The Antidote is Obedience

“Who wrote this letter?”

I placed the note down in front of him, the creamy paper folding just slightly as it touched the polished mahogany table. Nathaniel looked up from his seat, perched at the end like a guilty schoolboy awaiting judgment. His eyes—those soft, pleading things—searched mine with the same desperation I’d trained into him.

“I did, Master Liz,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, sheepish as a punished pet.

I smirked, slow and knowing, and walked back toward the kitchen. A moment later, I returned with a cup of black tea—steeped dark and warm, rich with intention. The porcelain was exquisite: a three-legged antique cup with painted dragons curling around its edge. I placed it down firmly, right on top of the letter.

“Drink,” I commanded, my tone even—never loud, never shrill. Always composed. My authority, like my tastes, was refined and relentless. The kind that wears silk gloves to deliver iron orders.

He took the cup with trembling fingers and sipped. Then, as always, his eyes flicked up to me for direction, for permission.

“All of it, Nathaniel.”

The way I spoke his name—sharpened and deliberate—made him twitch with need.

He drank, obedient. Every last drop.

“Open your mouth,” I instructed.

He did. I leaned in, pressed a gloved finger past his lips, exploring his tongue, checking. Clean.

“Good boy,” I purred, though my smile was devilish.

“You should read the bottom of the cup.”

His eyes narrowed as he tilted the porcelain just enough to catch the hidden message revealed beneath the tea stains: You’ve been poisoned.

His breath caught. A flicker of fear danced across his face—pure, precious.“Oh, don’t fret,” I cooed, brushing my fingers beneath his chin. “It won’t take effect for another three hours.”

A shadow of horror passed over him, tempered only by curiosity—he had orchestrated this scene. Written the letter. Requested something that would make him tremble. He wanted surprise. He wanted fear.

“You know I have access to all kinds of medications,” I continued smoothly. “I also know precisely what to mix… and what never to combine.”

His skin paled. I watched the color drain, and savored it.Fear, after all, is a potent aphrodisiac.

“The antidote is nearby. Don’t look so frightened, darling.”His eyes stayed locked on the message in the cup.

I turned and retrieved something I had laid aside earlier: a velvet-wrapped bundle, the fabric black as midnight and tied with silver cord. When I opened it, it revealed a set of gothic silverware I had bought in London years ago—engraved, heavy, with blood-red rubies inset in the handles. The craftsmanship was almost vulgar in its beauty.

Then I placed a covered silver dish before him. “Your feast, Nathaniel,” I said, cold and cruel. “Open it.”

He lifted the domed lid.

Inside, resting like a jewel on crushed velvet, was a gleaming silver butt plug. The shape elegant, the size imposing.

I watched his face. His eyes lit up in spite of himself—desire betraying discipline.“Stand,” I commanded.

He rose slowly, his crisp white shirt and tailored navy trousers skimming his pale skin like waves kissing porcelain. His haircut—fresh, precise—was my request, and it suited him perfectly. But I would never say so.

I walked behind him, the train of my Catherine D’Lish Cassandra Black Marabou Dressing Gown whispering behind me. Beneath it, I wore a full-body corset, thigh-high stockings, and heels sharp enough to cut glass. My hair was pinned high in a vintage swirl, a wicked nod to housewives who never dared do what I do.

Black nitrile gloves completed the ensemble—sleek, sensual, sterile.

The click of my heels on the wooden floor echoed like a metronome of lust. New York City buzzed beyond our window, but here, in our high-rise kingdom, it was silent. Sacred.

“Lean,” I said, and pressed him lightly. He obeyed, elbows on the table, trousers and Ralph Lauren boxers around his ankles. His ass, bare and bleached just for me, rose like an offering.

I traced my index finger down his spine. He shivered beneath my touch, a living instrument tuned to my every note.

From a ruby-red glass bottle, I poured a stream of warm, fragrant oil down his back and between his cheeks. The liquid glistened, decadent. I dipped the silver plug into it, coating it generously, then held it poised at his entrance.

“Be a good boy,” I whispered, breath at his ear. “And narrate—out loud—what this feels like going inside you. Use that filthy, eager mouth.”

I teased him first, just one finger tracing his rim, playing with the nerves like piano keys. He moaned—low and hungry.

“For someone who swears he’s not interested in men,” I mused, “you do present quite the contradiction.”

“Thank you, Master Liz,” he whimpered.

I slipped my index finger inside, slow and deliberate. He gasped. His cock stiffened, straining.

Then came the second finger—my middle—joining its partner, stretching him gently, rhythmically.

“Oh… God…” he groaned, involuntarily.

His erection was full now, hot and aching.

“Little Nathaniel likes being stretched, doesn’t he?” I whispered. “He got himself ready. Bleached. Waxed. Opened… just for Master Liz.”

His body betrayed him completely—trembling, pulsing, desperate.

“This pretty little hole belongs to me,” I murmured. “And soon, it’ll remember what it means to be filled.”

I smiled, even though he couldn’t see it.

This was the beginning. The true entrée.

And the poison? Well… that was just foreplay. Do you want to read the rest and the uncensored version? Head over to Master Liz's Patreon page. @noustheclub #noustheclub #noussociety 

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