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His to Command
The elevator chimed its arrival at the penthouse suite, a metallic whisper before doors slid open. Cathleen stepped out into opulence shadowed by an ominous hush. Xavier’s grip on her hand tightened as he led her through the sprawling space, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet.
“Xavier, what is this place?” Cathleen’s voice echoed slightly, betraying her unease.
“Something special for you,” he murmured, guiding her past the usual trappings of luxury to an inconspicuous door at the far end. He didn’t knock-this was his domain.
With a click, darkness greeted them, until Xavier reached in and flicked the lights on. Cathleen’s breath hitched. This wasn’t a bedroom; it was a playroom. The walls were lined with shelves, a dark smorgasbord of leather and steel. In the center, the spanking bench loomed-a cruel promise under the stark light.
“You bring your victims here?” Her words came out sharper than intended, spiked with jealous venom.
“No, you are the first victim here, Cat.” His voice was steady, a lulling danger that smoothed the edges of her jealousy.
Cathleen surveyed the room once more. The room has no windows. Just walls and doors and possibilities that made her heart race. Her eyes followed Xavier as he locked the door behind them, sealing them in this private world of sin.
His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as he began to undress. The slide of his tie through the collar, the shrug of his jacket-it was a ritual, each movement stripping away the facade of the civilized man, revealing the hungry beast beneath.
Each cufflink clicked like a stopwatch, counting down the seconds to inevitability. He rolled his sleeves, baring forearms corded with strength, a casual elegance to his savagery.
“Look around, Cat. It’s all for you.” His invitation was edged with something dark.
Cathleen did as told, her steps tentative on the cold floor. Everywhere, the implements of pleasure and pain promised a night etched in memory. She tried not to linger on any one item, aware of Xavier’s gaze tracking her every move.
He was at the bench now, securing chains to cuffs with a practiced ease. Every clink of metal was a shiver down her spine. He draped a sheet over the padding, an almost tender gesture in the midst of the surrounding severity.
“Done,” he said, and the word hung heavy between them, laden with unspoken commands.Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.
Cathleen swallowed hard, the sound loud in the charged silence. This was their world-raw and relentless. And she was his to command within it.
“You saw how this was used, didn’t you?” Xavier’s question hung in the air like a taunt wrapped in velvet, his tone laced with a subtle threat. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, forming a predatory smile that sent shivers down Cathleen’s spine.
“Come here.” His voice was a command she felt in her bones.
Cathleen moved, each step deliberate, drawn by an invisible force to the man who could unravel her. Xavier’s gaze was a tangible thing, heavy and enveloping. He saw too much, knew too much.
He reached out, fingers encircling her throat in a possessive caress that rooted her to the spot. “I’m going to get you a collar,” he murmured, his touch a whisper against her pulse.
Cathleen’s heart stuttered. “But is my ring not enough to show I’m taken, Xavier?” Her voice betrayed her-too sharp, too defensive.
“Fuck the ring,” he growled, eyes flashing. “The collar will look more sexier on you.”
His declaration sent a jolt through her, a mix of indignation and arousal. “It’s for our godly vows, so you keep the damn ring, but I still want a collar on this neck.” His words were a shackle, binding her further.
She bit back a curse, teeth clenching over the surge of heat his ownership sparked.
Xavier released her, stepping back. His survey was clinical and cold. “Strip.”
Her hands trembled as she complied, layers discarded until vulnerability was all she wore. His eyes devoured her, leaving trails of fire where they lingered.
He reached out and skimmed his fingers over her breast, touching the mounds of them where they were cupped by her bra. His fingers were gentle, but then he pulled his hand back and landed a hard slap on her chest; a gasp escaped her, a sound that pleased him. He grinned, wolfish, and continued his exploration.
Shivers cascaded down her spine as his hand swept lower, claiming her flesh with a roughness that ignited her nerves. His touch commanded her to part her thighs, and she obeyed, breath hitching.
Uncertainty twisted within her, but his inspection ended with a nod of approval. “Get to the bench,” he barked, voice sharp as a whip crack.
Cathleen’s body responded before her mind, moving towards the bench, towards submission. His dominance was the gravity that pulled her into orbit, and she was helpless to resist its pull.
Cathleen’s legs carried her forward, each step a surrender, her mind at war with the primal urge to yield. The bench loomed before her, an altar of leather and cold steel. She hesitated, caught on the precipice of defiance and desire.
“Move,” his voice was a growl, laced with impatience and dark promise.
Her skin prickled with the weight of his gaze, the air between them electric, heavy with unspoken commands. With trembling hands, she positioned herself upon the bench, her stomach pressing against the unforgiving padding. The cool touch of leather kissed her bare thighs, her arms dangling awkwardly as she sought balance in her submission.
Exposed. Vulnerable. The room held its breath.
“Are you comfortable?” Xavier’s question sliced through the silence like a blade, mocking the tension that wrapped around her throat.
“Fuck you,” Cathleen spat, the words out before she could stop them, a desperate clawing at control.
A low and dangerous chuckle vibrated in the space. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, approval and threat intertwined.
He circled her then, a predator surveying his prey. Cathleen’s heart hammered in her chest, a frantic drumbeat echoing off the walls. She felt his eyes tracing the curve of her spine, the softness of her flesh-a sculptor eyeing his clay.
“Stay still,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.
She complied, muscles coiling tight. The world narrowed down to the sound of his footsteps, the anticipation of his touch, and the heat of his shadow as he moved behind her.
“Good,” Xavier murmured, almost to himself. His hand brushed her lower back, a tantalizing promise of what was to come. Every nerve ending screamed for more, for less, for anything but this exquisite torment.
“Xavier…” Her voice was a whisper, a plea, an accusation-all rolled into one.
“Shh,” he soothed, his breath hot against her ear. “Let go, Cat. Just let go.”
And in that moment, she wasn’t sure if it was an order or a lifeline.