Let Me Watch_A Dark Romance Read online

  Let Me Watch: A Dark Romance

  Copyright 2018 Sansa Rayne. All rights reserved.

  All characters depicted are over the age of 18.

  This book may not be reproduced in any form by any means, without the author’s permission, except for reviewers, who may quote short excerpts.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and action come from the author’s imagination and presented as fiction. Any resemblance to real individuals, alive or deceased, as well as events or places, is completely coincidental.

  This book features explicit depictions of sex and other material that may offend some audiences. Therefore, is intended for adults only.

  Cover design by LJ Covers.

  Sansa Rayne has a mailing list! Subscribers get bonus chapters for her books, the novella “Welcome to the Asylum” and news about upcoming titles! To sign up, CLICK HERE or copy this link into your browser: http://eepurl.com/ckbVoX

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Free Bonus - Sansa Rayne’s mailing list

  Notes from the Asylum

  For Further Reading: “Erased”

  For Further Reading: “Exalted”

  About the Author/Acknowledgments

  Lifeless stares burn into me from all directions. I gaze back at their beige, sculpted faces, expressions frozen in self-satisfied detachment. Dressed in fine, silk business suits, the mannequins point cell phones at my nude figure. Lying on a worn out mattress, I rest naked on a pile of crumpled cash. The bills’ denominations vary, but I’d guess I’m literally sitting on a couple thousand dollars.

  All six of the mannequins’ phones are recording, owning me from a different direction, live and streaming across the web. Later tonight I’ll check the viewership numbers. For now, I’ll just imagine all the thousands of men and women watching me writhe and moan, spectators partaking in my exhibition and pleasure.

  A timid-looking young man, probably only a couple years younger than me, threads the gap between the mannequins and approaches the foot of my mattress. Too shy to make eye contact, he paws the buttons of his white polo before dropping a five at my feet. Giggling as his money tickles my toe, I toss my shoulder-length, amber hair and look up at him until he feels the stare and risks a glance.

  I don’t bite, baby.

  It starts with my breathing getting heavier. Now he can’t turn away. My fists crinkle the cash, gripping bills and the stained, pink sheet. A soft moan escapes my lips, and I feel the wetness welling between my legs. An ache gathers, growing intensely as I observe the man. His face says, Is that all?

  My eye roll responds, For a five? Yes, that’s all.

  He knows what he has to do to get what he wants, but he either can’t or won’t. Instead, an older man shoves past him. Sporting a thick, but short, white beard, his forehead is creased with soft ridges. Bright blue eyes trace the length of my legs and don’t stop to hover at my waist or chest. He watches my face as he removes a C-note from a gleaming, silver money clip. I smile wide.

  When the bill lands at my feet, the rush hits me immediately. Groaning deeply, I regard the distinguished gentleman, inhaling the musky hints of his cologne. Unafraid to show his desire, he grins lustfully as I pant, swept by the carnal eruption.

  Feeling the watch of hundreds, both presently and digitally, I howl and spasm, letting loose the torrent of bliss. I know what they’re thinking: This isn’t real. She’s acting.

  They’re wrong. This is happening. I’m coming, hard. It’s something I can do, whenever I want. As long as someone is watching, even if that someone is just me.

  Especially if it’s me.

  Laughing gleefully as I roll around in the money, my body glows as the orgasm reaches its peak. The gentleman claps his hands softly, pleased with my performance. I’m glad he liked it, but I enjoyed it more.

  “You’re really something, Sibel.”

  That’s what they say.

  I smile at him and let myself lie flat, one arm draped behind my head and the other resting on my flat stomach. Sighing happily, I look into a few of the cameras, blowing them a kiss.

  When I tire of seeing the ceiling, I flip over and kick my feet up into the air behind me. Panning the crowd at Galleria Carnale, I catch a lot of men quickly flinching away, not wanting to be caught staring. They should know better: I’m here to be seen, and I’m clearly not shy. I guess it’s a natural reaction.

  On the opposite end of the spectrum, I’m catching a lot of stink eyes. Many women, though also some men, look at me as though I’m a sideshow act or an undeserving interloper.

  They’re thinking: This is an art gallery, not a porn studio.

  Or, Who let in this whore?

  Does she really think she’s an artist?

  And yet, this gallery would not be packed beyond the posted occupancy if not for me.

  You’re looking at the main attraction, bitches. Me.

  Another man approaches; he removes two twenties from his wallet and lets them float down into the pile. Moderately handsome in his business suit, he takes out a cell phone and points it at me. “Can I?” he asks.

  I nod and grunt a throaty laugh. Still tingling from my last orgasm, it doesn’t take me long to summon up forty dollars worth of euphoria. Ripples of delight spread out from my sensitive pussy, reaching all the way to my fingers. However, just as I’m starting to come down, the suit takes out another twenty; he waits until I can see it before crumpling it into a ball and flicking it at me.

  Hissing at his voracious leer, I get on my hands and knees. My body shakes as I ride the wave of my last orgasm into another. The suit’s lips purse in a kiss as I stare up at him submissively.

