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When the Queen Kneels part 6
Thank you to all the kind words and support on my first story. I know this wasn't for everyone, but I am hoping it struck a chord with a few people. This is going to be the final entry in this story for now. I think there is a lot of story left to explore, and I may one day return, but I'm excited to write something in a different genre with similar themes. So if you like stories about busty dominant women being dominated, stay tuned!
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The house was quiet when Stephanie stepped inside, the late hour cloaking everything in a hush that made her feel exposed despite the silence. She paused in the foyer, gym bag still in hand, her heart thudding like she'd just run sprints. Sweat clung to her skin beneath the tank and leggings, not from exertion now, but from the echo of shame still radiating off her like heat. She smelled like the gym, like humiliation, like tension--sour and electric. And Bryce was still up not even pretending like he slept.
He emerged from the kitchen with a glass of water, barefoot, tousled, wearing only athletic shorts. That boyish swimmer's frame--lean, long-torsoed--tightened just slightly when he saw her. His eyes searched her face. Not with panic. With quiet concern.
"Steph?" he said softly, "How'd it go?"
Her hand tightened around the strap of her bag. She didn't speak for a moment. Then she dropped it by the door, the sound sharp in the silence.
"I lost," she said, her voice flat, the syllables bitten off one by one like glass between her teeth.
Bryce blinked. "Seriously?"
She nodded once. Ice-blue eyes locked forward, unwilling to meet his. "Free throws. He won. Ten to nine."
And Bryce didn't say "Are you okay?" or "What now?" or even "I'm sorry." He just exhaled--one long, low breath--and leaned back against the counter, eyes dragging slowly down her figure. She saw the shift, subtle but real, in his posture. Something was cracking open between them. Something unspoken for years.
Stephanie narrowed her eyes. "Don't look at me like that."
He met her gaze evenly. "Like what?"
"Like you enjoyed hearing it."
He ignored her and just stared which pissed Stephanie off. She crossed the room in two strides and shoved him against the counter, hard enough for the glass to rattle. "You want to fuck me because I lost to that greasy little freak?"
"No," Bryce breathed, eyes igniting now. "I want to fuck you because I know that you are fucking drenched from losing to that little freak because you LIKE it."
Stephanie opened her mouth--to deny, to argue, to slap him maybe--but no words came. Her body betrayed her. Every objective sign showed that she was unbelievably turned on--her nipples were like pebbles, a warm red bloom was on her upper cleavage, and she was breathing as if she had run a mile.
"Fuck you." Stephanie said.
Unsure of what had come over him, Bryce spun her with a grip on her waist and bent her over the kitchen island, pulling the tight waistband of her leggings down in one motion. Her ass, high and muscular, bounced free as she braced her arms on the marble, her breath shuddering with rage and hunger.
He stood, pushed the tip of his cock--already hard, throbbing--against her slick folds but didn't push in. "Say you lost. Say you're a loser
Stephanie gritted her teeth, face burning. "I... I lost."
Bryce buried himself inside her with a growl, the sound raw and guttural as her body stretched around him. "Say it again."
"F-fuck--" she gasped. "I lost! I fucking lost! I'm a loser."
His hips snapped against her ass, the sound of flesh slapping flesh echoing in the kitchen. She arched and bucked beneath him, every thrust pushing a moan out of her lips, breaking her composure into little shards. "Ah--ah--fuck--Bryce--!"
"God, you feel so fucking tight," he groaned, gripping her hips like he'd waited years for this. "You've been walking around like a queen, and all this time... you just needed someone to break you."
He wrapped his arm around her throat as he slammed himself in and out of her heedless of her pleasure.
"You wanted him to humiliate you, didn't you? That's what made you wet. Thinking about serving him. Cooking in something slutty."
"Nnnh--yes! Fuck! I couldn't stop thinking about it--" she cried, fists balling on the counter. "He got in my head, Bryce--I hated it--and I loved it--!"
Bryce slammed into her with punishing rhythm, years of passivity evaporated in a thunderclap of dominance. "And now I'm in you. Only me. Let him in your head, but your pussy's mine. Mine, Stephanie."
She came hard, violently, almost too fast, clenching around him in a full-body spasm, her scream raw, half a sob. "Aaaaaugh--fuck--I'm cumming!"
He wasn't done.
He hoisted one of her legs up onto the island, forcing her open even more, driving deeper, rutting into her like a man possessed, until she started to shake and clench again, begging, drooling, her powerful body unraveling at the seams.
He came with a loud, helpless groan, flooding her, his whole body spasming against hers as they both collapsed in a heap of sweat and trembling muscle, panting into each other's skin.
And for the first time in years, Bryce had been the one on top. Not just physically.
Stephanie lay back on the island, legs spread, cum leaking from her, face flushed and dazed, chest heaving.
She smiled, just barely.
Defeat never felt so good.
Leon Wilkerson leaned back in his battered desk chair, one hand absently scratching at his stomach through a stained gray T-shirt, the other idly turning a knight between his fingers. The basement apartment smelled like reheated noodles and dusty books, a whiff of mildew from the carpet that never fully dried from last year's pipe burst. None of it bothered him. His attention was somewhere else entirely.
Stephanie Dahlstrom.
After the free throw debacle--ten to nine, he still chuckled at that--she was his to style for the next humiliation. And if he picked wrong, if he tried to make it overt, she might refuse. Might retreat. But if he picked perfectly...
He leaned over and opened a new tab, fingers flying over the keyboard. He began a search: slutty cheer outfit. Just to amuse himself.
In his mind, she posed like a doll.
The mental montage began:
Stephanie in a micro-miniskirt, midriff bared, pom-poms in hand, lip-glossed sneer plastered on her face. Her bust threatened to rupture the tiny red-and-white top as she stood arms akimbo.
No, too close to the last bet. Too obvious. She might skip it.
He clicked another window. This time: BDSM leather harness outfit.
Now she was striding in, high heels clicking on tile, laced up in crisscross leather that framed her tits like trophies. Glaring at him, daring him to speak. A riding crop in her hand.
No. She might lean into it too hard. She liked control. This wouldn't rattle her--it'd make her feel strong.
He smirked, scratching at the acne scar under his ear. "We need something old," he murmured. "Something she despises."
He searched again: 1950s housewife dress.
And there it was.
In his head, the fantasy snapped into place with crystal clarity.
Stephanie--Professor Stephanie Dahlstrom--standing on his doorstep, fists clenched at her sides, wearing a perfectly tailored sky-blue pinup dress. The cut was retro, all cinched waist and sweetheart neckline, the flared skirt teasing just above the knees. The bodice hugged her tits like a second skin, soft pastel fabric drawn obscenely tight over her 34H bust, delicate buttons straining.
