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.
The door opened again, and Adrian stepped back into the red room like he owned not just the space, but the very air I was breathing. His eyes swept over my naked body with predatory satisfaction, and I felt my skin flush under his gaze.
He'd removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms corded with muscle that made my mouth water. The sight of him, still mostly clothed while I stood completely bare, sent a thrill of vulnerability mixed with power straight through me.
My nipples peaked under his stare, and I could feel wetness already gathering between my thighs.
"You say you want to submit," his voice came 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 echoing through me like a heartbeat. The anticipation was killing me—every nerve ending alive, every breath shallow. He guided me forward with fingers that barely touched my spine, yet burned like brands against my skin.
When he sat on the edge of a low padded bench and patted his thigh, my stomach clenched with fear and desperate need.
"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.
My bare breasts pressed against his muscled thigh, and I could feel the heat of him through his pants. The position left me completely exposed, ass raised, pussy already slick and aching.
"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" he asked, his palm resting warm and steady on the curve of my ass. His other hand tangled in my hair, not pulling, just holding me in place.
"No," I whispered, shivering as his fingers traced lazy patterns on my heated skin.
"I will own you."
Then his hand lifted—and came down without warning. The first smack wasn't brutal, but loud, sharp. The sound cracked through the room like thunder, and my skin stung with the echo, my body jerking instinctively.
The second strike landed so hard on the opposite cheek that I couldn't hold back the gasp that tore from my throat, half pain, half desperate pleasure.
"Count," he said firmly.
"One," I managed with a trembling voice.
The third struck. Then the fourth, fifth, sixth—each one more searing than the last. I counted through clenched teeth, my voice getting breathier, more desperate. My thighs were trembling, slick with arousal despite the burn spreading across my skin.
"Seven..." I moaned, and I could hear the need bleeding into my voice, shameless and hungry.
Tears prickled my eyes. Not from pain, though it bit deep and beautiful, but from something else entirely. From the release, the precision. I felt myself melting, dissolving into pure sensation.
"You've been fighting me," he murmured, rubbing the sting with slow, possessive fingers. "But look at you—you're dripping onto my thigh. Your body knows what it needs, even when your mind fights me."
His fingers moved to my jaw, tilted my face toward him until I could see his eyes—dark, hungry, endless. The intensity in his gaze made my breath catch.
"Submission isn't weakness," he whispered, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. "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, and I swayed on unsteady legs. He walked me slowly toward the St. Andrew's cross that stood in the center of the room like an altar of shadow and sin.
The leather cuffs were soft but secure as he fastened them around my wrists and ankles, spreading me wide.
"You're holding up well," he said from behind, adjusting the buckles with clinical precision. "But you're not mine yet. You follow commands, but you haven't truly surrendered."
A moment later, I heard the soft swish of the flogger cutting through air, and my entire body clenched with anticipation.
"Breathe," he reminded me.
The first lash landed like a whispered promise across my shoulder blades. The second came across my lower back like punctuation, marking me as his. By the fourth strike, I was whimpering, my body swaying gently against the restraints.
"Still so tense," he murmured, and I felt his fingers brush up the inside of my thigh, dangerously close to where I was absolutely soaked. "You're holding back from me."
"I'm trying," I whispered, dizzy with heat.
"Trying isn't enough." The next lash cracked across the backs of my thighs, harder than before, making me cry out. "Say it," he demanded, his voice rougher now.
"I want to let go," I gasped, sobs catching in my throat as another strike landed. "I want you to take everything."
Another strike across my ass, harder this time. Then another across my shoulders. I moaned—half-broken, half-starved for more. The world had narrowed to nothing but his voice, his touch, the exquisite torment he was weaving through my nervous system.
"Then give it to me," he growled, pressing his chest to my back, his clothed body solid and warm against my naked, sensitized skin. "Tell me who you belong to."
"I don't—" I started, but another smack cut me off, this one directly on my pussy, making me scream with shocked pleasure.
"Wrong answer." His voice was steel wrapped in velvet. "Try again.”
I arched into the final strike, mouth open, hips rolling desperately, chasing something deeper than pain or pleasure—chasing him.
"I—" My voice cracked. "I want to be yours. All of me. Please..."
Everything went still.
His hands were on me immediately, uncuffing me with quick precision. My body sagged into his arms, useless and limp, trembling so hard I could barely form thoughts.
He lifted me, one arm under my knees, the other across my back, and carried me to the massive bed like I weighed nothing at all. Cool sheets met my fevered skin as he laid me down gently, never once letting go.
"Wasn’t bad for your first time." he kneels beside me on the bed. His palm brushed the damp hair from my forehead.
"My body feels numbed..." catching my breath, I can barely move my tongue to speak.
“Good. Means you're getting there.” Adrian ran his knuckles over my cheekbone as if he were honoring a work of art. "Rest now."
I blinked up at him, too spent to speak now.
The aftercare came like worship—warm towel against my sensitized skin, cool water brought to my lips when I didn't even know I was thirsty, the press of a soft cashmere blanket around my shoulders.
His scent surrounded me—cedarwood, dark spice, something that smelled like safety and sin all at once. His fingers stroked my back in slow, rhythmic patterns, and I felt myself melting into him completely.
"You're hard not to get obsessed with," he whispered against my temple, his voice quieter and more vulnerable than I'd ever heard it, "and I'm not sure I'll ever want to lose this obsession."