  “You don’t say much, do you?” he asks, keeping the phone trained on my quaking form.

  I shake my head and wink, then twist over onto my back as the orgasm coalesces. The suit continues to watch, and as he does, another man steps in beside him. “Hey, Ryan,” says the newcomer. “Is this her?”

  “Oh yeah. Check this shit out.”

  Ryan retrieves another twenty, folds it into a paper airplane and propels it toward my tender center. When its pointed tip crushes against my tanned skin I let loose a fresh groan, once again pleasantly entranced. Cooing, I enjoy the attention of Ryan and his friend, spying the tents in their pants. The newcomer’s cock seems kinda small compared to Ryan, but that’s all right — it’s not what’s driving my orgasm.

  “That’s wild,” he says as I finish, drawing a fresh round of applause from the spectators. “And you can keep doing this?”r />
  I shrug, smiling as if to say, As far as I know!

  The friend crouches down to my eye level. “What are you doing after this?”

  Oh, here we go.

  “You should come back to my place. I’d make you come for real, and I can pay a lot better than Ryan here.”

  “Fuck you!” I scream, rising to my feet. It’s the first words I’ve spoken in more than an hour, and I’m parched with thirst, so my voice comes out hoarse, but still quite loud. “I don’t fuck for money, you piece of shit!”

  “Hey, hey,” the friend mumbles, stunned by my sudden outburst.

  Scooping up fistfuls of cash, I hurl them at the men with a sneer. “Do you think women can just be bought? Is that how you treat us?”

  “No, no…” He turns back and forth to find everyone is really watching now. His forehead glistens under the bright lights of the gallery. “I’m sorry, I just thought…”

  “Get the fuck out of here!” I holler. “You disgust me, you fucking pig!”

  The men nearly knock over one of the mannequins as they trip over themselves to go. Quiet laughter and applause swirl through the gallery at their expense.

  God, that felt good.

  This isn’t the first time tonight I’ve cursed out a sleazebag for propositioning me. It’s an element of the performance I look forward to, in part because of what it says about money, sex and power in general, but also what it says about me.

  I’ve changed. I’m not the person I used to be. Sibel Isaacs might be famous, but her past is mostly unknown; at least, the parts that count.

  Sometimes I wonder if anyone from my dark days recognizes me now. Do they see photos of me on the Internet and think, Where have I seen her before? Are they satisfied when they Google me and see that I’ve been on the sides of buses, and in magazines and videos? Maybe their sense of recall keeps nagging like an itch, telling them, No, it was definitely somewhere else…

  I can’t worry about it. Like they say, what’s done is done. If they all find out… I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Perhaps I’ll tell everyone someday, admit the truth and be free of secrecy once and for all. Maybe.

  When Ryan and his friend hustle out of the gallery, exiting onto the Bowery, I lie back down in the money and purr. Then I see my friend Steph weaving her way through the crowd carrying a bottle of water and a napkin full of chocolate cookies. Reaching under the mattress, I pull out my own phone; with one flick, I turn off all the mannequins’ cameras.

  “Eat up,” says Steph as she steps close enough to hand over the food. “You doing alright?”

  Scarfing down the first cookie, I give her a thumbs up. I drink half the bottle in a single gulp, thirstier than I realized. “What time is it?”

  “Nine,” says Steph. “Two more hours to go.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  She nods. “You need anything else?”

  I give her a look that says, Come on, now.

  Steph laughs. From the pocket of her tight jeans, she pulls out a stack of business cards and fans them out. “All photographers, all eager to shoot as soon as possible.”

  “And? What about online?”

  She smiles wider. “More than twenty thousand unique views so far. You’re crushing it.”

  “That’s awesome! I can’t believe it!” I let myself fall back down onto the bed and pretend to backstroke in the cash.

  “I think it’s the multi-camera thing. People are watching you from every angle.”

  Oh, fuck me. That is so fucking hot. I can just picture them, eyes racing across the screen to witness my ecstasy as completely as one can through a computer. I can’t wait to watch it later, to see it as they did. It’s going to be amazing.

  “You’re chewing up a ton of bandwidth, though,” adds Steph. “Want me to bump up our allowance for the month?”

  “Please,” I reply. “Wouldn’t want the show to end prematurely.”

  She snorts and pulls out her phone to contact my hosting company. “On it.”

  “Thanks!” I say, using my cell to restore the live feeds from the mannequins.

  Sitting cross-legged, I clutch my shoulders and put on a lonesome look. It doesn’t take long for fresh arrivals at the gallery to spot the naked hottie sitting on a pile of cash, and then the performance is back on. Tens and twenties fall at my feet, and occasionally a fifty or hundred. After ninety minutes, I’m a tired, sweaty mess. I’ve lost count of how many orgasms I’ve had, and the money reeks of my scent.

  By this point, much of the crowd is gathered around my exhibition, but no one is forthcoming with more money. They’re all tapped out, apparently. That’s fine: I anticipated this would happen toward the end of the night.