He imagined her arms folded under those heaving breasts, jaw set with fury. Every inch of her body screaming dominance, power, modernity--and there she'd be, trapped in the costume of a bygone era. The ultimate symbol of passive femininity. Smiling pretty. Serving.
Oh god.
He saw her baking cookies. Bent over an oven. Doing chores. Pinned under the weight of forced politeness and archaic expectations, fuming as he watched her. The humiliation wouldn't be overt. It would be deep. Psychological. Insidious. Not just sexy--symbolic.
She'd hate it more than anything.
Which meant he'd won again before she even slipped it on.
He leaned back and grinned up at the cracked ceiling. "That's the one."
Stephanie was halfway through grading a stack of midterms when her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She ignored it at first. The red pen in her hand had already bled through three paragraphs of sloppy undergraduate nonsense, and the kettle on the stove was just beginning to hiss. She reached for her mug instead.
Leon Wilkerson:
"Since you lost, here's your next outfit.
1950s vintage pin-up dress, ideally with a cherry print ????
Stephanie froze. Stared. Her throat tightened.
"... you've got to be fucking kidding me."
She read it again, lips parting, then curling inward with venom.
She stormed into the kitchen, the phone still clutched in her hand like a lit fuse. Bryce stood barefoot at the sink, filling two mugs from the kettle. He turned just as she reached him.
"Did he text you?"
Stephanie held up the phone. "He wants me in a fifties dress."
Bryce blinked. "Like... Grease?"
"Not Grease. June Cleaver with tits. Cherry print. Sweetheart neckline." She was pacing now, stalking tight angry circles in front of the stove. "You know what he's doing? He's erasing me. That smug little greaseball wants to see me dressed like some submissive fantasy housewife--"
Bryce cleared his throat. "Technically, you are--"
She wheeled on him. "Don't."
He lifted both hands, mug still in one. "Just saying."
Stephanie exhaled through her nose. "He's making me go buy it. He didn't send one. He's not mailing a costume--he wants me to go out and find it. Like this is some twisted scavenger hunt for my own fucking humiliation."
Bryce said nothing. His gaze slid down, just a little to her chest as he began to imagine how good she would look in that kind of a dress.
"Oh my god," she snapped. "You're a pervert."
"No," he said too quickly. Then amended, "I mean--yeah. Kind of. But I'm sorry it's hot.
Stephanie stared at him. "Do I look like someone who's ever in her life voluntarily worn a cherry-print cupcake dress?"
"No, but that's what makes it hot babe." Bryce said gently, placing both mugs down and stepping closer, "and I know you are angry, but I also know you are aroused. And that's ok, too."
"I'm mad," she said through clenched teeth, "I am NOT aroused and I am only doing this because I have integrity and not because I'm getting off on this. Unlike you... you sick pervert." Stephanie said pointing her finger at her loving husband before storming out of the room.
The next day Stephanie went shopping.
Stephanie had told herself it would be surgical.
In and out. Find the dumb thing, buy it, bury the receipt beneath real groceries like it never happened. She wore all black--leggings, hoodie, baseball cap--like she was robbing a bank. Dark sunglasses too, though it was cloudy, and no makeup. No earrings. No perfume. No trace of her. She didn't want to be recognized. She didn't want to recognize herself.
The boutique was worse than she'd feared.
Not a big box store, no. That would've let her disappear in anonymity. No--this was a curated little hell nestled in a gentrified corner of town, all pastel signage and potted succulents in the window. A bell chimed quaintly when she entered, and the young clerk behind the counter--platinum bob, floral blouse, wide bright smile--looked up like she'd just spotted a celebrity.
"Hi there! Let me know if you need any help!"
Stephanie wanted to turn and leave. Wanted to say yes, help me find the dumbest outfit in your store so I can debase myself for a perverted co-worker. Instead she mumbled something incoherent and headed for the racks.
The first dresses she saw made her want to gag. Cutesy florals, polka dots, lemon prints, soft linen fit-and-flares that whispered of iced tea and divorce. But she kept flipping. She hated how the idea of being seen in any of it made her wet.
Ten minutes in, she found it. Wedged between two tulle monstrosities was a garment that stopped her dead. It was cherry print in a classic way. Deep red cherries, glossy against black satin. The neckline was dangerously low, plunging into a sweetheart cut that practically dared her to suffocate the world in cleavage. Cap sleeves. Fitted bodice. The waist was nipped in aggressively, like it had something to prove, and the skirt flared out in a cascade of feminine excess, just skimming the knees. A matching red belt hung from a loop, begging to cinch her in like a gift box.
She snatched it off the rack like it had insulted her mother and stalked toward the dressing room, teeth clenched so tight she felt a headache blooming behind her eyes.
The changing stall was cramped, badly lit, the kind that always made even her athletic frame look bulky and weird. She stripped fast--bra, panties, everything--because there was no way this thing was going on cleanly over anything. She stepped into it, wiggled the skirt up over her hips, zipped the back with effort, and then turned to look.
The sweetheart neckline cradled her tits like a shelf, absurdly proud, thrust forward by the tight bodice like they were presenting for inspection. The capped sleeves somehow made her biceps bigger, like the dress was in denial about what it had to contain. The flare of the skirt gave her hips exaggerated sway, made her ass look unreal. The red belt cut across her waist emphasizing her taut stomach.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "I' look."
Her revery was interrupted by the store clerk who knocked and then peaked in.
"DEAR LORD." She called out in falsetto. "you have to get that dress. You look... well... let's just say I'm having impure thoughts and I like men!." The woman cackled giving Stephanie a knowing smile.
Flustered and horny, Stephanie just nodded and bought it on the spot.
The night before the event, Stephanie lay in bed unable to sleep. The dress hung on the closet door across the room, its cherry pattern faintly visible in the sliver of hallway light sneaking through the cracked door. It loomed. Not the fabric--what it meant. What it asked of her.
She tossed. Turned. Flipped her pillow. Checked the clock again. 12:14 AM.
Beside her, Bryce shifted under the covers, still but not asleep. She knew his breathing patterns by now.
"You're awake," she muttered.
"Yeah."
She didn't respond. The silence stretched. Her heart was pounding and her skin felt tight, electric.
"I've never felt this kind of nervous before," she muttered. "Not before finals. Not before my defense. Not even walking down the aisle."
Bryce shifted closer. His fingers slid up under the edge of her tank, brushing along her bare stomach.
"Is it just nerves?"
"No," she said. "It's hunger too. And guilt. And..."
She turned toward him. Their faces were inches apart.
"I don't want to feel this way," she whispered, "but I do. And it's like it's building in my blood."
Bryce kissed her. Soft, just a press of lips. Then again. And when she moaned--quiet, involuntary--his hand slipped down into her panties, two fingers grazing heat.
Stephanie gasped and hooked her leg over his hip, the motion instinctive.
