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“Yeah,” I say, trying not to hyperventilate. “But it’s a bit subtle.”
His eyes flash, and the tickler reaches the apex of my clit.
Now, the pleasure is as intense as nails on a chalkboard, only I’m not cringing, I’m clamping. I make a low moan and an involuntary shudder and try not to let my eyes roll to the back of my head.
Professor Segul is a sadist, and he’s only just begun.
The tickler makes its slow descent down my clit, making my hips convulse. All the while, I’m staring into his inquisitive features.
I was right about him earlier.
He gets off on torture, only it’s the sexual kind.
He’s determined to make me beg.
“How is it, now?” he asks, his voice wavering with mirth.
“Maybe try it again?” My voice trembles.
He doesn’t react. Instead, he completes the slow path down to the base of my clothed clit and down my inner and outer lips, where the pleasure is less intense.
“Hmmm...” he says with the curiosity of a scientist. “If the tickler doesn’t satisfy then perhaps we can move to the Wartenberg wheel.”
Before I can ask what he’s talking about, he picks up the implement with the spikes.
Shit.
ChapterTwelve
PHOENIX
I was wrong when I said the Wartenberg wheel had a dozen spikes. There are at least twenty-four. Unlike the tines of the clit tickler, these are all viciously sharp.
“What…” I clear my throat and suck in a lungful of bravado. “What are you going to do with that?”
“The Wartenberg wheel is a medical device used to test the sensitivity of one’s nerves.” Professor Segul runs the pinwheel of torture along the palm of his hand.
My jaw clenches.
He didn’t answer my fucking question.
I crane my neck, looking for spots of blood, but there isn’t even a trace of redness. But maybe that’s because he’s applying no pressure?
“Are you going to use it on my clit?” I whisper.
“Would you like me to, Miss Stahl?”
My throat tightens, and I gulp. “That depends,” I say, keeping my voice measured. “Will it hurt?”
His eyes twinkle, or maybe they’re glinting with malice. “Only in the most delicious way.”
Before I can request the more pleasant and less ominous clit tickler, he advances on me with the psychotic pinwheel.
Pinpricks crawl up my skin as he rolls it up my outer thighs. The pressure is light and doesn’t linger long enough for my nerves to register the sensation as pain.
It’s a bizarre form of pleasure that teeters on danger. If he pressed harder, it would break my skin.
I breathe fast, my chest rising and falling as he rolls the wheel over my hip bones and up my belly, where I’m a little more sensitive.
