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I shouldn't have worn the red dress.
He told me not to. Three days ago, in a message that ended with a period and nothing more:
"Do not wear red."
Of course, I wore it.
Not because I wanted to defy him -- not exactly -- but because I wanted him to notice that I could. That I still had teeth under all that obedience.
Now I was here. In his apartment. His door opened for me without a word, just like always. But his eyes didn't greet me like usual.
He stepped aside and motioned me in. Silent. Controlled.
Deadly calm.
"Close the door."
I did. I heard the lock click behind me, and then nothing. Just the hum of tension rising like static between us.
He stood in front of the velvet chair. Black shirt. Rolled sleeves. Leather gloves.
"You remember what I said."
I nodded.
"Say it."
"You told me not to wear red."
"And what did you do?"
"I wore it anyway."
"Why?"
My throat went dry.
"Because I wanted to see what you'd do to me."
He smiled -- not with warmth, but with certainty. The kind that makes your stomach drop and your thighs tighten.
"Take it off," he said.
I unzipped the back, slowly. Let the silk slide from my shoulders, down over my hips. I stepped out of it, bare except for heels. His eyes moved over me like a promise.
"You'll count," he said.
"How many?"
"Until I believe you've learned."
He turned and picked up the crop. Black leather. Short. Precise.
I swallowed. Then knelt in front of the chair, presenting myself without being told.
The first strike landed clean -- across the curve of my ass. Sharp, fast heat.
"One," I gasped.
Another. And another.
"Two. Three."
By seven, I was trembling. Not from pain -- from anticipation. From the fire spreading through me like fuel.
At ten, he paused.
"Do you want to stop?"
I turned my head to look at him, voice shaky but firm.
"Not yet."
His smile deepened. "Good girl."
Strike eleven. Twelve. I stopped counting out loud. He didn't mind.
I was somewhere else now -- floating in that space where pain and pleasure blend. Where obedience stops being about control and starts becoming release.
He put the crop down. Reached for my throat, tilted my head up.
"Now," he whispered, "you're allowed to beg."
I did.
His fingers curled gently around my throat. Not tight -- not yet -- but just enough to claim me. To remind me whose rules I broke.
"On your knees," he said, low and calm.
I was already there.
He stepped around me, slow and deliberate. I could hear the creak of leather, feel his heat close behind me. Then, the sharp tug of my hair. A full handful, twisting me to look up.
His eyes were darker now -- not angry. Controlled. Focused. I wasn't being punished because he was mad. I was being punished because I needed it. Because I asked for it with my disobedience.
And he was the kind of man who answered such needs without hesitation.
"You're not done learning," he said.
"Open."
I obeyed.
His gloved thumb traced the edge of my lower lip. Testing. Teasing. Not giving yet -- just reminding me that everything was his to give.
Then I heard it:
The belt.
The slow metal hiss as it slid through the loops of his trousers.
He dropped it in front of me.
"Fetch."
I bent, picked it up with my teeth, and held it out to him like an offering.
He took it. Slowly. Deliberately.
"On the floor."
"Face down. Arms behind your back."
I moved. Heart pounding. Skin burning. The chill of the hardwood against my chest felt like mercy compared to the fire behind me.
Then -- the belt.
One strike.
Across my thighs.
Wider.
I obeyed.
Another. Lower.
Wider.
By the fifth, my hands were clawing the floor. But I didn't beg. Not yet.
I wanted to be broken. Not by pain -- but by his silence. By the way he made me wait. Made me need.
He crouched down, mouth near my ear.
"I punish the body," he whispered.
"But I break the mind."
Then he flipped me -- fast -- and I gasped, half from shock, half from the way his weight pinned me. One hand on my throat again. The other between my legs.
"Soaked," he murmured.
"Look what defiance does to you."
I tried to speak, but he pressed his thumb against my lower lip again.
"Shh. You'll thank me when I let you come. But not before."
And I knew then:
He wasn't finished.
Not even close.
I was open beneath him. Arms pinned. Skin burning where the belt had kissed me. Every nerve in my body lit like a fuse.
He didn't speak for a long time. Just looked at me -- like I was something he'd made, and he wasn't done molding.
"You disobeyed," he finally said, voice low.
"But you wanted to be corrected."
"You needed to be... realigned."
I nodded, throat dry.
"So tell me -- are you ready to earn your forgiveness?"
"Yes."
It was all I could whisper. And it was all he needed.
He moved with precision. Not rushed -- this wasn't a fuck. It was discipline. A claiming.
His body pressed into mine, and I arched without thinking, my wrists still held behind me by his hand, his breath close to my neck.
The first thrust stole the air from my lungs. It wasn't gentle.
It was exact. Measured. Perfectly paced to undo me.
"Count for me," he whispered into my ear.
"One..." I gasped, as he slid in again.
"Two..."
By five, I was shaking again -- not from fear, but from how close I was. How close he held me. How fully he owned every part of my body, my breath, my surrender.
"Hold it," he growled.
"You're not allowed to come until I say."
I whimpered. I fought it.
He saw it in my eyes and smiled -- that wicked, cruel smile that makes obedience feel like worship.
Then -- the pressure shifted. His thumb pressed just under my jaw, tilting my head back.
His pace deepened. My mind scattered.
"Please..." I whispered.
"Please--"
"Now."
Just one word.
And my world shattered.
My body buckled under the force of it -- hips lifting, mouth open, no sound escaping. Only light. Only heat. Only release.
He didn't let go until I was still.
When he pulled away, I collapsed against the floor, heart pounding, skin glowing from sweat and surrender. I felt him watching. Felt his palm slide up my back in one slow, grounding motion.
Then, the warmth of a blanket.
He lifted me, carried me to the couch. I curled against his chest like it was the only place I belonged.
"You wore red," he whispered, brushing my hair back.
"Next time... ask permission first."
I smiled into his shirt.
"Next time, maybe I'll wear nothing at all."
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