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The past three months have taught me Trap’s commands always lead to freedom, to a wild release of the tension that’s even now spinning from my belly to my thighs, literally curling my toes in anticipation.
But we’re talking about acamera.
When I was a slave, Klaus Herzog filmed me without my knowledge or permission. He caught the most degrading moments of my life on video. I was an animal to him. A dumb beast with no free will.
“Show. Me.” Trap repeats his order with the absolute certainty he’s used for every command he’s ever given me in bed.
And that’s why this is different. Herzog didn’t ask for my participation. He didn’t let me make a decision. But with Trap I know I always have a choice. If I use my safeword, if I sayred, Trap will put the camera down and walk out of my office without hesitation. He won’t punish me, physically or emotionally.
So I show him.
I show him how the camera attaches to its tripod. I show him how to focus on the foreground, on the background, on the middle space between. I show him how to touch the red-lined button, how to hitrecord.
And when the camera’s running, when its unblinking eye is watching everything we do, I let Trap issue more commands.
I work the buttons on my top, the top three at least, until he loses patience and rips open the last four.
I let him bind my wrists with my torn shirt, and I flex my fingers as he yanks his knots tighter.
I present my breasts—my “fucking incredible tits”—squeezing them between my biceps like ripe melons on a tray.
I’m wearing a sports bra—he didn’t count on that. There aren’t any hooks to rip open to give him the instant access he always fights for. He grunts and shoves the bra up to my chin, letting the fabric bunch around my throat. I immediately look at the camera, knowing I must look ridiculous.
“Eyes on me,” Trap says.
I obey. And that means I catch the satisfied flare in Trap’s feral gaze. “Good girl, Princess,” he says, and his approval shouldn’t light a fire deep inside me. I shouldn’t desire that type of approval. I’m not a girl. I’m not a princess. I’m a free-thinking, strong and independent woman. But I know I’ll do just about anything to hear Trap’s praise again.
I know he bound my hands for a reason, but he left them in front of me, instead of forcing them behind my back. I take advantage of his oversight.
I arch my back to emphasize the breasts that Trap finds so distracting. He mutters a few filthy words, stoking the flame he’s already kindled in the soaked V between my thighs. I tighten my arms again, and he accepts the engraved invitation—I yelp as his teeth close around my right nipple. He sucks hard, cheeks hollowing as electric paths light up throughout my body.
With his attention fully focused on the hard pebble he’s teasing, I use my bound fingers to work the button on my jeans. I moan his name, loud enough to cover the sizzle of my zipper easing down. I slip my fingers inside my plain cotton panties and find my throbbing clit.
He catches my hand before I manage a single stroke of relief. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Please…” I beg, not caring how desperate I sound.
“Did I say you could touch yourself?”
“I thought—”
“Did you ask my permission?”
“No, I—”
“What should we do with a girl who breaks the rules?”
He can walk away—he’s done that before. He can jerk himself to orgasm and leave me desperate—he knows I can’t come without his command. He can do whatever he wants with me, that’s what I’ve offered, that’s what I’ve given, and that’s what the camera is capturing forever.
I flex my fingers, reaching for his belt buckle. “Let me make you feel good,” I say, longing for the moment when he tells me he wants my mouth or my palms or the hot, wet channel that aches inside me.
But he takes a step back. He denies me the contact I need.
“Forearms on the seat,” he says, pointing toward the simple armchair I keep for coworkers who visit my office.
“Please—” I try again.
“Forearms,” is his only response.
