The Club - Ep. 10 - The Proof

Claudia sat up early, feeling the weight of the day settle on her even before she moved. Without thinking, she grabbed a simple pair of jeans and a black T-shirt she found neatly folded in the wardrobe. She dressed quickly, her movements mechanical, as if the clothes were the only thing she could control.

Mira was already waiting in the hallway. Silent. Watching her with that same quiet patience. After a moment, she tilted her head toward the stairs, a wordless gesture.

Claudia followed without speaking. Her steps grew heavier with every corridor, every turn. Mira stopped in front of a door, knocked once, then stepped aside, leaving Claudia alone with it.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Claudia stood still for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the muted light. The room was clean, almost clinical--padded bench, a small table with neatly arranged implements she didn't dare study too closely.

A man stood near the center. Tall. Composed. Dressed simply in black.

He stayed where he was, watching her--still in a way that unsettled more than any sudden move could.

"Claudia," he said, his voice low but perfectly clear. "I'm Marcus."

He let the name settle between them, like it explained everything and nothing. No handshake. No smile.

Claudia nodded once--sharp, guarded. She kept her posture still and composed--though she felt his eyes on her skin.

Marcus gestured toward a small, marked spot on the floor. "Stand there." His tone was quiet. Final.

Claudia hesitated only for a fraction of a second--long enough for both of them to feel it--before moving to the spot. Her steps were even, measured. She held her chin a little higher than necessary.

Marcus tilted his head. A flicker at the corner of his mouth--not quite a smile, but close enough to feel like one.

"Take off your clothes," he said. Simple. Final.

Claudia breathed out slowly through her nose. Not fear--she wouldn't give him that. But something more volatile, a tension coiling low in her stomach.

Her fingers found the hem of her shirt. One steady motion, peeling it off. She dropped it onto a small bench to the side. She kicked her shoes free, hard enough to send them skidding across the floor. Her jeans slid down her legs, tight over her thighs, her hips.

She stood now in her plain black bra and underwear. Practical. Nothing designed to impress. Her fingers worked at the clasp of her bra, slower than necessary.

Light padding in the cups--just enough to lift, to round, to offer the illusion of a little more. A quiet cheat.

No man she'd wanted had ever walked away once he had her close, once hands replaced eyes.

But here, choice didn't exist. Nothing to hide behind. Just skin, truth, and the steady, silent gaze of a man she hadn't invited to want her.

She slid the bra off her shoulders and let it fall.

Most people would probably call her figure athletic. Tight. Disciplined. Shaped by control than indulgence.

Not like Heather, who could glance in the mirror, poke at her hips, and wonder aloud if her ass had gotten bigger. Claudia had never thought like that. Never cared. Until now.

Her breasts were firm, neat, standing without much need for support. Nothing lavish. Nothing exaggerated. And suddenly she was aware of how very functional she looked--long muscles, clean lines, no soft drama for the eye to linger on.

Women like Heather and Lina had curves you could fall into. They moved with a lushness that seemed effortless. They wore their bodies like languages she had never learned.

She had built hers like a fortress--lean, efficient. A quiet strength no one was meant to touch.

Now, naked under Marcus's gaze, she wasn't so sure.

The words slipped out before she could stop them:
"Disappointed?"
Sharp. Defensive. Stupid.

The second it left her mouth, regret curdled in her stomach. She knew better. She knew he would use it against her.

Marcus didn't answer. He just let the silence stretch, heavy, almost tangible. It told her everything--and nothing. And somehow, that was worse.

She hated him. She hated herself. For standing here. For caring.

Claudia forced herself to stay still, though every instinct screamed to cover herself. Her hands flinched forward, reaching instinctively toward the bare skin of her lower belly.

"Arms at your sides," Marcus said--low and cutting. It left her no choice but to obey.

Claudia froze, forcing her arms back down, every muscle locked in brittle obedience.

For now. Fuck you. The words stayed locked behind her teeth, burning hotter than her shame.

Marcus watched her a moment longer, then turned to the table. He chose two broad, padded cuffs.

When he came back, his steps were slow.

"Hands forward."

Claudia raised her right hand first. The leather felt warm from his touch--snug, controlled.

As he reached for her left, she shifted. Barely. But he caught it.

His grip closed--steady, unrelenting.

"You like to make things complicated, don't you?"

His voice almost sounded amused.

Claudia lifted her chin. Said nothing. Her nostrils flared.

Marcus gave no further comment. He buckled the second cuff in place with the same calm efficiency, as if logging her first small act of defiance for later use.

Without pausing, he retrieved two broader cuffs, leaning down to fasten them high on her thighs. A short clasp linked each wrist cuff directly to the strap around her thigh, locking her body into a vulnerable display.

The restraints pinned her open, stripped her of even the illusion of control. Every breath reminded her how ridiculous her stance must look--how exposed she was.

