Page 69 of Taking Turns

But it only turns me on more. It only makes me go deeper, thrust harder. Her face is covered in her own spit, her eye make-up running down the sides of her cheeks.

Still, her eyes never leave mine.

I can do anything I want with this woman. Anything I want. She will never again tell me no.

I fuck her after that.

I put my dick in her so deep, she wails, her bound hands grabbing for my shoulder as I thrust, over and over. Her nails bite into my skin and she’s whispering in my ear. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—”

I fuck her like I’ve wanted to fuck her all week. I fuck her the way I imagined it. I look at the cameras—because I know where each and every one of them are—and I flip Smith off as I do it.

Fuck you, Smith, I think. Fuck you for being right. Fuck you for bringing her here. Fuck you for watching.

Fuck you for ruining her, just like you ruined all the others.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

But he’s the one who wins tonight.

And we both know it.

Chapter Eighteen - Chella

When I wake up Bric is gone. On the pillow next to mine is a note.

Don’t be late for work.

Don’t be late coming home.

Wear the red dress without panties or bra.

I’ll pick you up here at seven.

Elias

His commands feel both familiar and foreign. Familiar because I’ve been down this path before. I’ve taken that shortcut through the woods more than once.

But it’s been a long time.

The only significant thing that happens at work is learning that Matisse’s entire collection sold on Saturday night—Saturday seems like years ago—and that Bric bought it, and then promptly donated it to the Mountain Ballet. It’s going to be displayed in its entirety in the courtyard outside the building. Construction on an all-weather version of the curtain has begun and installation will begin on April first.

My boss, Charles Benton, is in the gallery all day talking on the phone to special patrons—a code word for contributors—about the year ahead. He takes over my office since he really doesn’t have one here himself.

I manage visitors and do the appropriate amount of small talk. But my mind is not here at the gallery. My mind is stuck back in the place Bric left it last night.

Under his complete control.

Silently begging for more.

Asking myself over and over and over why I need more.

I’ve had complete control over all my shameful desires for three years. So why now? Why did I let Rochelle dangle this arrangement in front of my face? And more importantly, why did I accept her offer?

The problem is… there’s only one answer for it. One answer that I don’t want to think about.

I really am sick.

The car comes promptly at six to pick me up, just like it came promptly at eight forty-five this morning to take me to work. It was strange walking out of the top-floor apartment without one of my players, and it feels strange to walk in without them as well.