"I'm already soaked," she whispered, furious with herself. "Jesus Christ."
"I know."
His fingers slipped inside her--just a little--and she arched into him.
"I hate how much I want this," she breathed.
"I don't," he murmured. "I love it. I love watching you unravel."
They kissed again, harder this time, and he rolled on top of her. The quiet thud of his body covering hers made her shiver.
"Fuck me," she hissed. "Don't be sweet. Just--fuck me like I'm already embarrassed."
He obeyed.
Pushed inside her with a single thrust, groaning into her mouth as her body clenched around him, needy and already dripping. She grabbed the back of his neck, yanking him deeper, both of them moving without rhythm, just desperation. Flesh slapping. Breaths catching. No words. Just friction and pressure and the ache of a line they couldn't uncross.
Stephanie came first, fast, her teeth gritted, her moan strangled in his shoulder.
But they didn't stop.
Not even when Bryce pulled out and spilled hot against her stomach, chest heaving.
Because ten minutes later--when she still couldn't sleep--she slid her hand into his shorts and whispered, "Again."
The second time was slower. He fucked her from behind, her ass pushed back into his hips, her cheek against the mattress as he moved inside her. Her thighs trembled as he whispered things into her ear she never thought she'd let him say.
She fell asleep with Bryce's cum still leaking down her thigh.
Tomorrow, she would be the queen in cherries.
The morning was a blur. Everything until the dress felt like prelude. She stared at it for a long time. Her fingers hovered over it like it might burn her.
He's going to see this.
He's going to see me.
Wearing this.
Because I lost.
Her hands were shaking as she reached for the bodice. She stepped into it the same way she had in the boutique, but this time every motion was deliberate. Her body knew what was coming. Her thighs trembled when she bent her knees. The satin glided up her hips, cinching her waist tight like a vice. The zipper resisted, then gave with a shudder. She didn't wear a bra. The neckline didn't allow it. Her breasts filled the bodice to capacity, jiggling with every breath.
She wrapped the belt around herself and looked. She felt like a sexy pin-up girl, just as Leon intended.
When she reached his door, she paused. Her knees were weak and her heart was pounding. She hated him. She hated herself. She reached up and knocked gently.
He waited a beat, let her stew. Then opened the door slow, deliberately.
And there she was, Stephanie Dahlstrom in full cherry-print, sweetheart-cut, vintage-weaponized domestic submission.
Leon's eyes lingered without shame or apology, drinking in the vision before him. The dress was absurd: it looked like it had been poured onto her straining in all the right places. And her face, she was visibly seething, but also that flush, the way she stood, it told him that she was aroused too.
Leon smiled slowly. Come in, sweetheart. I was just about to put on some coffee."
"Why don't you go ahead and take off your coat--oh," he said, mock surprise, "you didn't wear one. You really are the perfect housewife today. Always ready to greet your man just the way he likes."
"Don't push me," she said, voice low, dangerous.
He stepped closer, looking her up and down with exaggerated admiration. "I'm not pushing. I'm appreciating."
She scoffed. "Just because I wore this monstrosity, doesn't mean I can't leave."
"You could," he agreed. "But you won't. Because you came here already wearing it. Because somewhere between that boutique and this door, you decided you liked what it felt like to be told what to do like a good housewife."
Stephanie stood there gasping like a fish, wanting to deny it, but knowing on some level it was true.
He walked past her, into the tiny kitchenette, and pulled out a mug with a chipped rim. "You drink black, don't you? Of course you do. No nonsense. You're a woman who gets things done." He poured the coffee and handed it to her.
She didn't move.
"Now now," he said gently, "what kind of wife doesn't take the coffee her man made for her?"
Her fingers tightened--but she took the mug.
"Atta girl," he said.
Leon circled her slowly.
"You know," he said casually, "if this were really the fifties, you'd be setting out hors d'oeuvres by now. Brushing my shoulders off. Asking me about my day."
"You're disgusting."
"And yet," you remain." Leon said while laughing.
"Go on," he said, setting his mug down with a faint clink. "Make me a drink."
She blinked, turned toward him slowly.
"... What?"
Leon tilted his head toward the corner of the room. "The bar. I cleaned it up. Bourbon's on the left. Bitters. Some ice in the freezer. You know your way around an Old Fashioned, don't you?"
Stephanie stared at him. "You think I'm going to--"
"Don't pretend," he interrupted, voice quiet but cutting. "That's exactly what you're here for."
She didn't move.
He smiled. "Housewife duties, sweetheart. Go on."
She stood and moved towards the bar, her heels clicking against the cheap floor. She began to do her best to make a cocktail while Leon shamelessly stared at her.
"You know, I always wondered what you'd look like in a dress like that. Not just in it--but working in it. Like the women in those old black-and-white commercials. Perfect makeup. Polite smile. Big tits barely restrained. Hands doing little chores while their husbands watched."
She stirred harder.
"But this?" he said, almost dreamy. "This is better. Because you're angry. Embarrassed. And still... you're doing it. Pouring a drink with your tits jiggling just enough to distract you."
She slammed the stirrer down into the glass, jaw tight. "You're disgusting."
"Probably," he said, utterly unfazed. "But you're blushing."
Stephanie froze. The bourbon bottle trembled in her hand.
"You like being seen," he said. "You hate it. You love it. That contradiction's written all over you."
She finished the drink, every motion stiff, her fingers betraying her composure by trembling just slightly when she added the final twist of orange peel. She slowly brought him the drink and hated how her hips unavoidably swayed as she walked from the heels.
She placed the drink in front of him. Leon didn't thank her and just smiled.
"Now," Leon said, setting the glass down, the clink sharp in the quiet. "Make one for yourself."
Stephanie's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"I said," he repeated, slowly, "make yourself a cocktail. Something matching. Pretty. Something to hold while we talk."
She laughed, dry and short. "I don't really drink liquor."
Leon raised his brows, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"That so?"
"Yeah." Her arms tightened across her chest, voice clipped. "I prefer wine. Or nothing."
Leon tilted his head. "But that's not what a good housewife would say."
She blinked, once. "Excuse me?"
He smiled, that slow, serpentine grin that made her fists itch. "You're not supposed to like it. You're supposed to serve. That's what the dress is for, isn't it? Looking good, obeying instructions, keeping me happy."
"I want to see you sipping a cocktail and so that's what you are going go to do sweetheart." Leon said firmly.
Stephanie could have told him to piss off once more, but she could feel her resolve draining every second that he openly stared at her cleavage.
Her pride sputtered in her throat--but didn't ignite.
Her heels turned. She walked back to the bar and made herself a gin and tonic. The first sip burned less than she expected.
When she returned to the couch, Leon didn't say a word. He just watched her sink into the opposite cushion, her posture stiff, knees glued together under the wide cherry-print skirt. She held the drink delicately between both hands like she was trying not to spill it on a borrowed costume.
