Page 60 of Wicked Vile King
"No," I tell her.Good Lord, do I have to spell it out?She stops moving to look at me. "None of that."
"What?" She's starting to sound like she's stuck on repeat.
"Your clothes," I say. "Take your clothes off . . .now."
She hesitates and I step forward, erasing the distance between us. "Unless you want to be shut in one of those freezers until that pretty skin of yours turns blue, pet, I suggest you cooperate."
"I hate you," she seethes.
I grip her chin in my hand.
"No, you don't," I tell her. "You may want to, but deep down, you like that I don't treat you like a breakable doll who's going to off herself at the tiniest push. I take you out of your comfort zone because you can handle it, and I'll push all of your red buttons if it makes you stronger. I'll let you play pretend though, pretty girl, if it makes you feel better, but you will admit that you are mine. Now get in because even if you won't admit ityet,you don't know the way back and can't outrun me if you did. So get naked and get in the bag or run and end up in the freezer. Your choice."
She blinks at me, wide-eyed like she thinks I'm crazy but knows I'll do it. And I will fucking do it.
"Turn around," she says with a swallow.
I roll my eyes and pout. "Fine, such a tease, pet."
I turn around, giving her a good distance so I can hear her coming if she tries to pull anything, and a long moment later, I hear rustling. I turn back around to find her in her bra and panties, trying to cover her freckle-less skin with the plastic body bag.
Fucking perfection.
The sight makes my balls tighten.
"Stop moving," I tell her, and she does, pale and perfect, looking almost dead on the table. "Lay down."
She does that too, shaking and shivering, goosebumps dotting her skin.
I slide my phone from my pocket and take a picture, cementing the moment for all time. Her nose scrunches at the bright light.
"Don't fucking move," I warn her when her hand twitches at the side of the body bag again.
She's beautiful, all pale skin against thick black plastic. Her plain white bra and panties, no doubt Academy-issued, practically glow against the bag. And when she's still like she is now, she almost looks dead. It takes everything in me to not groan.
Slowly, I reach for the zipper at the top of her head and start to pull, mesmerized as the teeth clamp together, covering her hair and her forehead, her chest rising and falling faster and faster with each passing second. She looks at me from between the sides of the bag, almost hyperventilating in her attempt to not panic.
"Shh, pet," I soothe her, placing a steady hand over her cold belly. "I am right here."
Her breath evens before I drag the zipper down even further, over her eyes and nose, across the pale line of her neck and over her porcelain chest and that atrocious puritan bra she's wearing. She's shaking so hard that she's rattling the table now, and I can hear her, hyperventilating beneath the plastic bag, falling victim to the dark.
I place my hand back on her, this time on her thigh, and she stops shaking again.
I stop zipping when I reach her cunt.
Herdrippingwet cunt, staining her ugly panties.
One taste, I think, staring at it. I just need one taste.
The thing I thought was dead until I met her stirs to life again between my legs, but it will have to wait. My mouth needs her first.
"Don't move," I tell her, "unless you want to end up in the freezer. Do you understand?"
She says nothing, but she's breathing loud, the plastic bag crinkling with her breath.
"Do. You. Understand?" I ask her.
She nods, or I think she does beneath the bag.
