Page 44 of I'm sorry, Princess

Only I haven’t.

Because he didn’t.

Because he chose not to.

Humiliation hits me like a truck, fast and brutal. I don’t know if I want to cry, scream, or crawl into a hole and stay there forever. I move to the door, peeking out like a criminal, praying no one’s standing outside.

What if someone heard me?

Oh my Gosh.

I moaned his name.

Loudly.

What if the guard was outside the whole time? What if someone walks by right now and smells what I smell, sex. Raw, unfulfilled, pathetic sex. Well… not sex.

I was shameless.

He was merciless.

And now I’m stuck in the aftermath of something I can’t even name.

I spray perfume around the office like I can erase what just happened, like I can drown it in vanilla and rosewood and pretend I’m still that composed girl who walked in here thinking she was in control.

I glance at the desk, where he had me bent over, legs shaking.

And then I see it.

The camera.

High in the corner.

CCTV.

Freaking hell.

I freeze, stomach dropping to my feet.

That footage exists. There might be video proof of me moaning, whimpering, grinding, begging. I want to throw up. I want to scream. I want to punch him in the face.

Freaking hell.

If my parents ever find out what just happened, they won’t kill me, they’ll erase me from existence. Fired? That’s inevitable. Exiled? Possibly. But knowing my father, he’d rather bury me under the patio and plant roses over the crime scene.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My father asked me, explicitly, to report on every interaction with him. The devil in a black t-shirt. The man whose name I now refuse to say because it tastes like shame and sex and humiliation all at once.

What am I supposed to tell my father?

“Hey Dad, today’s session went really well. I begged your prisoner to fuck me, got spanked over his desk like a schoolgirl in detention, and came close to orgasm before he left me dripping and humiliated.”

Yeah. Great chat. Over dinner, maybe.

Redness floods my face again, that molten-hot kind of shame that sticks to your bones. My stomach coils at the memory, the way he bent me over, his belt cracking againstmy skin, the way he slid his fingers inside me like he owned my body.

Shoo, devil thoughts. Shoo.