She wanted to slam her legs shut, to tear the cuffs from her skin, to spit in his face.
But there was no escape. Only the slow, venomous crawl of helplessness under her skin.

Still, her body betrayed her--petty, pathetic. A roll of her shoulder, a tightening of her jaw. Movements that felt brave inside her head but probably just looked ridiculous.

Marcus saw it. He stood behind her, one hand settling on her hip for balance--and delivered a firm slap to her ass.

Not brutal. Not playful either. Just enough to make her flinch.

"You really want to test me today," he said quietly.

She stiffened--but didn't move again.

Marcus straightened, retrieved a simple black leather collar, and stepped close once more.

The restraints tugged slightly with every small movement, a mocking reminder that even defiance would look ridiculous now.

Wide enough to bare her completely. Wide enough to erase any hope of modesty.

Bound, collared--stripped of even the illusion of choice--her body wasn't her own anymore.

And for the first time, she wondered--not with fear, but with a slow, creeping certainty--how naked she really was to him. How much of herself she had already given away.

Finally, he stepped back--a slow, deliberate withdrawal. His voice was calm. Absolute.

"Now we can begin," Marcus said, his voice steady as stone.

But he didn't move immediately. He just stood there, watching her--long enough for the silence to thicken, to press against her skin like a second layer.

Claudia held still, jaw clenched, her body thrumming with tension.

Marcus turned away without another word, walking slowly to the table. He ignored her completely, his movements calm, indifferent--like someone rearranging furniture.

The dismissal stung sharper than a slap.

Claudia shifted--barely. An instinctive rebellion. But the restraints caught the motion, made it clumsy. Ridiculous.

The small chains at her thighs tugged against her wrists, a constant reminder: there was no graceful way to stand, no dignified way to hide. Only exposure. Only waiting.

Cool air licked over her skin, raising goosebumps--and underneath, a slow, unwelcome heat began to bloom.

Her thighs twitched--an instinctive, useless bid for protection. But she stayed open, teeth clenched, too proud to give him the satisfaction.

The sound of her own breathing grew loud in her ears--short, shallow.

Beneath it all, a darker certainty uncoiled:
Not carelessness. Not hesitation.
All of this was power.
Control without a single raised voice or rough hand.

When Marcus finally turned back, he held a slim leather flogger in one hand, its tails trailing loose between his fingers.

He approached without urgency, stopping just close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body.

Still, he didn't touch her. Didn't speak. The seconds stretched unbearably.

Heat bloomed low in her stomach, unwelcome and sharp. She gritted her teeth, furious not at him--but at herself. At the way her body, traitorous and stupid, responded to nothing but silence.

Claudia stiffened--waiting for pain, for a command, for anything.

Instead, Marcus lifted a hand and traced the line of her jaw with the back of his knuckles.

Soft. Calculated. Inevitable in the way a falling blade was inevitable.

She flinched before she could stop herself.

Marcus's thumb brushed lightly across her lower lip--not gently, but almost clinically.

His voice, when it came, was a a wire drawn fine against raw nerves: "You want to be brave?"

His thumb pressed a fraction harder against her mouth, then retreated.

"Then say it."

He let the silence press into the hollow spaces between them.

"Tell me to stop."

No anger. No threat. Just a quiet dare.

The words hung in the charged air.

Claudia's mouth twisted, but she stayed silent. She hated the pounding of her heart, the flush that burned under her skin. And lower still--something hotter, meaner, tightening between her thighs.

She stayed rigid, clinging to stillness like armor. If she even moved, she feared her body would betray her more than it already had.

Another part of her--darker, crueler--wanted to say it. Wanted to end this, to shove the control back into her own hands. But her throat locked. Her pride strangled the words before they could form.

Marcus watched her--not disappointed, not amused. Just waiting.

And when she gave him nothing--no surrender, no defiance--he finally smiled.

Small. Knowing. Not victorious. Inevitable.

Without a word, he stepped closer again--his hand sliding down from her jaw, along the side of her neck, across her collarbone. Slow. Measuring.

He didn't squeeze. Didn't grab. He read her.

Her muscles fluttered under his touch, a helpless betrayal. Worse was the heat tightening between her thighs--deep, rhythmic, humiliating in its honesty.

She locked her knees, jaw clenched against the urge to shift. And still she stayed silent. Still she refused to give him the satisfaction of speech.

For now.

Marcus withdrew his hand slowly, savoring her silence. Then, with deliberate ease, he lifted the flogger, simple but merciless in the right hands.

Claudia tensed instinctively. Her body braced**,** but she refused to let the fear reach her face**.**

Marcus let the flogger fall once across his palm--a whisper of sound, soft but heavy with promise. A casual motion. A quiet threat.

"Feet wider," he said, low and almost indifferent.

Claudia's breath caught. She didn't move.