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the slow sipping of alcohol and the faint creak of the ancient couch springs beneath her weight. Stephanie adjusted her posture again, crossing and uncrossing her legs beneath the pinup skirt like she could somehow find a position that didn't remind her of what she was wearing. Nothing she could do made her feel covered up or comfortable.
Leon hadn't spoken in almost two minutes, and that--somehow--was worse than his barbs.
"So," she said, voice brittle. "How's your dissertation coming?"
Leon raised a brow, like he was amused by the question itself. "Coming," he echoed, stretching the word a little too far. "Slowly. But I have my, ah, distractions."
Stephanie stared. "That supposed to be clever?"
"Do you want it to be?" He sipped his drink without blinking.
She rolled her eyes. "Christ. I'm trying to be civil."
"Why?"
That stopped her cold.
Leon leaned in a little. "You think if you keep pretending this is normal, it'll go away? That you didn't wear that cherry dress on purpose? That you didn't step into my world willingly, zip yourself in, and walk to my door like a model in a catalog labeled Obedient But Pissed About It?"
She flushed. It wasn't even a sharp blush--it was the slow, rising kind that started in her chest and crept up her neck, a wave she couldn't fight off.
Leon let the moment settle.
Then, as casually as if asking for the remote, he said, "You should go get started on dinner."
Stephanie blinked. "Excuse me?"
He motioned toward the kitchen with his glass. "You heard me. Go"
And the absolute certainty that she WOULD do it, only made Stephanie's heart flutter and race more. She didn't stand up right away, but she did as she tried to pretend like it was her idea.
The ingredients were all there for a simple roast chicken with wine and potatoes. Something she could easily make and a recipe was there on the counter for her. She began to cook. It took some time, she wasn't sure how long, but at least 30-45 minutes. She expected Leon to constantly come in and mock her or even stare, but he just stayed in the living room reading ignoring her. And that somehow made it even worse.
By the time she pulled the chicken from the oven, carved it, plated it--two portions, symmetrical, careful--the silence had become thunderous.
She stood at the counter, her hands hovering over the plates.
Then, in a voice not quite her own, she said, "It's ready."
Leon didn't look up, his eyes not shifting as he underlined another sentence.
Stephanie's heart pounded as he walked over. He didn't say thank you or good job or anything until he pulled out her chair and said sit.
She sat across from him, knees tight together, trying to ignore the wet heat clinging between her thighs.
She picked up her fork.
His voice again. "Wait."
She froze.
He looked at her across the table, calm and merciless.
"Ask permission."
She swallowed.
Her voice cracked--just slightly.
"May I eat?"
Leon smiled.
"Now you may."
Leon chewed slowly, deliberately, fork clicking once against his plate as he sliced another bite of roasted chicken. The room was quiet but for the faint scrape of cutlery, the rhythmic little taps that made Stephanie feel like she was being graded on every chew. The food was good.
But that didn't stop the slow burn behind her ears as Leon licked a bit of glaze from his lower lip and murmured, "This is excellent."
Stephanie kept her eyes on her plate, forcing down another bite of vegetables. "Yeah. I know."
"all those degrees and yet I'm sure this is the best thing you've ever done." Leon said gesturing to the plate, "other than wearing that dress."
"Fuck you." Stephanie said tiredly.
"I didn't lose a bet for you to monologue about gender roles like some edgelord Jordan Peterson."
Leon chuckled. "I'm not saying you belong in the kitchen, Stephanie." Then, softer. "I'm saying you look right in it."
She hissed under her breath but said nothing otherwise.
L. Stephanie hadn't touched her plate in ten minutes, and he hadn't looked anywhere but her tits in five.
And he wasn't subtle about it anymore.
"I can't believe that dress is even holding them in," he said finally, his voice smooth, as if he was discussing the weather.
"your tits are ridiculous and I can't wait for you to finally let me feel them tonight." Leon said confidently.
Stephanie scoffed and flushed, arms tightening across her stomach, but it only pushed them up higher.
"I'm not showing you anything," she said, her voice defensive.
Leon grinned, that same maddening, lazy confidence bleeding across his face. "You will."
"No, I won't."
"Oh, you absolutely will." He leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, eyes locked on the tight swell of her cleavage. "You're going to show them to me tonight."
She stared at him, shocked. "I'm married."
"I know," he said easily. "And he's probably as hard as I am right now just thinking about what I'm seeing."
She rose from her seat, shoulders squared. "I would never."
Leon didn't even blink. "You will."
"I'm not some--some slut you can--"
"Stephanie." His voice cut clean through the room. "You're going to show me your tits by the end of the night."
Her mouth opened.
"You're going to pull them out--with your own hands," he continued, "because you're going to need me to see them. You're going to need the humiliation. You're going to ache for it. Because right now, you're already half-broken. And those tits--" his voice dropped a note, eyes locked on the tight press of her chest, "--they're dying to be worshipped. But only by someone who shouldn't have the right."
Stephanie stood frozen, every word hitting her like a slow punch to the stomach.
"I'm not going to--"
"Yes," he said again, soft but firm. "You are."
"You're delusional."
Leon shrugged, unconcerned. "Maybe. But the dress says otherwise. Your breathing says otherwise. Your thighs rubbing under that table said a lot."
She clenched her fists, but her voice cracked slightly. "You're wrong."
Leon rose slowly from his chair and walked around the table until he was beside her. He leaned down, staring down at her chest, "by the end of tonight... those perfect tits will be mine."
Stephanie sat there barely breathing as she wondered if she was strong enough to say no.
Leon left and walked to the living room again calling her to follow. He lowered himself into the middle cushion, one arm draped along the top, his legs spread comfortably wide.
"Come rub my shoulders." He commanded.
Stephanie froze like a deer in the headlights.
Her voice came out hoarse. "Are you serious?"
"Mhmmm." Leon almost cooed. "It's what a good housewife would do and you want to be a good housewife for me, don't you stephie?"
A wave of rage flashed through Stephanie's mind like a summer storm followed by waves of arousal and adrenaline.
"what is wrong with me?" She thought to herself, "why am I still here?"
Technically, of course, she had done what she had to do. She wore the dress and made him dinner. But she wasn't ready to go yet. On some level, this exquisite humiliation thrilled her and she wasn't ready to stop it... and so she found herself slowly walking behind the couch and began rubbing her nemesis's shoulders. Her fingers kneaded lightly, mechanically, and yet it was the most intimate thing she had done in years.
"You've got good hands," he murmured.
"Shut up."
"I bet your husband gets these every night."
"He does."
"And now I do."
She gritted her teeth, but her fingers kept moving.
"Say it," he said.
"No."
"Say you're rubbing your enemy's shoulders."
Her hands paused.
