Kayla
KaylaThe next morning, we sit on the patio of the Four Seasons, enjoying the California sun and a late brunch. I hate Sundays because it means our time is almost over. He’ll fly back to Chicago, and I’ll go back to my other life. The one where I’m not a s*x slave or the girlfriend to a dangerous criminal. There’s such a giant fissure between my twin selves now I can barely straddle it.
I’m also cracked open, with no armor, almost no sense of self at all because Pavel just turned me inside out upstairs.
I came without asking again this morning, so he spread my legs, s*****d my p***y with the leather strap and then ate me out until I screamed myself hoarse. I feel so vulnerable after intense sessions like that. His seat across the table from me—less than three feet away—feels way to