He waited five seconds. Ten.

Then he spoke again, the tone unchanged:

"I'm going to strike you three times. You will stay still."

Her mouth twisted into something half between a sneer and a grimace.

"Fuck you," she muttered under her breath, sharp and reckless.

It wasn't bravery. It was the last, desperate scrap of control she could throw in his face--because once the blows started, she knew, she would lose even that.

And she hated him for it.
Hated him. Hated herself.

Hated the trembling coil of heat and fury already winding low in her gut.

Marcus didn't react. He didn't even blink. Only watched.

Instead, he said--almost kindly:

"I know you want to fight."
A pause.
"And I know you can do better."

The quiet confidence in his voice stung more than any insult could have.

Claudia gritted her teeth, hatred burning bright under her skin. She didn't beg. Didn't move. Didn't flinch. Holding still was the only thing she still owned--and she clung to it with everything she had.

Marcus stepped to her side. She felt the movement more than she saw it.

The first strike came without warning--a hiss of leather, then a crack like a gunshot against her skin.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then--fire.

A line of pure, blinding heat seared across her ass, so sharp her knees nearly buckled.

Her breath punched out in a ragged gasp, her throat locking around a scream she refused to release.

The air tasted metallic--like she'd bitten her own tongue.

Her muscles twitched violently, the restraints biting into her thighs and wrists as she fought to hold her ground.

And beneath it all, a traitorous pulse--low, insistent--throbbed between her legs.

Another pause, another breath.

The second came lower--brushing the tender flesh of her upper thigh, where the skin was thinner, rawer.

The shock of it stole her breath entirely. Her knees gave for half a second, yanking the restraints taut.

Metal dug into her skin; her wrists burned against the leather. She straightened with a choked, furious sound--half rage, half broken pride. Her whole body shook, every instinct screaming to move, to fight, to do something. And still, she stayed standing.

Marcus said nothing. He waited.

Then the third strike landed--straight across the first, layering pain on top of pain.

Claudia's head snapped back, a raw, involuntary jolt she barely contained. Her vision blurred at the edges. Every nerve shrieked, white-hot and furious.

The chains rattled against her skin, sharp in the loaded silence--but she didn't fall. Didn't speak. Didn't beg.

Only the raw drumbeat of her heart remained, hammering furious protest into the empty air. Her whole body trembled. Not from pain. From the sheer, brutal effort of holding herself still.

For a moment, she wanted to lash out. To shove him. To scream in his face that he hadn't broken her.

But the impulse died under the weight of her own pride--sharp-edged, bitter, unyielding. She stayed standing. Refused to give him even that.

But there was a pulse low in her belly, slow and wrong.

She hated how her own body didn't know whose side it was supposed to be on.

Some part of her braced for him to touch her--a rough hand on her breast, fingers between her legs.

And she didn't know what terrified her more: That he might. Or that deep down, she wanted him to.

But Marcus didn't move. He simply watched her fall apart in the silence he had built around her. No hand. No word. No mercy.

When he finally moved, it was almost gentle--infuriating in its indifference.

His fingers found the clasps at her wrists, undoing them with swift, clinical precision. The leather slid away, leaving her arms aching, weightless. Then the collar--pulled free with a smooth, unceremonious tug.

Claudia's hands hovered, twitching, aching to hide something--anything.
But she forced them to stay down. Forced herself to hold his gaze when he finally met her eyes.

Rage and shame churned in her chest, molten and raw. But she stayed upright--silent, burning.

If this was only the beginning, she wasn't sure whether she hated him more... or herself.

When it was over, Marcus let the flogger fall back to his side.

He didn't speak at once. He just watched her--every strained breath, every twitch of defiance she tried to bury under her skin.

Then, quietly:
"Good."

Not indulgent. Not mocking. Just fact. Like acknowledging the weather. Like acknowledging a truth she had no say in.

Marcus returned, slow and unhurried. He didn't speak. Didn't hesitate.

His hands found the clasps at her wrists first--undoing them with swift, precise motions.
The leather slipped away with a faint whisper, leaving her skin cool and exposed. Then the collar. A single, smooth pull--neither rough nor gentle--freeing her throat.

Claudia stood stiffly, her arms heavy at her sides, fighting the primal urge to shield herself.

Marcus didn't touch her again. Didn't offer her a word of praise. Didn't offer her anything. He simply looked at her--calm, unreadable.

And then, without warning, he spoke:
"You don't even know yet what you gave away."

No anger. No satisfaction. Just quiet certainty.

It hit harder than the restraints. Harder than the blows.

Claudia flinched--not outwardly, not visibly. But inside, something cracked. Something small and dangerous and new.

Marcus turned away without waiting for a reply. Without a second glance.

Leaving her standing there--naked, burning, furious--and not nearly as sure of herself as she had been.

Not anymore.