Then resumed.
"I'm rubbing my enemy's shoulders," she whispered.
"Say why."
"Because you asked," she said, throat dry.
"Because I told you."
She said nothing.
Leon exhaled, leaned forward slightly. "You hate this."
"I do."
"You love that you hate it."
Her hands slowed again. She didn't pull away.
"Tell me I don't deserve this."
"You don't."
"Tell me you can't stop."
She wanted to scream.
But instead, with her fingers still kneading his muscles, Stephanie said nothing.
Leon exhaled, then--casual as anything--murmured, "Now rub my feet."
Stephanie froze, hands hovering like they'd touched a burner.
He turned slightly to glance at her over his shoulder, expression calm, amused. "C'mon. That's what a good housewife does, right? After dinner, after drinks, after a long day... she gets down on her knees and takes care of her man."
"No." Her voice was sharp, breathless. "No."
He raised a brow. "No?"
"You think I'm going to kneel in this dress?" she snapped, stepping back from the couch like she'd just woken up from a dream. "You want me down on the floor, humiliated, showing you my tits while I rub your feet like some obedient little fantasy puppet?"
Leon just blinked.
"I'm not that girl," she growled. "I don't care what sick little power trip you're on. I came here to honor a stupid bet, not to grovel. Not to let you treat me like some pet."
Leon's lips parted slightly--then curved into a grin.
Stephanie took another step back, chin high now, anger bubbling past the heat in her stomach. "I teach history. I have two degrees, three published works, and a husband who worships me. And you--you--live in a dump, write papers no one reads, and play games with women out of your league because it's the only way you'll ever get power."
Leon was quiet for a long moment.
Then--voice soft, perfectly clear--he said:
"And yet you came."
Her throat tightened.
"You could've worn anything," he went on, his eyes on hers now, not smug--just patient. Inevitable. "You could've dropped the dress on the way. Tossed it. Called me and said no. You could've made the drink and not opened your mouth. Could've stayed seated when I asked you to rub my shoulders."
Stephanie's lips parted, but he didn't let her speak.
"You had every off-ramp, Stephanie. Every excuse. And you're right--you shouldn't kneel. Not with that body, not with that mind. But the fact that you're still thinking about it is why I've already won and you've already lost.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
"You're here because you want me to take it from you. Piece by piece. So you don't have to admit that the real thrill isn't in winning. It's in the slow, aching surrender to someone you think doesn't deserve you."
Stephanie's fists clenched.
"And that's why I'll see those tits tonight," he added quietly. "Not because I deserve it. But because I don't."
Stephanie stood like a statue just in front of him, chest heaving, arms crossed tightly under her breasts as if she could hold in the pounding of her heart through force alone. She hadn't spoken after Leon's last devastating truth and Leon knew he didn't need to say anything. It was as if a spell had been cast over her.
The skirt of the dress flared gently at her thighs as she shifted her weight, and she could feel the fabric dragging slightly over the tops of her stockings--stockings she hadn't even wanted to wear, but had anyway, because it fit the look. Her thighs were trembling and she was so wet that she was worried that her juices were literally dripping down her thigh.
She stared at the floor and as she slowly knelt she felt her pride shatter in a way she would never recover from. It was like a coronation in reverse as the queen finally knelt. Her knees hit the floor with a soft, awful sound against the rug. Her hands rested on her thighs nervously. For the first time, Leon towered over the amazonian Stephanie, as he gazed down at the incredible view he had down her neckline.
She, who had made men tremble with a glance, who ruled her classroom and her marriage and her world--was now on her knees, in a dress picked by the one man she'd vowed to never give an inch.
Stephanie didn't mean to look, but when she adjusted her knees she saw it. His cock, hard, massive, pressing brazenly against the side of his pants.
Because now, kneeling before him, chest flushed, her own arousal slick against the lace edge of her panties, she couldn't not think of Bryce. Her sweet, supportive, boyish husband. His modest endowment. The way he always asked. The way he yielded.
Leon didn't ask.
He hadn't touched her.
And he was already more inside her head than Bryce had ever dared to go.
Stephanie forced her eyes back to the ground, fury welling behind her humiliation, but it was shaky now. She was shaky now.
Leon didn't say anything at first.
He just watched her.
Kneeling there, tall and regal and trembling, her powerful thighs splayed under the flared cherry-print skirt like columns beginning to crack. Her hands rested frozen on her lap, fingers twitching in slow, nervous arcs, and her breath came shallow--quick little huffs that made her cleavage rise and fall.
Leon leaned forward slightly. Rested his elbows on his knees.
Then, soft. Like a suggestion. Like it wasn't loaded with world-shattering gravity:
"Take them off."
Stephanie blinked.
The outline was still there. Still thick. Still unmistakably massive. And this time she didn't tear her gaze away.
"Take. Them. Off."
The words weren't barked. They weren't cruel.
They were inevitable.
Stephanie opened her mouth. Closed it again. Her tongue darted across her lips as if she were about to protest--but nothing came. Her throat worked with a hard swallow. She stared, wide-eyed and dazed
Her hands... moved.
Almost of their own accord.
They lifted from her thighs, hesitant, trembling just slightly, hovering above his knees like a question she was too afraid to ask.
"I... what am I..."
Her voice was breathless, thinned by something she didn't recognize.
Leon didn't move.
He didn't stroke her hair, didn't coerce, didn't seduce.
He just waited. Let the command hang in the air like incense.
And Stephanie--Professor Stephanie Dahlstrom, six feet of dominance, intellect, and devastating composure--slid her fingers to the waistband of his pants.
She paused again.
Shaking.
Shocked by herself.
And then, still kneeling, still dazed, she curled her fingers beneath the fabric...
... and began to pull.
The elastic peeled down with a soft, weighted shhk, and as it slipped past the crest of his hips and over the base of his cock, it sprang free.
Stephanie froze.
Her breath stopped.
The fabric hung around his thighs, forgotten, as her wide, stunned eyes locked onto the thing now inches from her face.
It wasn't just big.
It was obscene.
Long. Thick. Heavy. Flushed deep with blood, the shaft veined with pale ridges that throbbed subtly with each of his heartbeats. The head was wide, blushed dark, slick with a bead of pre-cum that glistened like oil under the dim lamplight. It hung forward under its own weight, curving slightly, powerful and brutal and real in a way she wasn't prepared for. It stank in a way that would have revolted her in any other circumstance.
Stephanie stared like she'd been hypnotized.
It was too close, too raw. She didn't understand what she was feeling--why her body was going hot and cold at the same time, why her pulse was pounding behind her ears, why her thighs were clenching like they were begging for orders she didn't want to want.
She couldn't stop looking. Her eyes traced the whole length helplessly, as if it were some riddle she had to solve. The contrast to Bryce was almost cruel. Bryce's cock had always been enough--kind, gentle, manageable. This? This was wrong. This was not something you made love to.
