I stood still in the center of his red room, arms at my sides, chest bare and straining, the lace panties still clinging to my hips like a secret I hadn’t decided whether to keep.

The walls glowed like flame, low red lighting casting shadows that slithered along the floor like silent witnesses. Every breath I took smelled of worn leather, clean sweat, and something ancient—like desire that had lived here long before I had.

“You say you want to submit,” his voice came from behind me, low and composed like a sermon. “But you still hesitate. You still try to control. That ends tonight.”

His footsteps were soft, measured, each one louder than the last inside the wild beat of my chest. He guided me forward—fingers grazing my spine—and sat on the edge of a low padded bench. His legs parted when he patted his thigh once.

“Over my lap. Now.”

My heart tried to crawl up my throat, but my body moved anyway. I eased myself over his lap slowly, breath hitching as my cheek touched the cool leather cushion, the rest of me trembling as I felt his palm rest warm and steady on the curve of my ass.

“I’m not going to break you, Sophie,” he said, voice brushing over my skin. “But I will train you.”

Then the hand lifted—and came down. The first smack wasn’t brutal, but loud. Sharp. My skin stung with the echo, my body jerking instinctively.

The second landed harder. I gasped.

“Count,” he said firmly.

“…One.”

The third struck. Then the fourth, fifth, sixth—each one more searing than the last. I counted through clenched teeth, my voice getting breathier, my thighs twitching with the rush of heat.

“Seven…”

Tears prickled my eyes. Not from pain—though it bit deep—but from something else entirely. From the release. The precision. The way each strike stripped away a layer of armor I didn’t know I was still wearing.

“You’ve been so disobedient,” he murmured, rubbing the sting with slow, possessive fingers as the other hand slid up my spine. “You resist, trying fight me. But you want this. You’re hungry for it.”

His fingers moved to my jaw, tilted my face toward him until I could see his eyes—dark, calm, endless.

“Submission isn’t weakness,” he whispered. “It’s the deepest kind of power. And it starts with choice. I want you to choose me. Again. And again.”

I nodded, lips trembling.

He helped me up with deliberate hands, then walked me slowly toward the St. Andrew’s cross that stood in the center of the room like a crown of shadow. He didn’t speak as he fastened soft leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles.

I was exposed. Bound. Helpless. And completely burning for it.

“You’re doing well,” he said from behind, adjusting the buckles with clinical calm. “But you’re not mine yet. You follow commands, but you haven’t surrendered.”

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