Shanking Shaw 3 (Patreon)

Emma scoffed, disbelief at his sheer audacity breaking down her usual high-walled reserve. “He’s the White King! I’m the White Queen! He won’t give me up.”

“If you still want him after he gets out of prison, by all means, take him back as your king. But I’m going to be your god. This is nonnegotiable. You—your body—all mine—or no deal. You obey my instructions to the letter.”

“Instructions?” Emma stammered. “It’s not enough to have you touching me… now you wish to give me marching orders?”

“I’m a jealous god,” Scott said off-handedly. “All the best ones are. Outside of my presence, you are never to take your underwear off. Ever. You will not experience sexual pleasure with anyone other than me. You’re not allowed to masturbate.”

Emma let loose a guffaw, almost awestruck by Scott’s boldness. “You’re serious! You really expect me to be your sex slave!?”

Scott shook his head. “No. For now, you’ll simply be my property. You have to earn being my sex slave. The more you resist, the longer it will be before I fuck you. My cock isn’t a punishment. It’s something you earn. And you start right now: Emma Frost, if you would please strip?”

“Strip?” Emma could only repeat in gobsmacked confusion.

“Take your clothes off. After all.” Scott shot her an insouciantly charming smile—utterly unsuited for the circumstances, but the kind of dazzling grin that would usually get her at least a little tingly. “—how am I supposed to know you’re not armed?”

Emma crossed her arms over her chest, further hiding her breasts from him, as if to say whatever small possibility there had ever been of him seeing them was now totally diminished. “I refuse.”

“You don’t refuse,” Scott said. “That’s the only offer. You have one minute to accept. After that, you can go back to your ‘king’ and tell him no deal. And when he comes here and I get my hands on him—I’ll be sure to let him know you weren’t willing to make a bargain.”

“You really think this cheap car salesman bluff is going to work on me?”

“It’s no bluff,” Scott informed her patiently, like a teacher going over an old point that a student stubbornly refused to learn. “You have nothing else to offer: not gold. Not jewelry. Not even those Jimmy Choos. This is all you have to bargain with. And while I do want it, I’ll only take it on my terms. Exactly what I desire or nothing at all. I can afford to walk away from this deal. Can you? Twenty seconds. Hope your underwear isn’t too hard to get out of—if you’re wearing any.”

Emma moved now: fitfully, wrathfully, trying to defy the indignity of the striptease by making it a series of vicious gestures. But her reptilian cool quickly overtook the heat of rage. Do you really want his first impression of your naked body to be you throwing your unwillingness in his face? That’ll just make him want to break you down all the more. He’s a man; a man in prison. Show him your tits, suck his cock, and he’s yours. You’ve done worse for less.

And, Emma thought, she bet she could take over her clothes teasingly enough that he wouldn’t care if she took twenty seconds or twenty minutes. It was a small rebellion, but for now, it was the only resistance she could muster.

So Emma slowed, pulling her top up by the tiniest amount of slack that the tightly fitted garment had, and flashing Scott her exquisitely contoured belly, subtle abs flowing with the tautness of her lean stomach. She was athletic, but not truly muscular. The softness of her creamy skin was the overweening impression she gave.

Then Emma let go of the displaced hem and pulled her top up off her head, tousling her thick mane and exposing a neat white bra, tailored, its cups full without brimming. They tilted sensuously upward.

Scott stared, wondering at the protuberances her nipples had obviously made earlier, before he saw there were cut-outs on the tips of her bra’s cups. Insets of lace that her nipples pressed through to bulge into her outerwear. It amused Scott; he grinned.

“Enjoying yourself?” Emma asked him, making her voice cloying—being insouciant enough to turn the words into a flirty come-on. Anyone with half a brain should’ve known that anything other than derision was insincere, but he was a man with a hard prick. Enough said.

“Immensely, but not as much as I will,” Scott answered her, his voice cool but growing rough. And perhaps it was the lack of her psychic powers making Emma read too much into coy gestures: she sensed that Scott was letting his voice do that, allowing Emma to think she had him hooked when all she had was the bait.

She unclasped the fasteners on the side of her skirt, pulling the short zipper down, and stepped out of her bottoms. Emma flexed her long, sculpted legs in white nylon, crowned by a snug pair of panties that disappeared between her toned thighs and sinuously sweeping buttocks.

