Page 26

CHAPTER 26

Ophelia

I stand before the mirror, wearing precisely what he’s instructed me to. Two articles of clothing. They amount to almost nothing.

The underwire bra is made of pale lace, except where the full cups should be, there are only quarter-cups, my nipples on full display, a blue elasticized band running from the middle of my shoulders down to the inside corner of the wire on both sides.

And I wear black lace high-rise panties. Only these are like no other underwear I’ve ever seen, much less worn. Where the interior cotton gusset should be, there’s nothing. There is no crotch in these panties. Instead, the lacy fabric runs along my outer labia.

I’m barefoot and pretty much nude.

My hair is pulled up into a high ponytail. I’ve been told I might get sweaty.

My punishment for touching my own body.

Submission. Control. Dominance.

The words echo in my mind as I stare at my obedient reflection. Why do I always let him have this control over me? Why don't I tell him no? Demand a car and go home? He's not here to stop me.

But the truth is, I don't want to leave. I want to be with him, to give myself entirely to him. When he first demanded marriage, he needed something from me and wasn’t willing to take no for an answer.

But now, he’s asking me to marry him.

Why didn't I do the sensible thing and say not just no for now, but no, never?

The answer comes to my heart before it can form in my mind. Even then, when he first stormed my bedroom, there was a part of me that wanted this connection with him, a piece of me that craved his touch and his dominance over me.

This began as a forced marriage. I didn't have a choice. Now, he's asking me for more—to be his wife in every sense of the word. And deep down, despite all the doubts, fears, and uncertainties that plague me, I want that, too.

I don't want to go home. I want him here with me.

A pinging sound comes from the video screen.

“You mustn’t keep Mr. Dom waiting,” I murmur encouragingly, putting one foot in front of the other as I walk over the thick carpet to the remote on the desk. “You can get through this, whatever it is.”

My hands tremble as I approach the remote, and my heart races with a mix of fear and anticipation. I have no idea what he has planned for me, and the unknown is almost as terrifying as the thought of his punishment.

With each step, my doubts and nerves multiply, making me question if I should even go through with this. But I know I must face him; no matter how much it scares me, I won’t back down.

As my fingers clumsily press the button with the white square, a loud whirring sound interrupts the silence around me. My eyes dart up toward the ceiling, where an intricate tray design catches my attention.

The squares within the tray are painted a calming blue, contrasting with the stark white molding. And then I see it—a video screen slowly descending from its hidden spot along the molding.

My heart sinks as I realize this was all part of his plan—using technology to control and punish me from afar. It feels cold to be alone with this screen. I want him. And I’m mad that he would do all this to prove a point, that he’s in charge even when he’s not here. A wave of conflicting emotions washes over me—anger at his manipulative tactics, fear of what's to come, and a strange sense of longing for his presence despite everything.

As I stare at the screen, I can't help but wonder what he has in store for me this time.

His voice comes through as the screen continues to lower into place. “A coffered ceiling,” he says, “to improve the room’s acoustics.”

“How did you pull this off?” My words are whispers, but he manages to hear them from wherever he is.

The screen locks into place, still dark as his voice fills the room, asking me, “Was there a handyman at the castle today?”

“Yes. Callum,” I say, picturing the massive man with the blond beard and stepladder slung over his shoulder. “But he looked more like a Viking than a handyman.”

Haze says, “He’s a friend of mine. He did me a few favors and made a few—enhancements—to this bedroom.”

“Wait—he was in this room?” My skin prickles. I glance around me, feeling like I’m being watched.

“Yes, baby. And now you’ll see what additions I’ve made for you.”

The screen goes bright white, and then Haze appears. He has dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark soul. His look is pure lust—more for control than for me. His gaze lowers as he takes in this barely there outfit he’s made me wear.

He gives a lust-filled, “Phenomenal.”

Seeing his face makes me long for him to be here. To have him kiss and hold me. I want nothing more than for us to make up after that awkward parting when he left the castle. Where is he? I study the background but only find a standard hotel room.

Wanting to connect with him on a deeper emotional level, I ask, “How did it go with your family?—”

He holds a hand up to stop me. “No chat. All business. I can’t wait for you to see what I have for you. Go to the closet. There’s a special chair I’ve ordered from home.”

Home.

It’s strange to hear him say that word when there’s so much in limbo between us. His home? Or our home? I glance down at the beautiful ring on my finger, and staring at it only adds to my confusion.

As much as I hate biology, in this moment of anxiety, I long to be back there, by the cozy fire.

I go to the closet, bracing myself with a held breath. I throw open the doors. What. The. Heck. I just… stare.