This was something that rearranged you.
And her body, traitorous and slick beneath lace and satin, was already aching for it.
"Jesus..." she whispered, not even realizing she'd spoken aloud.
Leon didn't move.
Didn't gloat.
He just let her stare.
I told you," Leon said. "You were going to show me something tonight."
And now, Stephanie--queen, professor, wife--was on her knees, skirt fanned around her, face inches from her nemesis's cock, not saying no, not leaving, not even blinking.
Hypnotized. Helpless.
And he hadn't even touched her yet.
Leon leaned forward slightly, voice barely a whisper:
"Show me your tits."
Stephanie whimpered.
Actually whimpered.
It wasn't a protest--it was a noise of internal collapse. Of dreaded inevitability.
And in that moment, she knew.
He hadn't beaten her with force.
He'd made her offer herself.
And she was going to do it.
Stephanie's hands lifted slowly, dreamlike.
Her fingers brushed the bodice of the dress, finding the topmost button--tight from the swell of her breasts pressing against it. She hesitated. Not from resistance, not anymore. But from the sudden wave of clarity washing through her, the sick and beautiful thrill of a choice made--her choice, no one else's.
And then she unbuttoned it.
One.
Two.
Three.
The fabric parted, releasing her chest from its tight satin prison, and as her breasts spilled forward, heavy and full and flushed pink with arousal, she let out a breathless, broken sound--part sob, part moan, all relief.
A rush hit her like a tidal wave. Dopamine. Adrenaline. Heat.
It wasn't fear anymore.
It was euphoria.
For the first time in her adult life, she felt weightless. Unburdened. Uncommanding. NOT. IN. CHARGE. And it felt so fucking good she almost laughed.
Her tits bounced softly with each breath, her nipples painfully stiff in the cool air. Her fingers trembled not with shame now, but with a giddy anticipation. Like she'd just touched the edge of something bottomless.
Leon's hand moved with unhurried certainty.
Not a jerk. Not a grab.
Just a slide--his fingers threading through the long, silky strands of Stephanie's golden hair like he'd been imagining the weight and texture of it in his fist for weeks. Her scalp tingled under the sudden contact, her whole body going alert as he closed his hand around the base of her ponytail. The grip was firm. Possessive. Not cruel.
Just claiming.
Her breath hitched again--but not in protest.
Her bare chest rose and fell rapidly now, the neckline of her dress gaping uselessly, her nipples flushed and erect, her cheeks bright with color that had spread from her chest to her ears. Her knees had begun to ache beneath her, but she didn't care. All that existed was his hand, the pressure, and the thing in front of her--the thick, veined cock that pulsed in her peripheral vision like it knew what was coming.
Leon didn't pull hard.
He didn't have to.
He simply applied pressure.
Inexorable.
Slow.
And her body... followed.
Stephanie's chin tilted downward, her eyes still up, still locked on his. Her lips parted slightly as her breath grew shaky. Her hands rose unconsciously to brace against his knees as her wedding ring glinting on her left finger, obscene in the lamplight. The tip of his cock was inches from her mouth now, thick and glistening with pre-cum, the scent of him heady and masculine and gross and wrong but also right.
Every neuron in her body was screaming a different thing--run, resist, submit.
But none of those mattered anymore.
Because Stephanie, professor, wife, queen, was letting herself be guided.
Her lips trembled and her thighs clenched.
Her scalp burned deliciously under his grip as he slowly, unrelentingly tilted her head forward----and she didn't stop him.
Leon watched her mouth descend towards his cock with the utmost satisfaction.
Her ice-blue eyes were wide, glassy, still laced with resistance and the ghost of pride, but the line had been crossed. Irrevocably. Her mouth parted just slightly as she came closer, breath warm and uneven, puffing soft clouds across the swollen head of his cock.
And God, did she look beautiful.
Her golden hair, so often immaculate in faculty meetings and department luncheons, now mussed just slightly from his grip. Wisps fell across her cheek, catching light, framing her flushed face. Her lips--those lips that had told off senators in debates and humiliated cocky postgrads in lecture halls--were now trembling, pink and wet, drawing closer to his cock with a mix of fear and need that made Leon's whole body hum.
And her eyes. That was what wrecked him. She looked up as her lips met the tip. Her tongue flicked as she tasted him and her lips parted wider, sliding slowly over the head warm and wet.
Inches disappeared past those lips, past that perfect mouth, and his fingers tightened in her hair as a groan dragged itself from his chest, low and ragged and stunned.
"Fuck..."
It was involuntary
Because it wasn't just her mouth--it was what it meant.
Stephanie Dahlstrom, who once laughed when he spilled coffee on his notes. Stephanie, who humiliated him in front of half the anthropology department. Stephanie, whose legs had always seemed too long, whose brain had always seemed untouchable, whose body was made to be worshipped from afar--that woman was now wrapping her lips around his cock, cheeks hollowing delicately as she tried to take more of him in.
And failing.
Her jaw trembled. Her breath came in soft, quick bursts through her nose as she worked, slow and cautious, struggling with the sheer mass of him. Her hand had found the base, fingers barely wrapping around the shaft as she pumped in rhythm, her mouth bobbing in short, eager strokes that grew smoother with each pass.
And it was beautiful.
The way she focused, just like she did on the court, or at a podium. The way her brows furrowed, determined and humiliated all at once. She was learning him, adapting to him, and Leon sat there--one hand in her hair, the other clenched into the couch cushion--watching a goddess on her knees, eager to serve.
He could feel every inch of her: the soft friction of her tongue, the twitch of her throat as she swallowed a little too much spit, the careful, reverent suction that told him this wasn't just a blowjob.
This was submission incarnate.
And it was the first.
Of many.
Because this wasn't a one-time collapse.
This was a ritual in the making.
And by the way she moaned--just barely, just once--around his cock, Leon knew:
She already wanted to do it again.
"Stephanie--fuck--stop--" he gasped, trying to hold on.
She didn't stop.
She looked up at him with those perfect, infuriating, knowing eyes and took him deeper, bobbing once, twice--
That was it.
His hips jerked, not violently, but helplessly. His mouth fell open in a strangled groan, deep and broken, as orgasm tore through him like lightning.
"Ah--fuh--fuck," he choked.
He came hard.
Thick ropes spilled across her tongue, into her mouth, and her reaction--no flinch, no recoil, just a shuddered breath through her nose--nearly made him collapse.
She swallowed instinctively, visibly, her throat working once, then again, her lips still sealed around the head like she wanted to take all of it. Her tongue swept the underside as he twitched in her mouth, milking the last pulses, her hands still stroking gently, reverently, like she was helping him down.
Leon's head lolled back, chest rising in heavy, shuddered breaths.
