Page 10 of Sweet Torture (Torture Games #1)

EIGHT

NAZ

S omething strange is happening inside me.

I am slouched on my favorite chair in my studio, or better known as my playhouse.

I place my hand on my stomach to still the fluttering inside.

It has been years since I have felt…insecure.

Visions of a defeated and bruised girl flash through my mind.

I hate being enveloped in self-loathing.

It makes me weak. I shimmy my shoulders and pull myself together before I spill any coffee from my trembling cup.

This is not my first sexy rodeo, riding a rebellious bull. My other playthings wanted to experience all I had to offer. And more. But I was unwilling to break my edicts for anyone. In my kingdom, you play by my rules or not at all.

Then why do I find myself toying with the idea that Griffin might be different?

Yes, he creates this sense of a beautifully filthy free fall into lust and desire. But so does a powerful BOB on a good day.

No, it must be more than this unnerving sensation he produces between my thighs.

I find myself contemplating bending the rules for a certain individual for the first time in a very long time.

That fact alone should scare me more than anything else.

The only way to keep control is to adhere to the rules.

They were created for a reason, and it isn’t just to protect my sub.

It is to protect my heart and body from past transgressions.

Whether I am the one wielding the whip or not, I can never go back there again.

I take a sip of coffee and peruse my surroundings.

I decided to come straight to my playhouse after leaving Griffin’s home.

It felt right to decompress in familiar surroundings.

Only now, I see the stark differences between the spaces.

His place is somber and depressing. Mine has light streaming through the opened heavy burgundy curtains.

By day, this vast open space has sunlight filtering in and reflecting off various buckles and steel hardware.

I outfitted the room with numerous key pieces of furniture.

My Kamasutra couch doubles as a reading nook on my days alone.

The wall of dark oak closets hides my meticulously organized equipment and numerous bondage ropes.

Even my St. Andrews cross is stylishly draped with various muted scarves. It doesn’t have to look scary to still be effective. Just look at me.

Besides, the red marks left behind by my whip complement the sinister paisley patterns beautifully. The cross is rarely used and cleverly disguised, in my opinion. I like to be underestimated – and undefeated.

It makes the power exchange all the more significant.

In my experience, fear comes in all colors. And mine is manifested in Merlot Red, Prussian Blue, and a smidge of Emerald Green.

Though not as dark as the walls in Griffin’s home, the blue walls create an illusion of a smaller space, which plays tricks with the mind of a naked, hyperventilating man. The green nylon rope creates a beautiful contrast of hues on skin, changing color under my formidable touch.

A king-sized bed takes center stage with intricate carvings on the bedposts and leather cuffs dangling from them. The crimson bedding creates a sense of luxury and abundance with accents of gold and a bowl filled with condoms on the bedside table.

But the space also contains a functional kitchen with a spacious pantry and numerous medicinal remedies.

A gigantic claw tub is stationed next to the double shower through the door in the opposite corner. A cabinet with various Epsom bath salts and healing oils completes the picture .

A picture-perfect setting to inflict intense pleasure and punishment.

As I said before, I don’t get off on pain, but controlling one’s pleasure is the closest to heaven one can get. Obedience creates euphoria unmatched by any other earthly emotion. That was until I met Griffin.

If the terrified expression of his assistant is anything to go by, he garners fear in most individuals. Except me.

The only emotion I feel when I look at him is an aching sense of possession. Something that I have not experienced with my other lovers.

What if he decides that yesterday wasn’t enough to convince him that I know what he needs?

I touch my slightly bruised lips and shake my head in recognition of the impossibility of that fact. It must have been enough. In fact, I bet that was the best orgasm he has ever had. He was clay in my hands, allowing me to mold him into a being dependent on my touch and attention.

My eyes wander to the clock on the wall. It is getting late. I need to move if I don’t want to be late for our date. See, there I go again. I don’t date my subs or see them socially. I need to stop thinking like this.

I jump from my chair and spill a few drops of coffee in my haste.

It is time for lunch, and there is no way I am going to be late for this appointment.

I show up a few minutes before one at his office and wave at his assistant, who sighs in relief when I indicate that I will announce myself.

I expected Griffin to be preoccupied with the emotions he experienced during our trail run. I even expected him to be obnoxious and short with me.

What I did not expect was the beautiful young girl practically sitting on his lap and panting over him when I entered his office. The beautiful blonde is dressed like an extremely expensive escort, and her patrons must be rolling in the money, judging by the huge diamonds around her neck.

“Come on, Griffin. You know Daddy won’t mind. I am his little girl, and I know him good.”

My scoff is loud enough to be heard all the way from the door.

With all eyes on me, I continue. “Well,” I say authoritatively.

Griffin tries to cover his smile with his hand but can’t hide the gleam in his eyes.

