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The order doesn’t come as a surprise. I know exactly what I’m here for. My heart thunders in my chest all the same. I feel heat rush to my cheeks, just as shameful, forbidden desire churns my core.
It’s starting.
Maybe I should have asked for a drink first.
Camden’s eyes are clear molten gold as he watches me hesitantly obey. It’s only when I’m in the position he ordered that I notice how comfortable it is on this piece of furniture. Like it’s made for me to sit right here, legs parted.
Camden comes to stand over me first, and wraps his hands around my gathered wrists. I don’t see where he takes it from, but all of a sudden, he’d holding metallic cuffs tied to a long black piece of fabric, and locks both of my arms over my head with them.
I tug on the restraints, finding that I can move a little, but not bring my elbow much lower than face level.
“How’s that?” he asks me.
I wrinkle my nose. “Are you seriously asking me if you tied me up to my satisfaction?”
Camden smiles. “That mouth of yours.”
He moves to my feet, and this time, I see that the rope, and the bonds for my wrists and ankles came from under the chair. They’re attached to it. It only then hits me: I’m on a freaking sex chair, made to keep women—or men, I suppose—in place as they get fucked and/or tortured.
He locks both of my ankles in the metal cuffs, without checking with me this time. Then to my surprised, Camden goes to sit on the sofa, and starts the TV.
“How long are you going to keep me like this?” I grumble.
Maybe I’ll get that nap after all.
“However long I want, princess.” He fusses with the channels, until he manages to start the DVD player.
“Who even has one of those these days? Don’t you stream your movies?”
“Not this one,” Camden replies with a full-on thousand-watt grin.
I start to retort, but he presses play and I lose all my sass, all words leaving me. My breath catches as I stare at the TV in speechless panic.
Fuck no. He didn’t. He can’t do that to me.
I stare at the oversized flat screen—the kind of seventy-inch monstrosities men like to watch sports on—in horror. An image of myself—skinnier, more tired, but myself all the same—is kissing him. Then the Camden on TV lies on the ground and tells me to sit on him.
“I hope you choke.”
But he doesn’t. He licks me out instead, and I’m lapping it up, moaning, writhing, rubbing my cunt up and down his mouth to demand more. Cocks are thrust in my hands and I take them. I wrap my mouth around one, and pump the other. It’s the most obscene thing I’ve ever watched, and I’m the star of the show.
I’m reeling, fear and fury blinding me as I thrash against the restraints. “Let me out. Stop that video! Let me out!”
Camden smirks from the sofa. “Shush. We’re almost at my favorite part.”
I hate him.I’ve said and thought it quite a few times before, but I’ve never meant it as fiercely as I do now.
I pull against my bounds hard enough for the metal to dig into my skin, all in vain. For his part, Camden casually lowers his waistband and wraps his hand around his shaft. He starts pumping his cock, watching me, rather than the movie.
I do the only thing I can: I close my eyes.
“Now, that’s not playing fair, princess. And if you don’t play fair, I won’t either.”
“Why are you doing this?” I hiss.
“Because you pissed me off,” he admits unabashedly. “I figured that little tape might just do the same to you. I didn’t think you’d be this bothered, though.”
The vehemence of my own anger surprises even me.
