The dimly lit room was silent except for the soft crackle of the fireplace and the faint rustle of silk against skin. She knelt on the plush rug, her wrists bound behind her back with a single loop of black leather. Her head was bowed, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, and her breath came in shallow, anticipatory bursts. She was waiting—waiting for him.
He stood in the shadows, watching her with a predatory stillness. His presence was commanding, his broad shoulders and sharp jawline accentuated by the flickering firelight. He wore a tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and dark trousers that hugged his powerful frame. His eyes, cold and calculating, roamed over her submissive form, assessing her readiness.
“Look at me,” he ordered, his voice low and authoritative.
She obeyed instantly, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of fear and desire. She knew what was coming, and she craved it.
He stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. He circled her slowly, his presence suffocating, his dominance undeniable. When he stopped behind her, she shivered, feeling the heat of his body so close yet not touching.
“You belong to me,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “Every inch of you. Your body, your mind, your pleasure—it’s mine to command. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
He reached down, his fingers trailing along the curve of her neck before gripping her chin firmly. “Say it again.”
“I belong to you, Sir,” she repeated, her voice stronger this time.
He released her and stepped back, his expression unreadable. “Good girl.”
From the table beside him, he picked up a sleek, black riding crop. He ran his fingers along its length, testing its weight, before turning his attention back to her. “Stand up.”
She rose gracefully, her movements deliberate and controlled. He admired her discipline, the way she carried herself even in her submission. It was one of the reasons he had chosen her—she was perfect.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
She obeyed, presenting her back to him. He stepped closer, the crop resting against her shoulder as he leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “Count for me.”
The first strike landed with a sharp crack, and she gasped, her body tensing. “One, Sir.”
He struck again, harder this time, and she whimpered. “Two, Sir.”
The rhythm was deliberate, each strike precise and calculated. She counted each one, her voice growing weaker as the pain mingled with pleasure, sending waves of heat through her body. By the time he reached ten, she was trembling, her breath ragged.
He dropped the crop and stepped in front of her, his hands cupping her face. “You did well,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’re mine, and I’ll always take care of you.”
She nodded, her eyes filled with trust and devotion. He untied her wrists and pulled her into his arms, his embrace both possessive and tender. In his command, she had found her freedom, and in her submission, he had found his perfect match.