Page 31 of Wicked Vile King

---

His words repeat in my brain.

Mine to play with, mine to torment, mine tofuck.

Oh no. No, no, no, no, NOOOOO!!!!

Movement follows, and I am kicking, or trying to, but he traps my legs between his, the desk biting into the front of my thighs, as he flattens his front to my back. I can feel everything, the long length of his muscular legs, the sharp edges of his pelvis, and his heavy, hard . . .

I'm going to throw up.

Or pass out.

Or cry.

He can't!

"Stop!" I yell, the word strangled, the moment before my face is freed and my hair is yanked, searing my scalp and pulling me flush against him, the back of my head knocking into his shoulder.

Something slips across my neck, pulls taut, and latches into place with a click.

What just happened?

With a grunt, he lets me go, and I scramble up and over the desk, away from him, clasping wildly at the thing around my throat.

What is it?

It's too tight!

I can't get it off!

"Breathe," he says to me, not even winded as he walks around the desk, "you can breathe, pet."

My lungs burn and it feels like someone is strangling me slowly as he leans in, captures my face between his large hands, and commands, "Breathe."

I can't breathe!

I need air!

I need . . .

"Breathe," he repeats, slowly, softer this time. His lips part and he does it with me, staring at me as I suck in air.

"Slowly," he instructs.

In and out, in and out,just like he's doing.

I swallow sticky saliva, and the heavy, unnatural thing around my throat digs deeper.

I lift my hands. I can slip one finger beneath it on either side, but I can't take it off.

"What did you do to me?" I say to him.

"I collared you," he answers, like the words should make sense, like it's a normal response.

"You did what?!"

"I put you on a leash, pet."

"Stop fucking calling me that!"

---