I tighten my grip, twisting my wrist on the upstroke. The water beats down on my shoulders, steam filling the glass enclosure.
She won't speak unless spoken to. Won't dress unless I choose the clothes—if I permit clothes at all. I like the idea of keeping her naked, available for my use at any moment. Those perfect tits with their rosy nipples that harden at the slightest brush of my fingers. That smooth pussy that gets wet when I simply look at it.
She'll learn to anticipate my needs. To bring me coffee exactly as I like it. To kneel between my legs while I work, her mouth available whenever I want it. She'll learn to take my cock to the root, to swallow around the head, to look up at me with those wide green eyes filled with worship and need.
I lean my forehead against the tile, my breathing ragged.
I'll keep her on edge. Desperate. Wet. Always ready for me. She'll associate my touch with pleasure so intense it borders on pain. She'll crave my hand between her legs, my cock inside her, my lips on her neck.
She'll wear my marks. Bruises from my fingers on her hips. Welts from the crop across her ass. A collar—fuck—a collar around that pale throat declaring her mine.
My hips buck involuntarily, fucking into my fist.
I'll own every inch of her. Every thought. Every breath. Every heartbeat. She'll become an extension of my will, existing solely to please me. To satisfy me. To obey me.
And she'll love it.
That's the part that makes my blood race. The part that has my cock throbbing painfully in my hand. The knowledge that she'll fucking love it. That she'll give herself to me completely. Willingly. Eagerly.
She didn't use her safe word.
Thirty-seven strikes with the crop, and she took every one of them.
I'm getting close now, pressure building at the base of my spine. I think of Emmaleen spread across my desk in my home office, bent over with her skirt hiked up around her waist, no panties. Me standing behind her, one hand in her hair, the other gripping her hip as I pound into her.
I think of her on her knees in front of me. How I'll teach her exactly how I want her mouth to suck my cock. Slowly, methodically. I'll start with my thumb pressed against her lower lip, testing the soft give of it, the warmth inside. Then I'll guide her down, inch by inch, her tongue tentative at first until she learns the rhythm I demand.
She'll gag on my cock—she will, inexperienced as she is—but I won't let her pull away. Not until I'm ready. Not until she's proven she can take it. I'll fist my hand into her hair, holding her steady, controlling the pace, the depth, everything. She'll learn to breathe around me. She'll learn to relax her throat. She'll learn that her comfort is secondary to my pleasure—and that realization, that understanding, will turn her on more than she'll want to admit.
She won't just learn how to suck me. She'll learneverything. Every angle of her body I prefer. Every position that pleases me. Every sound I want to hear and the ones I'll punish her formaking. I'll map out every nerve ending until her entire purpose becomes anticipating what I want before I have to speak it aloud. She'll become fluent in the language of my desires.
And she'll love it.
Jino was right.
She's a natural submissive.
I picture her tied to my bed, wrists and ankles secured to the posts, blindfolded, gagged, helpless. Waiting for me to decide how to use her.
Tonight, I'll choose for her and make her think it's her idea.
I'll sit on the throne. I'll ask her what she wants. What she's been craving since the first day she walked into my apartment above the restaurant, late and flustered and wearing that ridiculous yellow cardigan like armor.
She'll hesitate. She always hesitates.
Then she'll whisper it.A spanking.
And I'll smile. Not the cold smile. The other one—the one that suggests I'm indulging her, giving her a gift she's earned through obedience.
I'll lead her to the punishment bench. The narrow one. The one designed to make comfort impossible. I'll bend her over it, her hips elevated, her ass presented like an offering. No restraints this time. She won't need them. She'll stay in position because I told her to.
My hand moves faster.
I'll start slow. Open palm. Firm but not brutal. The first strike will land across both cheeks, the sound echoing in the stone chamber. Her skin will flush pink immediately—she bruises so easily, blooms color like a flower opening under the sun.
She'll gasp. Arch slightly. Her hands will grip the edges of the bench.
I'll pause. Let the sting settle. Let her anticipate the next one.
