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She pressed the play button. There was a woman on the screen. She was naked, on her knees—a brunette like Veronica. Ivory skin like Veronica. When her face rose to the camera, Veronica could see the resemblance—it was eerie. Trish. There was someone else on the film. A man in black pants and riding boots. A riding crop dangled casually from his hand. Veronica couldn’t see his face, but then he spoke.
“I want you to crawl for me,” Luke said.
She began to crawl in slow, long circles across the floor, running the length of a large oriental rug, revealing a brand on her hip that looked like the image on Luke’s business card. He followed, hitting her across the ass with the riding crop, leaving red welts as she continued to move across the floor. Finally, he stopped her.
“I want to look at what’s mine. Show me.”
The woman stopped crawling and sat back on her heels, her legs spread wide. There were a few tears sliding down her cheeks from the crop, but the look in her eyes when she looked up at him was pure adoration. She loved him.
“Show me, slut. Show the camera. I’m going to show this to the guys later. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Of course you would, you little whore. Now show me.”
Her face went red as she spread her legs wider, parting the folds of her labia with her fingers.
Veronica looked away, too uncomfortable watching this with Luke watching her, wondering if he could tell how aroused she was becoming, wondering if it would seal her fate, terrified she’d end up branded like the woman on the screen.
“I said don’t take your eyes off the screen,” Luke said. It was the same tone he was using on the film.
She forced herself to look back at the video, afraid of what he might do if she defied him.
The Luke on the screen continued. “How badly do you want to finger yourself?”
A whimper.
“Beg me. You know how I like my sluts to beg.”
“Please, Sir. I need to come.”
“I know you do, sweetheart.”
Another whimper. “Please...” Her finger edged closer to her clit and he smacked her hand hard with the crop, drawing a scream from her.
“Very naughty, dear. We don’t touch ourselves without permission, do we?”
“N-no, Sir.”
“Crawl to me, show me how sorry you are.”
This must have been something they’d done in the past, because she seemed to know exactly what he wanted. She slunk over to him on her hands and knees like a beaten dog. Her tongue darted out to slowly lick the length of his boot.
“Good girl,” he said when she’d finished ingratiating herself to him again. “You can touch yourself now, but if you don’t come hard enough, there will be punishment.”
“Turn off the video,” the live, in-person Luke said from the shadows of the stairs.
Veronica pushed the button on the remote. She looked at the floor, scared of whatever was coming next, embarrassed he’d watched her watch him and her doppelganger engaged in something kinky. It was the kind of thing she’d suspected after he’d spanked her in his bedroom the previous night—and seeing the upstairs playroom while cleaning had sealed the truth. It was the kind of thing she would have fantasized—with him as the star—if she hadn’t been so tired and scared.
The room was across the hall from the rooms she and Luke slept in. She’d discovered it while cleaning but had largely tried to block it out of her mind. It had a large black box on one end with a padlock on it, video equipment, a leather sofa, a pole that looked like a stripper pole, a few pieces of dungeon equipment, and of course the rug the girl had been crawling on.
A long silence stretched between them as Veronica waited, tense—she wasn’t sure for what. An order? His hands on her? A question? Would he demand she tell him in minute detail how that video had made her feel? She didn’t know if she could even put it into words for herself. If hemadeher do something like that, it would make the fantasies okay.
She’d fought against it, so strongly. What she’d seen happening on that screen—it would never happen that way for her. Of all the sex she’d had, it had never been pleasant, never like her fantasies. It hadn’t even been good vanilla sex. It was just bad, start to finish, while she’d prayed it would end soon. She’d been dry, and it had hurt, but she’d kept going out with men, kept trying, like some nymphomaniac that pathologically had to fuck even though the act brought her no satisfaction. She couldn’t stand to be disappointed again.
Had that been the start of her masochism? That tiny thread of pain that had accompanied her every sexual encounter? Without an orgasm, it had been the one thing she could count on. Comfort in the discomfort because of its familiarity.
“Go to bed, Veronica. I’ll see you in the morning.”
