Nas grabs me by the face, squeezing my cheeks hard. “Shut your fucking mouth. Get over here,” he commands as he uses my face to roughly guide me over to the cross. Once I’m centered, he straps my arms and legs in place and uses the collar to secure my neck. He locks it tight so I can barely move my head without choking myself. Naturally, I push my neck against the collar to put pressure on my throat.

Once Nas has me how he wants me, I watch him as he stands in front of me, looking over his work. He checks my body to make sure I can't get out of the straps, then takes a step back and begins to unbutton his shirt, pulling it off to reveal a tight stomach, sculpted chest, and round shoulders. He really is a god, and I can’t wait for him to bless my body with his vicious touch. I grin to myself when he turns around to open a drawer on the chest behind him, pulling out a silver pinwheel. My eyes widen to twice their size and I feel greedy for wanting it as much as I do. It’s a tiny wheel covered in spikes—a literal torture device made to bless me with sweet, beautiful torment.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, holding the pinwheel in the air so I can see it.

“Yes, Sir. Always.”

“Good girl. What's your safe word?”

“Queen.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the queen of the Kingdom, and I have more power than you do. We stop when I say stop. We go when I say go.”

Nas smiles as he steps over to me. “That’s exactly right. You're my queen. Now, let your king have his way with you.”

“I’m all yours, King.”

“You’re fucking right,” Nas says before he reaches up and slaps me across the face. I moan as the sensation of the slap explodes down my body, and Nas grabs me by my hair, pushing my head back against the X before letting me feel the pinprick of the wheel on my stomach.

“Oh,” I say with a gasp as Nas rolls the pinwheel across my naked torso. He starts at my lower stomach and works his way past my belly button, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the tool and my face.

“Look at you,” he says, pressing the wheel harder and watching my muscles clench. “You fucking love it, don't you?”

“Y … Yes, Sir,” I answer with a quivering whisper. The wheel feels like a knife being dragged across my bare flesh, and part of me wishes it was a knife. He presses harder and I don't suck in my stomach to get away. I force it out and embrace the pain. It feels fucking incredible.

“Of course you do, because you're disgusting, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Say it. Say you're fucking disgusting.”