Page 113 of The Man Upstairs

Through clear eyes,I looked at the scene before me. So willing and so filthily raw, with Rosie still bound, wrists to ankles, having given herself over completely to my fantasies. Putting my filthy urges into words had plunged me into another realm, and seeing my needs brought to life in the flesh, had me torn.

The same dilemma always plagued me.

Was I freeing her and letting her explore the true depths of her sexuality, or was I exploiting her curiosity?

Only now, my self-imposed answers were changing, just as she was. Her curiosity didn’t seem exploited in the slightest.

It hadn’t been that long ago that Rosie was a virgin, knowing nothing of sex besides book romances and playing with her clit, but she rubbed her wrists once I’d freed them with not so much as a hint of regret at what had unfolded. She stretched out her legs to ease the stiffness, and she was grinning, still high on the thrill. A minx in the making.

I helped her to her feet, and she followed me through to the bathroom, wincing as she dropped to the toilet. She knew the routine by now, and was comfortable with every part of it. From period blood, to pissing post sex. None of it mattered anymore, she never batted an eyelid.

She spread her legs so I could wipe her pussy clean.

“Is it hurting?” I asked, but she shook her head.

“No, not yet anyway. You always make it feel too good to hurt. I’m sure I could have taken a whole fist, and I’d still have been desperate. You had me going crazy.”

A whole fist. She spoke as though it was an extremity, but it would be anything but in my world. At some point I’d be wanting to ease my whole hand inside that tight little cunt.

She looked right into my eyes, stunning as she sought approval.

“Was I good?”

“Good?” I laughed. “You couldn’t have been any better.”

“Neither could you. Seriously.”

She was heady, riding high.

“I guess it’s the stockings, hey? Do they suit me? You picked well.”

“They look amazing on you.”

She got to her feet when she was done pissing, and gave me a twirl, showing off the fishnets.

“Should I wear them to college with a little tutu? It would give people something to gossip about for real. What do you think?”

What did I think?

Her question hit me like a sickening thump in the gut at the thought of her parading those sweet slutty stockings in public. My jaw tensed as my pretty ballerina did another spin. My words came out unbidden.

“Don’t you even think of wearing those to college.”

She stopped spinning, cracking a grin.

“Like I could. They’d march me straight out the door. They wouldn’t ever want to see me in these, even if I wanted to wear them.”

She was very wrong on that front. My pretty princess still had no idea just how gorgeous she was.

“Oh, they would want to see you, sweetheart, believe me. They’d be chasing you down the street, dicks screaming for your cunt.”

I didn’t recognise the ferocity in my own voice, but I was sharp enough to comprehend its origin.

Mypretty princess.

Jealousy. Possessiveness. The need to be the only man in her world.

It wasn’t like me in the slightest. I barely rated exclusivity, and I hadn’t given monogamy any true faith in years. But our connection was changing me, just as I was changing her.