And he watches it all from the video screen. Finally, I manage to say, “This is some kind of whacked-out Bachman Tech for sure. Is this what you men do with your time? Design torture devices for your women?”

He gives a dark laugh. “Roll it to the center of the room. Right in front of the screen. Where I have a front-row view of the action.”

It’s an office chair with a white cushy seat and back. However, the seat is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It features a white, silicone-looking plus sign, a long rectangle running vertically over the seat, and one horizontally, the material lined with small, raised bumps.

In the center is a dastardly thing.

A hot-pink silicone cock.

“Does it look familiar to you?” he asks. “Give it a good look.”

Leaning over, I look closer. Oh. God. I do know that cock. The thing is modeled after his own! I watch, partly in horror and partly in awe, as a clear shiny substance that looks a lot like lube begins to spew from the tip of the cock.

The lube runs over the sides of the dildo.

He says, “Have a seat, pretty lady.”

“No. I can’t.” I stare at the chair. If I do as he says, I’ll be stripped of the last remaining drops of dignity he’s left me with.

Yet…

“Yes, you can,” he growls.

I’m young. I am curious. The cool air hardens my nipples, the lace stretching over my skin as I move. The hunger in his gaze makes me want to see where this will go. And let’s be real—if I don’t do as he says, he’s going to make a fuss when he gets home.

Gripping the arms of the chair, I straddle the seat. The molded cock-thing looks up at me with its one now shiny eye. It’s remarkable how much it truly resembles his. Only this one is hot pink and made of silicone.

I move into position, legs parted, slightly squatting, hovering above it so my entrance is lined up with the toy’s head. The panties part with my labia as I squat, cold air teasing my entrance.

“Lower,” he demands.

My fingers tighten around the arms. My palms grow damp, my knuckles white. This is humiliating. I glance down; seeing how taut my nipples are only increases my shame. I lower myself, letting the slick top of the toy press against my opening.

“Lower,” he says again.

“Like this?” I ask.

“Lean forward more.”

I suck air between my teeth, hissing as I press on. Bending my knees, I lower myself onto the toy cock. I cry out as I attempt to sit. “Oh my god…” It’s firm, big like him, stretching my opening as it fills me. The pre-warmed lube helps. I keep going, inch by inch, until it’s fully inside of me, and I’m seated on the chair, my ass on the rubber base.

Which begins to warm beneath me.

I watch and feel in total shock as the rubber plus sign of the seat rises, forming around my body. The strip running back to front rises up over my clit and ass. The strip running right to left wraps around my hips.

The little raised dots of the silicone are massagers. The entire seat begins to vibrate. My ass, perineum, clit, every sensitive inch of my body is being manipulated by the gentle waves of vibrations. The dildo inside me begins to vibrate. Long, intense ripples are turning on and then off.

“This is crazy…” I’ve never felt anything so magical yet so overwhelming. Every inch of my body feels like it’s vibrating. My eyes roll to the back of my head as my hips take over, rocking and bucking as my core tightens.

His voice commands from above. “Ride harder, or you’re going over my lap when I get home.”

I rock back and forth, screaming out, desperate for the orgasm this chair is forcing me to achieve.

“Get louder, or you’re getting a taste of my belt,” he demands.

He doesn’t have to ask again as the first orgasm hits. Not much for foul language, a massive “Fuuuuck!” leaves my lips as the climax takes over, hard and strong and stealing my breath. The sky cracks open; white stars blind my eyes. I’m left shuddering and gasping, my fingernails digging into the leather arms of the chair.

My breathing becomes ragged as I feel my body being taken over by pleasure. I try to focus, to hold onto a sense of control, but it's difficult with every inch of my body being stimulated in such a way that I can feel another orgasm building rapidly.

I can't help but moan, the sound escaping my lips as the intensity of the sensations grows. My hands instinctively reach down, grazing over the vibrating silicone and dildo. I'm lost in a haze of pleasure, every muscle tense and ready to be released.

As the orgasm builds, I feel a sense of weightlessness. Time slows down as my body screams for release. And then, just as suddenly as it started, it comes crashing down on me, sending shivers of ecstasy through my entire body.

“God. Stop. Please.” I fall back against the chair, panting heavily as the aftershocks of my orgasm try to come, only to have another build.

“Good girl,” he moans. “How about a little more so I can watch your pretty face?”

“I can’t take anymore,” I hiss.

I don’t want any more. But the chair seems to sense that, and now the vibrations are gentle and less frequent. Purring, it draws a softer, quieter orgasm from me, like a cool-down period on a treadmill. Tingles travel throughout my body as I ease into the warm pleasure. Finally, I give my last shudder.

