I do, because I can’t not, because my eyes go to the reflection even as I try to turn away—and I see myself. Naked and flushed and destroyed beyond recognition. Slick still glistening on my thighs, lips swollen from gasping, mascara bleeding down mycheeks like ink from a story I never got to finish, hair wild around my face.
I look like ruin personified.
He steps behind me, his reflection towering over mine, fully clothed whilst I’m completely bare.
His hand grabs my jaw again, forcing me to watch our joined image.
“You see that?” he whispers against my ear. “That’s not a woman anymore. That’s a lesson in what happens when a brat thinks she can fuck with a man like me and come out the other side clean and unscathed.”
His hand presses between my legs—just once, just enough pressure to make me sob with renewed need.
“Dripping. Begging. Empty. Desperate.”
His voice lowers to a growl that I feel in my bones, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“And still not allowed to cum. Still denied what you need most.”
He shoves something cold and small into my trembling hand.
A remote—small, black, with a single button that flashes red like a warning light.
“You want to cum, little fairy?” he murmurs against my ear. “Then earn it. All you have to do is press that button and you can have everything you want.”
My fingers twitch around the plastic, my reflection staring back at me with wide, uncertain eyes.
His smile grows in the mirror, cruel and knowing.
“But if you do…” He pauses, lets the silence stretch. “The next time you scream, it won’t be from pleasure. It’ll be from something else entirely.”
The remote burns in my hand like hot coal, like forbidden fruit, like the apple Eve shouldn’t have eaten.
A small, plastic nothing with a single button. That’s all it is—simple, innocuous, barely weighing anything at all.
But it might as well be a gun, might as well be a knife pressed to my own throat, might as well be a contract written in blood.
I stare at it in the mirror’s reflection—red light blinking steadily like it’s watching me back, like it knows I don’t have the strength to resist, like it’s counting down to my inevitable surrender.
My legs tremble where I kneel on the expensive rug, sore and raw and aching, slick still dripping down my thighs in slow, humiliating betrayal like proof of the need he’s carved into me with his tongue and his words and his calculated absence.
He’s behind me in the reflection, perfectly still now.
Not touching me anymore.
Not even breathing loud enough to hear over the thundering of my own pulse.
Just watching with those ice-blue eyes.
Waiting with infinite patience.
“All you have to do is press it,” he says, voice smooth as oil, as seductive as sin itself. “No more rules after that. No more hands holding you back. Just one tiny choice, one moment of weakness.”
That’s the fucking trap, isn’t it? That’s the game he’s been playing all along.
It’s not about obedience anymore, not about submission or control.
It’s about owning the moment I break, about making me complicit in my own destruction because if I press it… it’s mine—my choice, my fall, my guilt to carry.
He’ll never let me forget that I chose this, that I was the one who pressed the button when I could have resisted.