He couldn't even speak.
Not right away.
"You," he murmured, voice raw, "are going to ruin me."
Stephanie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, slowly, deliberately.
And she smiled back.
A minute later, he Took her by the chin, gentle but firm, and guided her gaze up to his.
"Your turn."
He shoeved her down onto the floor and pulled her legs apart and dived between the thick folds of her skirt.
He lifted the hem of her dress and pushed it higher, revealing the slick, darkened lace of her panties. The fabric was soaked, transparent now, clinging to the perfect, swollen cleft of her sex. A thin, trembling line of wetness trailed from the gusset down between her thighs.
Leon let out a breath. "Jesus..."
He leaned in.
Breathed her in.
And then--mouth to lace--he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss against the center of her.
Stephanie whimpered.
She wasn't ready. Not for his mouth. Not for the way he pulled her panties aside with care, exposing her fully to the cool air and his hot breath. Her clit was swollen, glistening, pulsing with want--needy in a way that felt shameful and uncontrollable. She could feel how open she was, how ready, how wrecked.
And then his tongue touched her.
She arched.
The first lick was slow. A single, upward stroke from entrance to clit, warm and wet and precise, as if he'd mapped her out before ever touching her. His hands slid under her ass, lifting her slightly, anchoring her to his mouth as he began again--long strokes at first, then shorter, more focused ones, circling, teasing, tasting.
Stephanie's head fell back against the armrest, her moan low and broken. "Oh--fuck--Leon--"
He didn't answer. He just devoured.
His tongue circled her clit now with maddening patience, building a rhythm that made her toes curl and her fingers claw into the fabric of the couch. Her thighs quivered, opening wider, hips rocking forward against his mouth as if her body had given up asking and started begging without permission.
When he wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked gently--exactly the right pressure--she cried out.
It hit her fast.
Faster than she could prepare for.
Her whole body tensed, legs locking around his head as her first orgasm rolled through her like a thunderclap, her hips bucking, fingers tearing at the cushion, mouth open in a strangled scream.
"Leon--Leon--oh my god--I'm--fuuuck!"
But he didn't stop.
Even as she convulsed, he kept his tongue on her, slower now, coaxing, teasing, prolonging. Her thighs twitched against his cheeks, her heels kicked weakly at the couch cushions--but his hands held her firm, and his mouth stayed locked to her heat.
She barely had time to catch her breath before the pressure began again.
This one was different. Not sharp and sudden, but deep. Heavy. A storm building in her gut, wave after wave of rolling pleasure climbing over the edge of the last. Her clit throbbed against his tongue, raw and desperate, and the moment he slipped one finger inside her--curved perfectly, slow and searching--she lost control.
The second orgasm shattered her.
It was a wail this time, unguarded, helpless, her body bucking off the couch as her core clenched down on his finger, her orgasm bursting like fireworks across her skin. She was sobbing now--half-cry, half-moan--hands clawing through his hair, pulling him harder against her because her body wouldn't let go.
"Oh my god--oh my god--yes--Leon--I can't--oh fuck--I can't--"
And still he didn't stop.
Only when her body finally collapsed--limp, trembling, spent--did he pull back. Leon rose from his knees slowly, deliberately, towering over Stephanie's trembling body sprawled across the floor. She looked wrecked and perfect. Leon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before sliding a finger along her wet folds, causing stephanie to twitch and writhe once more.
He pressed two fingers gently into her, still slow, still casual.
"You feel that?" he murmured. "That's your body telling me what it wants next."
"Now... it's time to make me hard again."
Stephanie blinked slowly. Her head lolled slightly to the side. "Leon..."
His hand slid higher, gliding up her stomach, cupping one slick, heaving breast, his thumb brushing a rock-hard nipple with delicate reverence.
"Because I'm going to fuck you."
Stephanie whimpered, her body twitching beneath his touch, her thighs clenching with the instinct to either close or pull him in.
Stephanie stared up at him, dazed, ruined.
But when he stepped back--his cock still glistening with the traces of her earlier worship, now softening slightly--her eyes dropped again. Locked on it. Her mouth went dry.
And she moved.
Slowly at first.
But willingly.
Back down to her knees.
Her hands moved instinctively to Leon's softening cock, fingers curling gently around the shaft, wet from her mouth, from her submission. She kissed the tip softly, her lips reverent, worshipful, as if coaxing it back to life might be an act of penance. Her mouth opened, tongue pressing to the head, and she began again.
He groaned--yes. He grunted softly when she took him deeper--but his body didn't respond the way it had the first time. There was no twitch of pressure, no swelling growth in her mouth, no thickening to signal her success.
Leon looked down at her.
"No," he said after a long moment. "You're doing everything right."
"Then why--?"
He exhaled through his nose. Frustrated. Quiet.
"It's just... too soon," he muttered. "You wrecked me."
Stephanie sat back slightly, thighs folded beneath her, the heat between her legs still thrumming.
Her lips parted. Her mind whirred.
He needs more.
Her heart thudded in her ears as the thought hit her--not a conclusion, not even a realization. Just a feeling, rising from the same place that told her to kneel. To strip. To obey.
He didn't want soft.
He wanted power, shattered.
Control, given up.
She stared at him, lips still swollen, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
Then, voice low, heart pounding, she said:
"You can choke me."
Leon blinked.
The words hung in the air, heavier than anything spoken all night.
Stephanie looked away, then back, face flushing darker. Her voice was steadier now. Determined. "If that's what it takes. If that's what you need to get off again."
Leon was very still.
She continued, breath shaky. "You don't have to ask. I can take it. Slap my face, pull my hair, hit my stomach--anything. Just don't stop. I need you hard again."
Leon leaned forward, his cock still soft between them, and placed one hand gently--so gently--around her throat.
Not squeezing, just resting, testing. Leon's grip tightened just a little. Stephanie gasped out in pleasure and anticipation. And that was all it took to get him hard again.
Her body was electric, every nerve keyed up, every inch of her skin flushed and trembling. Bent over the couch, her chest bare, her dress bunched uselessly around her waist, she could feel Leon behind her--his presence, his heat, his cock pressed against her like a brand. This wasn't just sex. It wasn't even about attraction in the usual sense.
It was about tension. Years of it. Of hating him, dismissing him, underestimating him.
And now he was about to be inside her.
It should have felt wrong.
It should have made her sick.
But instead, her body buzzed with the kind of anticipation she didn't even know existed--something deeper than desire, more potent than control. A raw, pulsing hunger twisted through her gut, not in spite of who he was--but because of it.
Her nemesis.
Leon gripped her hips, lined himself up, and for one beat of silence, she thought she'd pull away. That she'd snap back into herself, remember who she was--remember who he was.
Then he pushed inside.