The chair powers down. The silicone folds lower. The strangest sensation happens inside me as I feel the cock sliding out of me, lowering down into the seat. Then, it’s gone.

My body goes slack. My limbs feel weak, used, and spent. The warm, fluid feeling that comes with climax flows through me, but I’m left unfulfilled and unsatisfied. When he makes me come at home, I’m in his arms afterward. He strokes me, talks to me, as I bask in the afterglow.

I can feel him staring at me from his god-like place on the video screen. I don’t look up. He moans. “God, that was so sexy.”

I hate the lust in his voice. I hate that this was all for show, for him. I like our sexy times together because I like the way they make me feel, yes, but my favorite part is the connection between us. Like I’m not all alone in this world. Like there’s that one person that gets me. That I trust enough to let deep inside.

There is none of that in this.

I feel empty, alone, and lonely. I’m only fulfilled by him. I long for his arms, warmth, smell, and strength.

I want to scream and pound my fists. I want to tell him; how dare you make me miss you. Instead, I bury my face in my hands, and I cry.

When he speaks, his voice is filled with emotion in a way I’ve never heard him sound. “Oh my God. Ophelia! Are you hurt?”

I’m not hurt. Just a wee bit broken. I didn’t know that sex could make you feel this way… empty and lonely and aching for something you want but you can’t have.

I can’t explain it. I feel silly and angry and desperately naive all at once. I don’t answer. Like a baby, I just sit here with my head in my hands, sobbing.

My shoulders shake as I cry.

His voice comes back to me, the tones of concern soothing me. “Ophelia. What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Finally, my breaths calm me enough to speak. When I do, the words come out as a shaky whisper. “You said…”

“What did I say?” He pleads, “Tell me.”

“It was just a game for you. A sexy way to release some pressure. To gain control.”

To soothe his ego.

“Huh?” he begs, “Tell me when I said that?”

I shake my head. “You didn’t have to say it.”

I remember that night, the first time. That nagging doubt crept up in the back of my mind when I tried to decide whether or not to let him in when I let my heart win. I’m in way over my head with this man.

He told me I deserved more.

And I do.

For once, I do the right thing. I swallow back my fear and my doubts and I tell him what he needs to hear.

“You said you were going to be better. For me.” I shake my head, staring down at my trembling fingers as I whisper, “This isn’t what I deserve.”

“I’m so confused,” he says. “I thought you liked this kind of stuff. You liked the chair I had made for you in your room.”

Finally, I let my eyes lock with his. I’m hurt by the sadness in his gaze—such a contrast to his earlier lust and greed. It softens me. Like it always does. He’s my weakness.

“Tell me more,” he pleads. “Make me understand.”

“I can’t help shake the feeling that all this—” I gesture around the room. “Was… I don’t know. Your way of using me.” I shake my head. “Not pleasing me.” He’s quiet, eyes trained on me, listening. His attentiveness gives me the strength to continue. “Sure, I came.” I shrug, thinking of the overwhelming vibrations that rocked my body. “A lot. But I wasn’t with you. And I missed you.”

He runs his hands through his hair, staring off into the distance. “I thought…” Finally, he says, “You’re right. I needed control.”

I narrow my gaze, asking, “Why?”

He absorbs my words, facing his selfishness. “I had a long day. I felt… powerless. I used this—chair, this thing to gain some semblance of control.”

“You didn’t use the chair,” I correct. “You used me.”

“Oh, God. I didn’t mean to, but I see how you’d feel that way.” He looks away, shaking his head. “I’m a terrible man.”

He’s not a bad man. I want to reach out and grab his hand. “You’re not.”

“Ophelia. I’m so sorry. You’re right. About everything.” He flicks away a tear, hoping I don’t see it.

I did.

The small gesture tugs at my heartstrings so hard, I almost stop him and tell him something that would shake his whole world.

I don’t.

Finally, he gets up the courage to meet my eyes again. “You deserve so much better. For the first time in our relationship, I’m going to give it to you.”

What does this mean? For him, for me, for us? The delicate promise between us to maybe, perhaps, one day…

I twist the ring on my finger. “What are you going to give me?”

“Keep the ring,” he says. “It’s yours. And whatever else you need. I’ll give it all to you. I’ll pay for your education and your housing. Your family’s housing. You only have to do one thing.”

Those deep, soulful eyes stare into mine.

Feeling numb, I ask, “What?”

His final words make my heart sink to my stomach.

He stares right at the screen. His words come as a command. “Leave me and never see me again.”