  As they watch, I gather the money into a single pile, playful as a child making a castle in the sand. I ooh and ahh at the small fortune at my feet, then clutch a handful of bills to my nose. Inhaling a night’s worth of sweat and sex, I moan at the fresh gnaw of hunger in my core.

  However, instead of collapsing in another rapturous paroxysm, I launch myself at the closest mannequin, bowling it over. Letting loose a primal howl, I pick up the fallen figure by the ankles and swing it at the next mannequin. The audience quickly backs up as I rampage from one mannequin to another. Fake limbs fly and phones crack against floor tiles in a whirlwind of fury and destruction. When all the figures are smashed, I collapse back onto the bed, huffing like a beast. I fall onto my stomach, burying my face in the mound of cash.

  I stay this way until the gallery director announces the show has ended, and the spectators start to leave. In a minute I’ll have to get up, put some clothes on and start cleaning, but for now I’m free to enjoy the moment.

  That was a pretty damn good show.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “Fucking weird,” says Chase, finishing off the craft beer bottle he’s been nursing throughout the show. His thin, pale lips twist into a grimace, as the IPA has grown extra bitter from warmth. I gave up on finishing mine. “Weird. But hot.”

  I nod. Really fucking hot, especially considering her show was relatively vanilla. If no one’s tied up, gagged or getting flogged, I usually don’t care all that much, but Sibel Isaacs’ bizarre presentation and performance has gotten me harder than granite.

  When I convinced Chase to come with me to Galleria Carnale, I expected nude paintings and sculptures — not a gorgeous, naked woman coming on command in front of a crowd of strangers.

  “You going to talk to her?” he asks, smoothing out the lapel of his dark gray linen suit. Though it fits him perfectly, he wears it uncomfortably, as though it’s somehow stifling.

  The temperature in the gallery isn’t too warm — I’m wearing the same suit, though mine is lighter in shade — and I know the salacious scenes around us don’t perturb Chase, so his unease strikes me as uncharacteristic.

  Considering what we do for a living, a weird sex show shouldn’t be a problem. So what is it?

  “Oh, I want to talk to her,” I chuckle. “But what do you say to that?”

  He grunts a laugh. “Just tell her how much you’ll pay.”

  The comment earns us nasty looks from a pair of gallery patrons, an older couple dressed to the nines. I want to tell them, He didn’t mean it like that, but they’ve already walked off.

  “Why don’t you just charm her, Chase?”

  He rolls his eyes, rubbing his palm over his nearly bald scalp. For a man past fifty, he’s in good shape — broad-chested and muscular. Yet, his somewhat pasty skin and slightly asymmetrical features twist his face into a permanent sneer.

  “Fuck that,” he says. “You want to try sweet talking that freak, be my guest.”

  I’ve known Chase for twenty years now, enough to tell when he’s bluffing.

  “That freak has got you rock fucking hard. You want me to make her an offer, I will, but you gotta own this shit.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks, watching as Sibel starts to get up from the bed and gather the c
rumpled cash into a pile.

  “Admit I was right, that this art shit was pretty fucking cool.”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You guess? You were a deer in fucking headlights the whole damn show, staring at her. You’re still sweating.”

  “It’s not from the art,” he replies, staring as Sibel towels herself off. “That chick is seriously smoking.”

  He’s not wrong. I clap him on the shoulder and gesture toward her. “Yeah. And she’s got a lot of fans. This whole gallery was focused on her; and just think of how many people were watching online. That’s a whole market we could attract to our business. What do you care if we have to do this artistic stuff? You still get to have your fun.”

  “If you say so, Pierce.”

  I shake my head, sad to see Sibel getting dressed, covering up that gorgeous body. She notices me looking, but she doesn’t seem bothered. Does she have Chase and I pegged? Does she recognize me? Or does she just not care if people stare?

  “Listen. I can create scenes just as creative as her’s. It’ll be artistic and fucking hot as hell. Customers will like it. And maybe it’ll give you what you need.”

  “It won’t,” Chase growls, balling a fist. “You know that. You know what I fucking need. And it doesn’t matter, because I’m fine.”

  I sigh. “You’re not. I see it, the fans see it. Don’t lie, man. Let me help. This could work.”

  “No,” he replies, getting angrier. “You damn well know it won’t. But hey, why not? I can try fucking the crazy art bitch. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Fucking chill, Chase,” I say, pulling him away. Though he’s taller than me, I’ve got a lot more muscle; and though he’s older than me, I’m the one who started our business — so I’m the boss.

  “She better not have heard you,” I add.

  “The fucking Chase Turner charm,” he says, running his tongue between his teeth. “A nutty little cunt like her will probably love it.”

  “I doubt that very much.” Sneaking another glance at her, I see she’s finished dressing, which most likely means she’s leaving. “Come on. Let’s go talk to her. You gonna watch your fucking mouth?”

  “Sure,” he grunts. “Just like always.”