Take It Slow (Switch to Caroline POV)

A month has passed since that night and not a night has gone by since when you didn't think about it and then fingered yourself until you came, trashing about and biting in your pillow to mute your screams and keep your children from hearing. Yet none of those nights were even close the earth shattering orgasm you had when his soft voice crashed into you and he told you you were nothing. He made you kneel and you felt the hard light of a phone camera while you declared you were a sick, disgusting little slut. "I'm not a whore," you had read from the small speech he prepared for you, "because a whore uses her body. I don't own my body. Calling myself a whore is a compliment I don't deserve." The bloodcurling thrill you felt when he spit on you and slapped you, when he claimed you, when he revealed to you not who but what you truly are, you know you will never forget it.

And that has proven to be quite the problem, because when you woke up the next morning, dried fluids on your face, you quickly released that he was gone. You called him, he didn't pick up. You texted him, he didn't respond. You messaged him on social media, you even e-mailed him until out of sheer desperation you took a day off and waited in front of his appartment. You even brought a bagged lunch. When he finally showed up, after hours of waiting, he simply walked past you without even glancing over you.

You knew then that it was over before it had truly begun. Maybe you had called his bluff. Maybe he wasn't cut out to own you after all. Maybe it was just a game. Maybe he stringed you along. Maybe this was just how he got off. Then a new thought struck you. Maybe he realized he didn't even want own you. Why would he? Sure, you were pretty and you'd always been a little kinky, but your husband and you never really did anything other than vanilla sex, so you were pretty inexperienced. You could stand to lose a few pounds. You definitely weren't getting any younger.

"Caroline?"

A voice came through the small speaker on your desk, reminding you you should be working, not pondering.

"Caroline?" the girl from the reception asked again.

"I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"I said there's a client here to see you."

"Send him up." You figured it was probably your 2:30. A little early though.

"He wants you to come down." You groaned internally. This client was always giving you trouble.

"I'd rather meet in my office."

"Okay, I'll ask him," the receptionist replied.

You heard some muffled voices and then a short silence.

"He says he needs to speak with you personally, so I'm gonna hand over the phone, okay?" the girl said.

"Sure," you replied.

"You should come down."

Your heart stopped. That voice. This wasn't a request.