But he does. And he's making it clear that he has infinite patience.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. He works steadily, making phone calls in Russian, typing on his computer, reviewing documents spread across his desk. He doesn't look at me, doesn't give any indication that he cares whether I obey or not. It feels as if this is, like me coming here, simply inevitable to him.
I could try to turn around and unlock the door, go back out into the penthouse… but then what? I won’t be able to try to escape again, at least not this soon, if I can find a way at all. I can go to my room, lock the door… but I don’t think that lock will really keep him out if he doesn’t want to be.
One way or another, he’s going to teach me this lesson. It can be now or later, but I don’t think he’s going to forget about this or relent.
My stomach twists with shame at the thought of obeying, but there’s something else, too. A warmth seeping through my blood, a low pulse between my thighs, a feeling of…
No. I amnotturned on by this man demanding that I kneel in his office, then ignoring me when I refuse to do so. This kind of degradationcannotbe a kink I didn’t know I had.
My legs start to ache from standing. Not badly at first—just a dull discomfort in my calves, a slight tension in my lower back. But as the minutes stretch out, the discomfort builds. My feet hurt. My knees feel stiff. My back is starting to spasm from holding myself so rigidly upright.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, trying to find relief, but there is none. Standing still for this long is harder than I thought it would be. But I don’t think leaving is going to help, and I don’t think sitting down is going to earn me any points. Although, if I just flopped down in one of his chairs, I wonder what he would do…
I feel vaguely dizzy. Ilya looks up as he finishes a call, his expression still implacable.
“Kneel, Mara. If you do anything else, if you try to sit, if you try to leave, the consequences will be much more unpleasant.”
I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.But there’s a growing heat between my thighs, a throb of arousal at the thought of what else he might do. Would he spank me? Would he…
I lock my knees, trying to stay upright, but that just makes the pain worse. My muscles are cramping now, sharp spasms that shoot up my legs and into my back. Tears are pricking at my eyes, but I blink them back furiously.
I won't cry. I won't give him that satisfaction. I'll stand here until I collapse, but I won't cry.
"You're only hurting yourself," Ilya says without looking up from his computer. "Your pride isn't worth this much pain, Mara. Just do what I've asked, and this can be over."
I close my eyes, trying to block him out, trying to find some reserve of strength to keep fighting. But there's nothing left. I'm empty, exhausted, broken down by the relentless pressure of his will against mine.
I tried to run and I failed. Now, I can try to avoid the punishment that’s coming to me, or I can…
I can accept it.
And then what?
The possibilities of what my reward might be sends another bloom of heat through me, and I squeeze my thighs together, trying not to give in tothat, either… the arousal that’s slowly building at the thought of submitting to this powerful man.
Without consciously meaning to, my knees buckle, and I feel myself sinking down to the rug.
I kneel.
The rug does very little to offer a cushion beneath my knees, and the position is immediately uncomfortable. But it's also relief from the agony of standing. I kneel in front of his desk, glaring at him, my hands clenched in my lap, and I've never hated anyone or anything as much as I hate him in this moment.
"Good girl," he says softly, and the words make my skin crawl… and a flush of heat rush over my skin, my thighs unconsciously squeezing together as I drop my gaze to my lap.
He returns to his work, and I kneel there, my knees already starting to ache against the hard floor. The relief of not standing is quickly replaced by a different kind of discomfort—the pressure on my kneecaps, the strain in my thighs from holding the position, the ache in my back from keeping my spine straight.
Minutes pass. Then an hour. The discomfort builds slowly, insidiously, until it's all I can think about. My knees hurt. My back hurts. My neck hurts from keeping my head bowed.
But I don't move. I don't speak. I just kneel there, hating him and hating myself, while he works above me like I'm nothing more than a piece of furniture.
This is what he wants. This is what he's been working toward since the moment he brought me here. He wants to break me, to reshape me, to turn me into something that belongs to him.
And I'm letting him do it.
The thought makes tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. I won't cry. I won't give him that satisfaction.
Late morning turns into early afternoon, and Ilya hasn’t said a word to me or paid me any more attention since I knelt down. At one point, he walks past me and out of the office, leaving me there as I hear him lock the door behind him.
