Helena stepped into my boudoir, hesitant yet eager, her breath shallow with anticipation. I didn’t turn to greet her immediately. Instead, I let the silence stretch, let the weight of my presence settle over her delicate frame. Finally, I spoke, my tone cool, cutting through the air like the edge of a blade.
"You are late."
She flinched slightly, her hands clasped before her. "My apologies, Master," she murmured.
I lifted a single finger. "Don't worry," I said, my voice suddenly soft, almost sweet—before turning sharp again. "I'll make sure you regret making me wait."
Her eyes flicked to the antique clock on the wall, then back to me before she lowered her gaze. A slow, obedient nod.
Helena had come to me as so many do—through a friend, drawn by whispers of my reputation. She had longed to explore submission but recoiled at the thought of surrendering to a stranger. And so she had waited, suppressing her desires, until her birthday loomed, bringing with it the perfect excuse: a boudoir shoot, a fantasy finally realized.
When we first met, I explained what I do, how I work. She sipped her tea as I spoke, her cheeks warmed with the faintest blush.
"Submission," I had told her, "is many things. But at its simplest, it is the art of relinquishing control, of allowing another to guide your steps."
She nodded, her fingers trembling slightly against the porcelain cup.
"What I want," I continued, "is to capture you. The rawness of your emotion. The soft unraveling of your inhibitions."
She swallowed.
"You’ll have a safe word," I reassured her. "Everything stops when you wish it."
And yet, when she spoke next, her voice was almost shy. "I… I have a fantasy."
I leaned in, listening.
She wanted to be taken. Controlled. Humiliated.
I let a slow smile curl my lips.
"We will begin with arrival," I said. "And from there, I will make the decisions. Impact, restraint…" I let the last part linger between us, watching the way her throat bobbed with the weight of unspoken desire.
Now, standing before me in my candlelit boudoir, Helena was exactly where she had longed to be.
Music filled the room—haunting, commanding. I had chosen a selection of classical pieces meant for domination, melodies that spoke without words, that evoked something primal. The Point of No Return played, each note setting the stage.
I moved with purpose, my heels striking the polished wooden floor, each click punctuating the quiet tension between us. I was dressed in cream silk, my blouse whispering against my skin, the black lace of my lingerie teasingly visible beneath. My pencil skirt was flawlessly pressed, my legs sheathed in sheer black nylons, my red-bottomed stilettos completing the vision of effortless power.
On the table, a tea kettle released a curl of fragrant steam, beside it, two porcelain cups.
"Serve the tea, Helena."
She hesitated only for a second before stepping forward.
The cane in my hand came to life, its tip pressing lightly against her chest, halting her movement. Her breath hitched.
"Remove your blazer," I ordered, watching as her fingers fumbled with the buttons.
As she slipped the fabric from her shoulders, I tapped the cane against my palm. Rhythmic. Measured.
"Quickly," I urged, my tone deceptively soft. "I don’t like cold tea."
She moved faster now, standing in only her fitted black dress and nylons. I allowed a smile of approval to ghost across my lips.
Helena poured the tea carefully, the delicate tilt of the pot betraying the slightest tremor in her hands. The cane guided her—small, precise corrections to her posture, the lingering press against her skin sending unspoken messages. A reminder of her place. A warning. A promise.
I took the cup, bringing it to my lips, blowing lightly. A slow, deliberate sip.
"Perfect," I murmured.
Helena stood, hands crossed before her, waiting.
"Kneel."
She obeyed, but she was too far.
"Come closer, Helena."
She crawled, using only her knees, her movement tentative, beautifully submissive. When she was close enough, I reached out, gripping the collar of her dress.
"Open your mouth."
Her lips parted without hesitation.
I took another sip of my tea, held it for a moment, then let it spill from my lips into hers, slow, intentional, sip after sip.
She swallowed, her lashes fluttering. "Thank you, Master," she whispered.
I traced a finger along her jaw, tilting her chin up so she would meet my gaze.
"Chrysanthemum is my favorite," I told her. "I hope it becomes yours too."
"Of course, Master," she murmured.
I set the cane aside, reaching instead for the small red box resting on the table. Holding it out to her, I let silence stretch between us.
"For you, Helena."
