Letting it fall to join the rest of my clothes on the floor.
I stand here topless, my arms still wrapped around myself in a futile attempt at modesty, trying to maintain some shred of dignity even though we both know it's pointless.
Even though he's seen more of me than this.
Even though his hands have been on my body, have made me feel things, have pulled pleasure from me that I didn't know existed.
But this feels different.
More exposed. More vulnerable. More like surrender.
"Arms down," he says quietly.
"No."
He moves so fast I don't have time to react.
Don't have time to step back or put up my hands or do anything except gasp.
He crosses the space between us in two strides and takes my wrists in his hands—not roughly, but firmly, with undeniable strength—and pulls my arms to my sides.
Forces me to be exposed.
To be seen. To stop hiding.
"When I tell you to do something, you do it. Immediately. Without question. Without hesitation. Do you understand?"
I don't answer.
How can I answer?
My throat has closed up with fear or anger or something else I don't want to name.
His grip on my wrists tightens.
Still not painful, but firm enough that I can feel his strength.
Firm enough that I know I couldn't break free even if I tried.
"Do you understand?" he repeats.
"Yes," I whisper.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I understand."
"Good girl."
The praise shouldn't make my stomach flip.
It shouldn't send that traitorous warmth spreading through my chest, shouldn't make some small part of me preen at his approval.
But it does, and I hate myself for it.
Hate that even now, even terrified and exposed and completely at his mercy, some part of me still wants to please him.
Still craves his approval like oxygen.
