Hostile Takeover Hill, W (thriller books to read .txt) 📖

for everything she’d ever done wrong in her whole life. It was so strange, the desire to confess everything without choosing any one specific thing, just an overall purging.

He was silent a moment. “Jeremy wasn’t your fault.”

“It felt like it was. Why is that?”

“Because women are stupid about things like that.” But he said it without rancor. Closing his arms around her, he held her tight. “I forgive you for everything, you understand?”

“Even the things I might do tomorrow? Or the next day?”

He snorted, not unkindly. “I should know you’d try to hedge your bets. Whatever you do tomorrow, I’ll devise the appropriate punishment. But first, we get through today.”

She opened her eyes at last, looked at him. The top three buttons of the shirt were open, so she could lay her hand on his chest. She didn’t though. She kept her hands limp along her hipbones, out of his way so he could touch whatever he wished. There was simmering lust in his gaze, the banked embers of what they’d just done. He was hard beneath her ass, the size of him making a substantial impression in her buttock.

She wouldn’t change a thing, but she wished there were two of her, one who could stand to the side and watch those green eyes go to pure emerald fire, watch him grip that large cock and push it inside her. See that strong jaw tighten, flex, his lips stretch back as he released, spent his seed inside her ass.

“If you want, we can stop now, Marcie.” He drew her eyes back to his face. “You can clean up and go home.”

She was home. He was home to her. It was so difficult not to say it, an ache in her heart. A submissive’s honesty, her pure emotion, was what a Master demanded, a gift she could give him. But this Master wasn’t ready for that kind of truth.

“I don’t want to go. I want you to do everything you want to do to me. I’m yours.” Laying her head back against his biceps, she lifted her gaze to the pressed tin ceiling. There was an elegant black and gold fixture, a slowly oscillating ceiling fan. “You remember when we all went to the state fair? You won me that giant bear, at the knife-throwing booth.”

She’d expected Peter to have that skill, thanks to his military training, but Ben didn’t miss. Ten balloons, ten knife throws, his movements smooth and certain. Thunk, thunk, thunk. She remembered the steady focus of Ben’s eyes, the widening of the vendor’s. He’d won her the largest bear in the kiosk, a black bear with green eyes. The furry taloned paws had bumped her knees as she carried him.

The other children already had prizes. She’d been the only one without, because of course she and Cass made sure the younger children got any winnings that day. But when Cherry and Nate were going to fight over that bear, Ben shook his head, spoke firmly.

“This one is Marcie’s,” he said. He’d handed it over to her with a smile, and a tug of her ponytail. “He’s the safest boyfriend you can have in college. Keep that in mind.”

“Yes, I remember.” He spoke, bringing her back to the present.

“I did unspeakable things to that bear.” With her legs and one arm wrapped around it, she’d held it on top of her while she slipped a hand between them, masturbating, imagining someone else’s weight pressing her body into her mattress. Now she brought her gaze back to Ben. “I want you do unspeakable things to me. Please.”

That jaw flexed, gaze heating. When she reached up to touch his mouth, he grasped her wrist before she made contact, held it between them. “You weren’t supposed to speak without permission,” he reminded her. “I think it’s time for me to bind these hands again. Your ass was a pretty color from the spatula, but a red blush like that needs some caning marks.”

She trembled under his intent scrutiny. “Yes sir,” she said.

* * * * *

He was as good as his word. During the long hours of the night, she lost count of how many times she thought, This is exactly as I imagined it, fantasized about it.

Physically.

She’d had no idea what it would do to her emotionally. Her strange desire for confession was just the tip of the iceberg. She cried, she sobbed, she came, she pleaded, she said things against the replaced gag that were visceral, animal-like. Time and again, she thought she couldn’t bear more, that the strain on mind and body had become too much, but then he’d wring another sensation out of her she couldn’t resist. He’d murmur, “One more minute,” and she could do another minute. The craving to be the most perfect slave he could ever want would rise to the top again.

She let go of things in those dark hours she couldn’t give to anyone else. She wanted to tell him everything, things she couldn’t even tell herself. He had her soul chained down with her body, helpless to him. As he tormented her, a sensual, ruthless inquisitor, she gave it all to him. He was so much more than she’d realized. She wasn’t just in over her head, out in the middle of the ocean. Her life was literally in his hands, her right to breathe, to exist. All of it was at his mercy, and she would gladly stop breathing if that was what he wanted. She’d do anything to please him.

It was crazy, irrational. It scared her to death, because she couldn’t stop feeling any of it. And he made it worse with every new thing he did to her. After her brief respite, he’d replaced the mask, put her over what felt like a spanking bench. Her nipple barbells were attached to a chain he threaded through a ratcheted buckle on the back of the collar. Each time he pushed that metal hasp left then right, it cinched in