Emma kept looking at Scott as she kicked off her shoes, grinning slyly with a delight in his interest that wasn’t entirely faked. She didn’t care for his attraction, but she liked knowing she had enthralled the man.

She stretched the elastic of one stocking, rolled it down, and stepped out of it. Coming up to her full height with her hips canted, she subtly displayed her panties to Scott. Sleek and sheer enough not to obscure her.

She reached behind her back to undo her bra.

Scott kept watching her. His ruby quartz made him an intriguing challenge to read. She could scry some things from the set of his jaw, the angle of his lips, but the windows to his soul were soundly closed and she couldn’t peek into his mind. It was like a toy she wanted was up on a high shelf, out of reach.

This made Emma pay extra attention to the way he held himself, which was no chore. He had quite the body; the feelings it engendered were even more potent with her clothes coming off. Like there was nothing to contain the wicked urges that winged out of her mind and made their way to her bare skin.

Emma could only see her own reflection in the red glass as her white satin bra came away from her tits, slid down her pale arms, and fell to the floor. But, then, she didn’t need to see the reaction in his eyes. She knew from that mirror that what he was seeing was irresistible.

Her breasts were softly ripe, full on the underside, and extravagantly convex on top, making them look like they were eternally thrusting upward and outward. Her nipples were thick, swelling with her arousal; that wasn’t for him, Emma told herself, she was aroused for herself. And she wasn’t chagrinned at her vanity. Seeing her own body, she knew it was well-deserved.

“Very nice, very nice,” Scott uttered, almost under his breath—making Emma work, strain, to hear the words of praise, without realizing she was doing it. “Turn around. Let me see your ass.”

Emma normally wouldn’t be caught dead half-dressed and dishabille, but she knew the effect her disheveled hair, her distinct panties, and her one solitary stocking had on a man. She looked like she’d been fucked already; it made Scott hunger to complete the equation.

She liked the thought of that hunger, even if she couldn’t yet come up with a way to capitalize on it. Usually, a good lay was its own reward. She’d perhaps lost some of her edge, screwing for pleasure for so long, no manipulation to it besides avoiding Sebastian’s ire.

She turned and felt his eyes on her, staring at her gleaming ass. Seeing the smooth slopes of it, its flawless shape. Emma knew she had a gorgeous ass to fuck or spank or just hold onto while she was played with. She wondered which Scott was considering. She knew those eyes on her thong panties were considering something.

“Would you like me to take my panties off for you?” Emma asked in simpering obsequiousness.

“Do what you like,” Scott retorted. “We don’t have a deal yet.”

Emma turned around, wearing a superior smile on her face. She knew she had Scott where she wanted him. Even with such an advantageous deal as he had struck, she’d be calling the shots. He would be addicted to her, doing nothing to displease her, and she’d keep him under her thumb. Perhaps indulging him a little, but never to her inconvenience.

In fact, she’d have to work to avoid spoiling him. If she let him overindulge, he might stop valuing her, and then she might as well not have such a splendid body and surpassing skill as a temptress to have gotten him under her heel to begin with.

Then her smile crystallized in a waxen expression of astonishment, her jaded eyes widening at what they found. She couldn’t quite comprehend what she was seeing, not in the rush of those first few seconds… it was too much of a shock.

Scott stood there, playing with himself, callously handling his massive erection while keeping a clinical eye on her. Treating her as mere fuel for his fantasy.

Emma might have covered herself with her hands, she was so shocked at how impetuously Scott was using the sight of her naked body. She was used to parading around in the most titillating of costumes, around underlings who couldn’t look on pain of death and equals who couldn’t stare—not at Sebastian Shaw’s personal property.

The effrontery of what Scott was doing was a spectacle equal to the monstrous sight of his fully engorged manhood. He was using one hand on it, masturbating with calmness and relished enjoyment, but he could easily have fit both hands on its length. How many inches was it at its full length? Ten? Eleven? Twelve? And its thickness…

Emma had been fisted—only by women—Shaw didn’t want to spoil her tightness—but she was sure even the most butch hand she’d taken couldn’t compare to all that.

The more she looked at it, second by flashing second, the more Emma knew how overwhelmed she would be by such a penetration. Yet she couldn’t look away. Her disbelieving eyes were locked on that vast, hardened length of phallus.