Stephanie let out a sharp gasp, mouth falling open as he filled her in one, slow, devastating stroke. He was thick. Too thick. It stretched her in a way that felt impossible, wrong, and perfect. Her nails dug into the couch. Her knees shook.
"Oh god--" she choked.
Leon groaned behind her, his voice rough, barely holding back. "You're so fucking tight."
She hated how much she loved hearing that.
His hands slid up her waist, over her ribs, to her breasts, cupping them roughly as he began to move--long, hard thrusts that made her cry out, her body jerking forward with every snap of his hips. The sound of their skin slapping together echoed in the room, obscene, undeniable.
She was losing herself. Fast.
Every part of her that had resisted--every scrap of dignity, every claim to superiority--was slipping further with each thrust, each groan, each whisper of filth that spilled from his lips.
"You love this," he hissed. "Being taken by the man you swore was beneath you."
Stephanie bit her lip, tears stinging her eyes--not from pain, but from how good it felt.
"Say it," he growled.
"I--" her voice broke. "I hate you."
He slammed into her.
"Say it."
"I hate you," she gasped. "And this is the best I've ever felt."
That broke something open in both of them.
Leon took her harder, deeper, the force of it rocking her forward, her moans turning into desperate, guttural sounds she didn't recognize. She came fast, again, clenching around him with a scream, her whole body buckling--powerful, helpless, gone.
And when he came inside her, moments later, growling her name into her hair, she felt it like a fuse being lit deep in her core.
Stephanie collapsed against the cushions, skin slick, chest heaving.
And she couldn't stop thinking:
He doesn't deserve me.
And that's exactly why it was so good.
Stephanie sat in the car outside her house for ten full minutes before she opened the door.
The engine was off.
Her dress clung to her in strange places--creased, wrinkled, worn wrong after what she'd done in it.
What she let happen.
She stepped out slowly, legs aching, knees bruised from kneeling and being fucked relentlessly.
Each step up the walk felt heavier. Like her body remembered what it had given away.
The front door clicked open before she touched the knob.
Bryce stood in the frame, barefoot, in a t-shirt and joggers, his hair a soft mess. He hadn't been asleep.
He looked at her--really looked at her. At the disheveled dress. The red streaks still fading from her throat. The smudged lipstick. The tremble in her thighs.
He said nothing.
Stephanie walked past him, into the living room, and dropped her purse soundlessly onto the hardwood. She didn't take off her heels. She didn't straighten her hair. She turned back to him, chest rising and falling, her arms hanging limp at her sides.
"I fucked him," she said.
Bryce didn't flinch.
"I sucked his cock. Twice. I begged him to touch me. I let him put his hands around my throat, and I liked it. I begged him to hurt me. He came in me."
Still, Bryce didn't move.
Stephanie's throat worked. Her voice was thinner now, the words scraping their way out.
"It was the best sex of my life."
And that--that did make him blink. But not in rage. Not in disbelief.
His jaw clenched once.
And then he exhaled.
"Okay," he said quietly. He stepped forward. Stopped just inches away from her.
Her eyes were glassy. Her breath caught.
"You're not mad?" she said, almost scoffing.
"I'm a lot of things," Bryce said. "But no. Not mad."
She shook her head. "You should be. You should yell. You should throw something."
"I'm hard," he said instead.
Stephanie's lips parted.
Bryce swallowed. "I've been hard for hours. The second I knew you were with him. The second I imagined what you might let him do. It was supposed to be just a fantasy. But now it's real. And I'm still hard."
Her whole body flinched.
"I came home to confess," she said. "I thought it'd break us."
He stepped closer, hand ghosting over her wrist, then up, just brushing her waist.
"It's going to change us," he said. "But it's not going to break us."
Stephanie's eyes filled--anger, relief, lust, confusion. She didn't know what she was anymore.
But she leaned into him.
And Bryce--sweet, quiet, boyish Bryce--reached behind her, gripped her ass through the ruined dress, and pulled her mouth to his like he owned it.
Stephanie didn't realize how badly she needed Bryce's touch until his lips were already on hers.
Soft at first. Careful. Like he was still waiting to see if she'd shatter.
But she didn't shatter.
She melted.
Melted into him like it was a return to gravity. His arms around her, his warmth steady and real and safe, grounding her in a way nothing else had all night. Not Leon's dominance. Not the dizzying rush of surrender. Not the flood of release that had left her staggering.
This--this--was different.
Bryce kissed her deeper, his hand sliding into her hair, his other arm wrapped around her waist. When he pulled her close, it wasn't possessive. It was intimate. It was her husband. The man who had seen her in every shade--furious, triumphant, confused--and was still standing here, holding her like she was everything.
When his mouth left hers and kissed down her cheek, her jaw, her throat, she shivered--not from humiliation, not from fear, but from tenderness. His lips didn't claim her. They worshipped her.
"Bryce..." she whispered, but the sound died as he lifted her.
He carried her--not roughly, not in a frenzy--but like he was returning something sacred to its altar. Through the hallway, into the bedroom, his arms beneath her thighs and back, their faces pressed close.
He set her on the bed like glass.
Stephanie looked up at him, her dress rumpled, makeup streaked, hair undone. She had never looked more raw.
And Bryce smiled.
"You're beautiful."
She blinked.
"I'm wrecked," she said, voice dry.
He shook his head, leaning in to kiss the corner of her eye.
"You're real."
The kiss turned into more. His hands unzipped the dress, peeled it away. Slowly. Lovingly. Not to expose her, but to see her. His fingers traced the faint marks Leon had left on her skin--but not with jealousy. With reverence. Like he was learning her all over again.
When he laid her back and crawled between her legs, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't rough. It was intimate, intentional, like he was giving her everything she'd been missing.
She gasped when he entered her--not from shock, but because of how much her body welcomed him. His cock wasn't the same size, not as brutal, not as overwhelming--but it felt right. It fit her. It loved her.
"Steph..." he whispered as he moved inside her, slow and steady, his forehead pressed to hers. "You're mine."
She clutched him tighter, legs wrapping around his hips, her voice cracking with emotion.
"I know."
Every thrust was deeper, smoother, building not in frenzy but in something fuller--devotion. He kissed her as he made love to her. Kissed her eyelids, her mouth, her throat. He whispered her name over and over, like it was a prayer.
And when she came it was with tears in her eyes. She had been stripped bare tonight and he loved her more for it. Bryce followed her over the edge moments later, burying his face in her neck, his breath ragged and hot. Their bodies pressed together, their hearts racing in time.
When it was over, when the room was silent but still thick with the echo of everything that had passed between them, he didn't roll away. He stayed on top of her, inside her, wrapped in her arms. Stephanie stroked his hair, her eyes glassy.
"I don't know what I am anymore," she murmured.
He looked up.
"You're mine," he said.
And she believed it.
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