The room inside is small, maybe ten by twelve, but every inch is occupied by tools. The walls are concrete, finished in a rough, unfinished style. There’s a bench in the middle, lacquered wood and black leather, bolted to the ground with four-inch screws. A pair of handcuffs dangle from the ceiling, thick black bands with leather cuffs.
There’s a rack on the far wall, lined with impact toys: floggers, crops, a single cane. Below that, a shelf with dildos arranged by size and material, plugs in neat rows, lube bottles lined up like soldiers at inspection.
I watch Landon scan the room, and I see the exact moment when the purpose hits. His face goes white, not with horror but with the chill of recognition. I push him to the center, make him stand with his back to the bench.
“Clothes off,” I say. My voice is flat. He starts with the shirt, fumbles, hands shaking. I wait. The act of undressing is always better when they do it themselves.
The shirt falls to the floor, then the pants. He stands in my underwear, a pair of thin cotton boxer briefs, colorless and worn. I hook a finger in the waistband and pull them down, slow, so the elastic snaps around his ankles. He shivers. I step back, hands on hips, and admire the view.
He’s lean but not soft; there’s muscle under the skin, the kind that comes from being perpetually tense, never fully at ease. The bruises from last night are already showing on his hips and ass, purple and red like he’s been marked for slaughter. There’s a ghost of a bite on his shoulder, a line of fingernail scratches down his thigh. His cock hangs between his legs, not fully hard, not fully soft. He’s trying to keep it from rising, but his body betrays him.
I walk a slow circle around him, hands behind my back.
“Do you know what happens to people who cross me?” I say.
He doesn’t answer, but his jaw tics.
I pause behind him, close enough that my breath moves the hair on his neck. “I usually kill them. Anyone can pull a trigger, Landon. That’s easy. What’s harder is teaching someone theexact cost of curiosity. The exact price of trust. You need to learn that lesson.”
I reach out, hook my finger under his chin, tilt his head back until he’s forced to look up at the exposed piping on the ceiling. The chain for the cuffs hangs right in front of him.
“You want to see inside me?” I murmur, letting the words crawl into his ear. “This is where it happens. This is where I fix the things that need fixing. Like you”
He’s breathing shallow now. I let go, move to the rack, and run my hand over the toys. I pick up a short leather crop, flick it once in the air, listening to the snap.
“You ever been whipped?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, so I turn and slap his ass with the crop, not hard, but enough that the noise echoes in the concrete. He gasps, flinches, but doesn’t try to run. Good.
“Answer me.”
“No,” he rasps.
“You’re about to be.” I drop the crop back on the hook, walk behind him, and fasten the cuffs to his wrists. I raise his arms just enough to make him stretch, his toes barely grazing the floor. His shoulders flex, back arching, and I love the way his ribs move under the skin.
I slide my hands down his sides, check his pulse at the hipbone. Racing, but not panicked. I wrap a palm around his cock, stroke it once, lazy. He makes a noise, tries to pull away. The cuffs rattle.
Stepping in front of him, I look him in the eyes.
“Curiosity is a virtue in my line of work. But there’s a point where it becomes a liability. When that happens, I teach you restraint.”
I say the word slow, letting it draw out.
“Have you… done this before?” His cheeks flush.
It’s cute. His push and pull. He wants to be my first. My only. But he also wants to return to his lame ass former life.
“No.”
He tries to hide the smile from spreading over his rosy cheeks.
“Do you understand what is going to happen here?”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yes.”
I squish his cheeks together and he stares at me, more pissed than scared. I can see the fight in him. Good.
“Say it. Louder.”
