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There wasn’t a second in that car when I considered using my safeword. I knew he’d honor it if I did. I knew he’d keep me safe. But I didn’t need it. Not while we were playing.
But when we got home… When I headed upstairs, clutching his wet and crumpled hundred-dollar bills…
I wish there was some way my safeword could erase that.
Trap bought me. And not just in the game we played at the train station.
I get it. He’s a billionaire. He’s got enough money to last a dozen lifetimes.
But I don’t have anything. If not for his generosity, I wouldn’t have the phone in my pocket. The clothes on my back. I’d be out on the street, without a job, a home, a car… I owe him everything.
And in some terrible, twisted way, that makes him the same as Herzog.
That’s not fair. Trap has never hurt me in a way I didn’t long for. I’m not a prisoner here. I could leave this absolute second.
Trap is not Klaus Herzog. But he’s sort of, kind of, in ways I can’t really explain to myself… He’s like one of Herzog’s special guests. I’m the girl with the willing mouth and the ready cunt to meet his every fantasy.
That’s not fair either. He meets my fantasies too. He takes control. He gives me orders. He tests me and he stretches me and he makes me do things I never dreamed I could do.
Every time we’re together, I can pretend I’m just his good girl. I’m not sick. I’m not twisted. I’m not so turned on by the thought of all the ways he hurts me that I’m starting to pant right here in the kitchen.
But if that’s the case—if I reallydowant to be hurt—then what was the problem in Herzog’s house?
I cansaythe special guests abused me. I cansaythat I was raped. But did those visitors ever know I wasn’t there with full consent? Isn’t it possible—just maybe—they thought we were playing a game? The same game Trap and I play?
It’s different. I know that.
Trap gives me a safeword. He showers me with gifts. He says he loves me, and I know I love him.
But did I really let the special guests know I wasn’t willing? Did I fight back? Did I do my best to protect myself?
Herzog kept the tapes. He must have thought they’d be worth millions.
What if he was wrong? What if the videos only show that I was weak? That I was stupid? That I deserved every single thing that happened to me?
I need to check. Need to see the truth. But it seems wrong to watch the videos inside Trap’s house. They’re filthy. Perverted.
So I collect a woolen blanket. I take my stuffed panda, because I need something to hold onto, an anchor, a friend. I pick up my computer, and I head outside to the chaise lounge, to see if I’ve misunderstood the videos all along.
20
TRAP
* * *
The best thing about being a billionaire is that I make the fucking rules.
I don’t want to spend the day planning a party for a bunch of goddamn clients to bitch about the blackmailer trying to put all our asses in a sling? Fuck it.
I get to leave my office, cross my parking lot, enter my house, and screw the living daylights out of the woman I love.
Which would be a hell of a lot easier to do if she was upstairs in our bedroom. Or in the guest room she’s appropriated for its closets. Or in the kitchen, the dining room, or on the back patio.
Alix has disappeared into thin air.
For just a moment, my heart stops. I remember how it felt to watch her running down my driveway, fleeing in the middle of the night. I remember the blow to my chest when she escaped to the Dover Lodge, preferring a lumpy mattress and a leaky shower to spending another second with me. I remember being gutted when I drove away from Klaus Herzog’s haunted mansion, knowing my princess wasn’t herself, certain she wasn’t safe, but not able to do a fucking thing to make her understand.
An ice-cold vise tightens around my balls. But that’s when I hear it—a jumble of voices, muted like the waa-waa-waa of grown-ups inA Charlie Brown Christmas.
