The moment I turned the key, he stiffened, naked, vulnerable, obedient. I let the silence stretch until it started to choke. My heels echoed with slow, deliberate clicksacross the marble floor, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of cypress. I could feel the throb between my thighs with every step.
“On your knees,” I ordered, voice sharpened like a scalpel.
He dropped instantly, hands behind his back, spine straight, big chocolate dick, hard, and leaking. God, he was beautiful like this, restrained only by the force of my command—a beast leashed by a whisper.
“You really want to be broken?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
His voice was low, breathy, and eager.
“You don’t even know what that means,” I purred, circling him. “But you will.”
I opened my drawer and retrieved the cane. Thin, flexible, deadly in the right hands, my hands.
His dick twitched again.
“Stand,” I said. “Hands behind your head. Legs shoulder-width apart.”
He obeyed, the shift of muscle across his chest and thighs making my mouth water. My fingers skimmed his skin, a slight whisper of touch, making his breath catch.
“I bet you jerk off thinking about me punishing you,” I said, trailing the cane across his chest, dragging it down to flick his nipple. He flinched, not from pain, from need.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Tell me how.”
“I stroke slow,” he confessed, voice cracking, “like you’d make me. I imagine you watching me, but not letting me finish.”
“Mmm. Good boy.”
And then I struck him. A clean stripe across his innerthigh. He gasped, part shock, part arousal. His curved dick bobbed in the air, continuing to leak precum.
“Count.”
“O-one, Mistress.”
The next landed across his abdomen. Then his hip. I paced myself. Not just aiming to inflict pain, no, I was teaching his body something and teaching him what it meant to ache beautifully.
“Two… three… f—four…”
By the time I reached ten, he was trembling and not from fear, but from the intoxicating edge where pain blurred into pleasure. That soft, sacred place where masochists bloom.
I dropped the cane and stepped closer, my gloved hand cradling his jaw. “Look at me.”
He met my eyes through the mask, his own filled with desperate adoration.
“You belong to me tonight. You understand?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
I shoved him to the padded bench, bent him over it with a hand at his neck.
“Color?” I asked, leaning into his ear.
“Green,” he panted.
“Good.”
