"I know."
"I hate you."
"I know that too. But you're doing it anyway. Because deep down, some part of you understands that this is where you belong. On your knees. Looking up at me. Mine."
"You're delusional."
"Am I? Then why is your breathing faster? Why are your pupils dilated? Why is your body responding to this even while your mind is screaming that you shouldn't want it?"
She doesn't answer because she can't.
Because I'm right and we both know it.
Because her body is already betraying her, already responding to the position, to my hand in her hair, to the dynamic we're establishing.
"Stand," I say after a long moment.
She gets to her feet quickly, almost scrambling up.
Relieved to be released from that vulnerable position.
"We're going to practice that every day," I tell her, watching her process the information. "Twice a day, minimum. Until you can drop to your knees gracefully, smoothly, like it's second nature. Until you can hold the position without fidgeting or tension. Until you can look at me with something that resembles devotion instead of hatred."
"That will never happen."
"We'll see. You said you'd never agree to train with me. Yet here we are."
I move to the couch and sit down, spreading my legs in a relaxed posture. "Come here."
She approaches slowly, warily, but stops a few feet away.
"I said come here. That means?—"
"Close enough to touch. I remember."
She closes the distance reluctantly.
Standing in front of me between my spread knees.
"Good. Now, the next thing you need to learn is how to present yourself. How to display your body for my pleasure. For the audience's observation. How to stand or pose in ways that showcase what I own."
"No."
"Yes. This is part of the showcase, Eden. You'll be on display. The Consortium members will want to see what I've acquired. What I own. What I've trained. So, you need to learn how to show yourself without shame, without flinching, without trying to hide."
"I can't?—"
"You can. And you will." I reach for her, taking her hand. Pull her closer until she's standing directly between my knees, close enough that I could wrap my arms around her if I wanted. "Take off your sweater."
"Vaughn—"
"We've been through this before. Last night. This morning. Your body belongs to me now. I've seen it. Touched it. Made it come. Made it respond in ways you didn't know were possible. There's no reason to hide it now. Take off your sweater."
She reaches for the hem with shaking hands that betray her fear. Pulls it over her head in one jerky movement.
Reveals a simple white bra underneath.
Cotton, not lace.
