. She writhes harder, eyes squeezed shut, and lifts her hands, trying to push me off despite the mittens. She’s caught tight in the grip of this dream, and there’s a sinking sensation in my gut. I know she’s most likely dreaming of me, of the cell, and that breaks something inside me. I can’t stand the thought of her having PTSD from something I did to her, even if I did it when I mistakenly blamed her for Sam’s death.
“Scarlett.” My voice is louder. Her lips part around a hoarse, panicked scream, and my heart fuckingbreaks.“Scarlett!”I all but roar, giving her a vicious shake. “Flower, wake the fuck up—”
Her eyes snap open and widen with confusion and concern. Remnants of fear swirl around in those ever-green orbs. She looks me over, brows furrowing, and then her expression falls.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, her voice cracking pitifully over the word. She clears her throat. “Nightmare.”
She lifts her hands to push me off, and her expression crumples into devastation as she sees the mitts. Her arms fall limply to the sides, and a single tear trails a path down her cheek.
“Are you alright?” I ask, then wince at my stupidity.
She shrugs.
“What… what were you dreaming about?” I’m afraid of the answer, but I have to know. I want to know every thought she has, every dream she has, everythingshe is… even when those things are going to hurt me.
After all, I deserve the pain.
Her gaze shutters, and she doesn’t respond. Finally, after several achingly long moments, she says, “Can you take me back to the cell? I’d like to be alone.”