“Excuse me?” She jumps off the desk and folds her arms over her fake chest. I bet it is the best money can buy.

I walk closer and dismiss her with a wave of my hand in her general direction. “Fine, you are excused. But the correct word should be well. You know your daddy well . Now, if there was nothing else?” I seethe, as my hand clutching the handles of the picnic basket trembles slightly.

I open the door wider and wave in the direction of the exit.

She gapes and flashes Griffin a look of total dismay.

He leans back in his chair and regards her with complete disinterest. She grabs a fluffy pink bag off the desk and marches toward me. I take a step back, giving her a wide berth. Stepping over the threshold, she turns back to say something, but I am already shutting the door in her face.

“If you needed the trash taken out, you should have called sooner,” I add as I stroll to the desk.

He bursts out in laughter while I lug my picnic basket onto the desk.

“I didn’t know you were the jealous kind,” he teases.

I stare him down, knowing he is poking the bear to get a reaction. And any other day, he would have failed miserably, but as I said, Griffin is different.

“If you bothered to read the contract properly, then you would have noticed that I don’t share – with anybody. You are mine, and I won’t tolerate your floozy visiting anymore.” My tone is harsh.

His stare hardens, and he rises, placing his hands on the desk and leaning closer to challenge me.

“And where in the contract does it say I belong to you? Let’s get one thing straight.

I might allow you to play with my body, but the rest is my own, and you seem to have forgotten that fact.

I still have a business to run, and I will run it however I see fit.

If that means talking to another woman, so be it.

If you can’t respect those parameters, we are done.

This is a business transaction, and if you want to continue our agreement, you will treat it as such. ” His words are measured.

I want to swallow down the disdain caught in my throat, but I refuse to show any weakness, instead, I straighten, pull my shoulders back, and iron the invisible wrinkles from my bright green skirt.

“Seems like we have come to an impasse. Either way, I brought you lunch and would still like to enquire about your well-being. Sit down, and I will serve you.”

He drops into his chair, and I take out the simple chicken salad I prepared along with a thermos of bone broth. It might seem like I am overcompensating, but I like to ensure that my subs are in top physical condition.

I pour him some soup in the cup I brought along, place the rest of the food within reach, along with cutlery, before I take a seat across from him.

“Dig in, it isn’t getting any better than that. Then tell me how you felt after our interaction.”

He studies me with content for a moment and then picks up the fork to shovel some salad into his mouth.

I sit surrounded by silence. Maybe it won’t be such a good idea to take him on as a sub.

Clearly, we are not on the same page. I take out the contract that he handed me the previous night.

I grabbed it on my way out early this morning and went through it meticulously.

I start reading it again, careful not to miss anything.

“It isn’t signed yet,” he mumbles between bites.

I know.

Turning to the last page, I see that space where he has indeed neglected to put his signature on the page. “Was there a specific reason, or were you still stalling?”

He slurps at the soup, and the sound grates at my already frayed nerves. “Why do you need a contract. I thought girls want someone to fall in love with them.”

This is my chance to rectify the scales of balance. “Yes, I assume most girls want that. But as you have reminded me not five minutes ago, this is a business transaction and love is not part of the deal.”

“You are avoiding the question,” he simply states before taking another bite of the salad.

I look away, and that sinking feeling from this morning is back. I toss the contract on the table and place my hand over my stomach, taking a deep inhale before I answer honestly. “I need a contract because damaged goods are considered worthless. And worthless things get broken and tossed away.”

His hands stop midway to his mouth, and a piece of chicken drops on the desk. “You think you are damaged?”

I get up and clean the chicken with one of the napkins from my basket. “I could be talking about you. You never know.”

He tosses the fork down and shoves the food away. “So, what if I am damaged? What are you going to do about it?”

He is challenging me, and his demeanor is defensive. But the answer is easy. “Heal you, of course.”

He avoids my eyes, rises to walk to the bar cart for a drink. This time I don’t stop him. In fact, I might need one myself. He takes large sips while walking back. When he sits back down, his eyes pin me down. I strain to subdue the flinch.

“I don’t want that shit,” he states.

“But you need it,” I lament.

He takes a sip, and sarcasm drips from his lips. “And you don’t?”

I stand and start packing the food containers back into my basket.

He waits patiently for me to find the words, and my mind refuses to give me anything other than the words stuck at the tip of my tongue.

“As you said, girls need love. You need respect, and that is something I can provide you with. Along with a few other surprises along the way, of course. The choice is yours.”

I pick up the basket and start walking toward the door.

“Wait.”

He stands and takes out a fountain pen to sign on the dotted line. He strolls closer to hand me the contract, but pulls back at the last second. “I agreed to this meeting to let you know that I can’t orgasm unless I am choking someone. Good luck with all the healing shit.”

Then he places the contract in my basket and opens the door for me.