Now, strip.
Damien’s tone isn't suggestive. It’s a command.
My jaws drop. Body goes still. I feel my knuckles go white from clutching my fabric.
“Strip, Berry.” He repeats, tone dark, feral. “Show Daddy Dammy his golden pussy.”
And like a king, he levels on the couch right in front of the roof-floor window I’m pressed to. He stretches his long legs in this damn thin fabric, dark eyes pinned on me.
“I want to see your naked body, raw. Not through the lens of my cameras…” He moans, palm grazes his groin. “Show me my property.”
‘No. Stop, Berry.’ I scold myself. ‘Don’t be stupid!’
My heart is pounding.
“Dammy…” I stammer. “Please…”
His silence speaks darker.
And I don’t know why I feel helpless. Why I feel the need to explain myself.
In obedience, I let go of the garment… Slo
