Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 44666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
And Mr. Davenport’s gaze lands on me with unsettling approval.
“Right this way,” he says, leading us into a library with walls of shelved books. The air reeks of lemon-polished wood and old money. Not a single window breaks the room’s dim hush.
A table holds two documents, a silver pen between them, and a leather folder waiting to seal the agreement.
“Standard nondisclosure,” Mr. Davenport says.
Oliver signs without hesitation, and I follow, my hand steady until the folder snaps shut with an echo of finality.
Mr. Davenport moves to a shelf behind him and presses on a book’s spine. A hidden panel clicks before swinging inward to reveal a staircase spiraling into the shadows.
“Shall we?”
My throat tightens, fear closing in fast. A dizzy second sends me reeling, and I shift my weight to counter the tilt under my feet. Both men catch the stumble.
Oliver grasps my arm, looking at our host. “Will you give us a minute?”
Mr. Davenport studies my flushed cheeks and shallow breaths, a flicker of compassion in his gaze. “Take your time. We’ll be down below with the slaves.”
His word choice scrapes through me like broken glass.
Slaves.
Not women or even wives.
He disappears down the staircase, and Oliver cups my face, thumbs a gentle caress at my temples. “You’re doing great. At dinner, you won over Davenport and Channing. Kayla and Virginia welcomed you with envy and admiration.”
His touch steadies my trembling, but fear still sours my gut.
“I know you’re scared.” His voice lowers to a velvety coax. “But you’re wired for this, Novalee.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
He extends his hand, palm up.
“I know you can, sweetheart.”
It’s a command disguised as an offering, but I take it. Adrenaline pulses through my veins as he steers me down the steps. Each one carries us deeper until we emerge into a circular chamber.
The couples stand in perfect formation, the men still in their tuxes from the ball, while the wives kneel at their feet—dressed like me but in different jeweled tones.
Ruby, sapphire, emerald, amethyst, topaz, and beyond.
A rainbow of submission draped in shimmer and silence surrounds me, and I’m the pearl they mean to pry open.
As Oliver urges me forward, I catch sight of Kayla in a scarlet ensemble that glows in the soft lighting. She offers a slight nod, but her posture says more than words.
We’re all bound by the same rules tonight.
I scan the dim room, gaze darting from couple to couple until it clicks. Twelve in total, situated around an altar-like table where a frosted bottle and silver spoon await.
Vance’s elixir.
My stomach clenches as I recall the unbearable consequences of three measured doses.
The incessant throbbing.
Blood surging in an endless loop.
No relief.
Oliver guides me to the center and picks up the bottle. “Dr. Morgan’s invention is quite genius,” he announces to our audience. “One teaspoon arouses, two creates desperate need, and three does both while making climax physically impossible.”
He pours the first spoon and lifts it to my lips. “It’s an effective way to punish disobedience, or as in the queen’s case, ensure purity. As a virgin, her hymen must remain intact, orgasm denied.”
If the liquid had a taste, I imagine it would burn bitter. But it slides down smooth, one spoonful after another, until the last drop is gone and every eye in the room watches in curious wonder.
Without another word, Oliver works the features of my garment, finding the anchors and winding the cords around my limbs, crafting bonds from the same material that whispered across my skin moments ago.
Through heavy-lidded eyes, I spy the wives undergoing the same transformation, each woman rising to her feet to become a slave.
Oliver nods toward Mr. Davenport, and something clicks overhead. A quiet whir follows as the cords of my gown begin to tighten.
At first, I stay grounded, my heart racing as fabric draws taut. Then the system claims me, hidden pulleys lifting, inch by inch, until I’m suspended in the air like a splayed starfish caught in a current.
It’s a pose I can’t control and wouldn’t know how to name, my arms and legs bent and spread apart.
The others ascend around me, twelve women hanging in a carousel of living marionettes, circling the virgin at the center.
Some are gagged. Others grit their teeth as jeweled anal plugs breach their rears in silent ceremony. Virginia Davenport, draped in plum, already has her mouth wrapped around her husband’s cock.
Oliver ambles closer, attracting my focus as he pulls a pair of clamps from his pocket. He holds up the delicate adornments, pearls swaying from the ends. “You have such responsive nipples. I can’t resist.”
My first instinct is to protest. Didn’t he inflict enough pain the other night? But as a loud moan breaks the quiet, colliding with someone else’s guttural wail, I bite back an objection.
He asked me to trust him. That’s all I can do.