Her fingers hovered over the lid, a flicker of uncertainty passing over her features.
"May I open it, Master?"
I nodded, stroking a hand over her silky brown hair, a silent reward.
Inside the box, nestled against crimson velvet, lay a thick leather collar, a gleaming silver ring at its center.
She exhaled, almost a shudder. "Thank you, Master."
"Put it on," I instructed. "Then remove that hideous dress. You aren’t of any use to me clothed."
A slow, secret smile tugged at her lips, though she tried to suppress it. She obeyed, her fingers steady now as she fastened the collar around her throat.
Then, inch by inch, the dress fell away.
She was exquisite. A delicate frame, slim but strong. Skin flushed, warm with anticipation. Her ribs visible, but not in a way that spoke of fragility—rather, of quiet resilience. Her breasts, soft and full, a renaissance painting brought to life.
Her long brown hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, her deep eyes shimmering with a mix of arousal and apprehension.
I circled her slowly, letting the moment stretch.
Then I gestured toward the table.
"Get on," I said, my voice a command laced with satisfaction.
"I want to inspect you."
Once she was on the table, I circled her slowly, savoring the sight of her delicate frame displayed before me.
With deliberate precision, I reached out, my lace-gloved fingers grazing over the curve of her bare flesh before delivering a sharp pinch to her buttocks. She gasped—just a breath, just a flicker of reaction—before she composed herself, holding still beneath my touch.
Good girl.
I smacked her, once, twice—each strike measured, each landing precise. The sound of palm meeting skin echoed through the room, a beautiful, sharp punctuation against the underlying hum of classical music.
She took it with grace.
“Kneel.”
Helena obeyed, lowering herself with practiced elegance despite the height of her heels. The contrast—submission wrapped in sophistication—pleased me.
"Open your mouth."
Her lips parted instantly, unquestioning, eager.
I slid two fingers inside, exploring her warmth with the deliberate intrusion of a dentist—coaxing, prying. I pulled at her lower lip, then the upper, stretching them slightly, admiring the way she trembled under my control.
"Stick out your tongue."
The moment she obeyed, I leaned in, letting a slow, languid string of saliva fall onto its soft, waiting surface.
Helena shuddered. And then—she smiled.
It was involuntary, unguarded, and utterly intoxicating.
I rewarded her with a firm grip on one of her breasts, kneading the supple flesh before taking her nipple between my fingers, rolling, pinching—eliciting the prettiest little moan from her lips.
"Come here," I commanded, tugging her forward until she melted against my chest, her warmth seeping into my silk blouse. I continued my play, teasing, twisting, her nipple now fully erect beneath my touch.
I tugged at her collar, tilting her chin up to meet my gaze before I claimed her mouth—deep, unyielding, consuming.
Then, just as suddenly, I pulled away, keeping her at an arm’s length, my grip firm around her throat.
"My little filthy slut," I murmured.
Helena’s lips parted, her eyes glazed with pleasure.
"Yes, Master Liz."
Her submission was honeyed, whispered with reverence.
I smirked, tightening my grip just slightly, enough to feel her pulse flutter beneath my fingers. Her lashes fluttered, her breath hitching in exquisite anticipation.
When I finally released her, she swayed, her skin flushed, her entire body burning under my touch.
I let my gaze roam over her, appraising.
"I need to inspect you a bit more," I mused. "On all fours."
Helena obeyed without hesitation, crawling onto her hands and knees. The round table beneath her was almost too small for her frame, forcing her body into a delicious arch that left her utterly exposed.
I took my riding crop, tracing its leather tip along the delicate curve of her spine, watching as each muscle tensed beneath its path.
"Up," I instructed, using the crop to tilt her hips higher.
She adjusted, shifting her weight, her body now fully presented to me.
I ran my hands over her bare cheeks, spreading them apart—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who she belonged to.
Her reaction was immediate.
A sharp inhale. A soft, breathy moan.
She was drenched—her arousal evident, glistening, dripping from the heat of her core.
I chuckled, pleased.
"Oh… someone is liking this, I see."
She said nothing.
But her body spoke volumes.
Smirking, I squeezed her flesh in both hands, relishing in the way she trembled beneath me.
I had only just begun.
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