I know all the reasons I want her to say yes. I want distraction from my disastrous business day, from the weeks—maybe months—it will take to salvage my professional reputation with that kill list floating around the dark web. But a quick session in the shower with my own right hand could give me that sort of relief.
I want to see another flash of surprise on a face that isn’t accustomed to giving away much. I want to hear her moan again. I want to watch a born submissive discover her true self.
She looks at the whiskey. Looks out the window. Looks toward the door and the hall and the elevator that leads to the lobby.
And then she meets my gaze like we’re children in a staring contest. “Fine,” she says. “I’m staying.”
I’m stunned by the anaconda that slithers through my gut; it takes me a moment to recognize the emotion as relief. Ithought she’d choose to leave. I really, truly wanted her to stay.
I blink once, then force my voice to sound lazy. Unconcerned. “Your safeword isred. Say it, and I’ll stop immediately.”
She nods like we’re sitting in a business meeting. She doesn’t believe she’ll ever need her safeword. She’s naive—like every woman who’s ever fallen for a con I’ve run.
But being a Dom isn’t some grift I learned from Shannon. I’ve worked hard to master my needs. To measure exactly how much discipline my subs can take.
“Your pause word isyellow. Say it when you’re reaching your limit. When you need to slow down.”
She twitches one hand, like she wants me to move on. Like all I’m doing is wasting her time.
“Your clear word isgreen,” I say. “You can take more. You want it. You’re fine.”
“So if I saygreennow, we can finally get started?”
“Is that truly the last question you want to ask tonight? Because after you saygreen, you’re mine to control.”
She looks straight at me. Her eyes are bright, as green as the signal she’s so eager to give. Her jaw is set. Without flinching, she says it: “Green.”
“Strip,” I answer.
She laughs.
I pounce like she’s a sheep in a pen. My fingers find the hinge of her jaw without trying, tightening enough to make her gasp. She tries to pull away, but her pupils betray her—they’re as wide as a heroin addict’s, pulsing faintly with every pump of her heart.
“I. Said. Strip.” I squeeze her jaw with each word, reinforcing my claim before I step back to watch her obey.
She glances at the overhead light. Flicks her gaze toward the window. I can see her thoughts as clearly as if she’s standing beneath cartoon word-balloons. Someone will see her. Someone will know.
We’re hundreds of feet above the city streets. No building is close enough for a peep show. But even if she were in a spotlight in the center of Boston Common, she only has one escape now—her safeword, whenever she chooses to use it.
Some subs think they’ll seduce me as they undress. They linger over each garment, offering pouty lips and sultry looks.
Others appeal to my power. They plead to keep on their bras. They beg me to leave them their panties.
Kate Lynch undresses like a robot.
She undoes two buttons on her mannish shirt, then yanks it over her head. She unzips her skirt and shoves it past her hips, stepping out of the cloth puddle it makes on the floor. The two hooks on her bra go like twist-ties on loaves of bread. She slips both thumbs into the elastic waistband of her panties, shucking the cotton like she’s peeling an orange.
She stands before me naked, legs clamped together, hands clasped at her waist. Her tits are small—a more vain woman would have worn a padded bra. Her nipples, though, are a surprise. They’re as dark as her freckles and they’re already stiff, each as big as the nail on my little finger.
She’s shaved a perfect landing strip, pointing straight to her clit.
“Hands behind your head,” I say, more to time her reaction than because I care about her posture. Yet.
She doesn’t move.
“Behind your head,” I say, in a tone no sub should ignore.
Nothing.