Page 21 of Lethal Torture

Just like when he watched me earlier through the camera lens, his stillness is uncanny. It’s like the heavy atmosphere of the sky when a storm is coming. I can sense Luke’s power, but not by a single flicker of his eyelids does he betray it.

And that mastery turns me on more than anything ever has in my life.

Unlocks a sudden, fierce arousal that I’m powerless to fight.

It takes every ounce of my infamous self-control to maintain eye contact.

Usually my arousal in this chair is a shallow, practical affair. A performance that has nothing to do with genuine desire. My goal is never to titillate the watching men.

It’s to humble them. To break them. They always crack, whether before or after they blow into their own hand.

But tonight, the body I mastered long ago is betraying me.

Luke’s eyes remain on my own, unwavering and uncompromising.

Heat curls along my spine, delicious and forbidden.

Rocco continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil. It’s never about the woman for him. Rocco just gets off on the game. In his own way, he is just as disassociated as me.

Except that tonight, I’m losing my disassociation really fucking fast.

Luke’s eyes don’t move. Not down toward Rocco’s head, nor to the screens on either side of me, which show a close-up of Rocco’s tongue stroking my folds, pushing me toward an orgasm that, for once, I am desperate to have.

Don’t clutch the chair.

I never bind my hands. Another part of this game is to leave my fingers visibly loose, relaxed, proof of how little I care what is being done to me.

But right now it’s an effort not to grip the arms, to writhe in the chair.

And I’m uncomfortably aware that my nipples beneath the corset are hard as berries.

Not that Luke would know, since he hasn’t so much as looked at them.

Crack, you bastard.

I’ve never had a straight man last this long without a reaction.

Most squirm until they can’t take it anymore and finally reach for their cock.

The bolder simply start pumping themselves straight away, their eyes glued between my legs.

There are those who beg to fuck me. Those who threaten to rape me senseless. Those who angrily demand someone come and suck them off.

But in the end, they all come.

And then, faced with my silence and psychopathic stillness, they all break.

Captain fucking Macarthur doesn’t even have a visible hard-on.

And yet I know he’s turned on.

I can sense it.

Feel the carefully restrained power, the heat simmering beneath his surface control.

I want to turn that heat up until he can’t take it anymore.

I want to see him fucking break.