She doesn’t look at me as she moves forward, crawling across the floor with quiet, burning fury. But I watch. I take my time, savoring every second.
She’s learning. And this? This is only the beginning.
I lean back in my chair, spreading my legs slightly as I watch her move.
The soft sound of her palms meeting the cold floor echoes through the room, a quiet, broken rhythm that only deepens my smirk.
She sucks in a shuddering breath, her shoulders trembling as she crawls, but she keeps moving. Bare knees against hard marble, hands pressed flat, body tight with humiliation.
What a good girl.
Her hips sway with every movement, the silk of her dress clinging to her curves, riding higher as she drags herself forward. And her ass, fuck. Tight, perfect, shifting deliciously with every crawl. Begging to be fucked.
I take in the way she shakes, the way her body betrays her again and again. I can see from the side of her face that she’scrying silent, angry tears that slip down her cheeks, catching on the ruined lipstick I smeared across her skin.
But I don’t care.
I can’t care.
Caring would make this something else. Something I refuse to acknowledge.
So instead, I focus on what Icanallow myself.
I allow myself to enjoy this moment.
The way she sniffs sharply, trying to contain her emotions. The way her shoulders shudder with a silent sob she won’t let me hear. The way her fingers twitch against the floor, nails dragging slightly as if she’s imagining raking them across my skin instead.
Pathetic little thing.
I exhale slowly, dragging my tongue over my teeth as I let my gaze sweep over her again.
“You make a beautiful mess,” I murmur, just loud enough for her to hear.
She flinches, making me grin. And still with my taunts, she keeps crawling, pushing forward even as her body shakes, even as her breath stutters in her throat.
She hates this.
Hatesme.
But she obeys.
And that’s all that matters.
She reaches the doorway of the dining room, hesitating for a fraction of a second, like she’s waiting for some kind of reprieve. A command to stand or a twisted form of mercy.
I give her nothing. She hasn’t earned it yet.
She sucks in another sharp breath, then slowly, stiffly, drags herself over the threshold, disappearing into the dark.
I watch until the last of her vanishes, until the only trace of her left is the ghost of her perfume in the air.
And then I pick up my tumbler, swirling the melted ice in slow, lazy circles.
I should leave it at that.
Should let her sit in her misery.
But instead, I let my voice slip through the open doorway, smooth and edged with cruel amusement. Knowing she can hear me.
