She never read the contract. Not the real parts. None of them ever did.
They scanned for words like “medical coverage” and “treatment approval”—in Floris’s case, just one word: Jake.
I watched her skim across the page like she was trying to convince herself it was just paperwork, not chains.
Her eyes darted once to the clause that gave me full surveillance rights, lingered a breath too long, then moved on.
No question. No protest. She signed because she thought she still had agency.
Hope makes people sloppy.
She passed her last test. Barely. I watched the footage of her debugging the planted loop I’d buried in the Board’s encrypted back channel.
Not because it needed fixing—but because I wanted to know what she’d do when I betrayed her from within.
She solved it. Smart. Rattled. But smart.
And the surveillance spike I detected when she realized I’d set her up? Delicious. That emotional glitch—that hiccup in loyalty—was the crack I needed.
Sia appeared at her desk, punctual as ever. “You’re needed upstairs.”
“Which floor?” Floris asked.
“Nine.”
Of course, floor Nine didn’t exist on the official blueprint. That was the point.
When the elevator took her beyond what she thought was the top, her heart rate surged—109, then 123 bpm when the doors opened and my guards stepped forward.
She didn’t scream or run. Just braced herself like a girl walking into war.
Room 917 was primed. White as death. Silent as guilt. The AI greeted her like a lover: “Property of Eric Brighton.”
And her face—God, the way she went pale, like she was suddenly aware of every invisible chain I’d wrapped around her.
I entered minutes later. Barefoot. Linen shirt open to the third button.
Casual, yes—but never soft. I wanted her to see that line: intimacy shaped like a threat. Her spine stiffened. Waiting. Trying to guess how bad it would be.
“You failed,” I said.
Her pupils dilated. “What?”
I held up the tablet. Tapped once. “Internal trap. Set at 3 a.m. You didn’t flag it.”
She stepped forward, already unraveling. “I didn’t know it was—”
“No,” I cut in. “You didn’t see it.”
Her throat bobbed. “Let me fix it—”
“You won’t.”
I stepped in. Close enough that she could smell the skin-warm fabric of my shirt. Close enough that she forgot what distance felt like.
“This isn’t about the system. It’s about consequences.” She froze. “Strip.”
“I… what?”
“Hands behind your back. Now.”
She hesitated. Not for long, but still long enough. My jaw flexed and she saw it. That flicker of danger that said: choose wisely.
And she did. Piece by piece, she stripped herself of everything.
Blouse. Skirt. The sheer black lace I’d picked for her wardrobe—thin enough to wound her dignity, tailored enough to make her body a gift she didn’t know she was offering.
Her breath stuttered with every inch exposed. Her nipples peaked in the cold air, inner thighs shivered. She didn’t cover herself. That was a choice, too.
I circled once. Then again.
I could smell the fear under the heat. Her sweat, her arousal, the shame curling off her in waves. Her body was trying to protect her. But her mind—her mind was already mine.
The collar clicked into place. Tighter, but not uncomfortable. Just inescapable. I tied the gag after—silk, not for silence but ceremony. Submission should never be rushed.
I guided her to the center. Two fingers. Just pressure. She dropped to her knees like she’d done it before.
Like this wasn’t the first time she’d given something up without knowing the price.
“Kneel.”
She obeyed.
“You’ll stay like this for twelve minutes,” I told her, stepping back. “No sound. No movement. No release.”
Then I lifted the remote.
The first pulse was soft. Measured. A gentle flicker at the apex of her thighs. She twitched, startled. A muffled sound slipped past the gag.
“One minute added.” Her eyes widened, because she knew what that meant.
I upped the intensity. The vibrations ran deeper now—steady, then teasing, then vanishing altogether. Her hips jerked. Her breathing fractured.
Another breath. Another moan. “Two.”
Her fists clenched behind her back. She tried to stay still yet failed every time. Her spine arched, breasts trembling, thighs clenching around nothing.
The remote hummed. Her body chased something she wasn’t allowed to want. Her toes curled and knees buckled.
Another sound. “Three.”
She was panting through her nose now, nostrils flaring like a creature in heat. Her eyes—fuck, her eyes—glassy, wet, begging without a word. She didn’t even know what she was begging for anymore.
Just relief. Just contact. Just me.
Eight minutes in, she broke. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… shattered.
Her body rocked once. Then again. Her skin flushed dark with orgasm held too long. Her thighs are slick andI stepped forward.
Kneeled beside her.
One hand pressed to the base of her spine, grounding her while the other trailed her throat, just under the collar. My thumb settled where her pulse stuttered.
“You’re not punished for making noise, Floris,” I whispered against her skin. “You’re punished for pretending you’re not enjoying this.”
That did it.
She came like she’d been yanked under by a riptide. Silent. Violent. Her body convulsed against the air, against the control, against herself and I caught her mid-collapse.
Her chest heaved, muscles twitched. I held her… tightly. Like she might escape something if I didn’t.
She sagged against me, gag still in place, cheeks soaked. I reached for the blanket waiting by the wall—pre-warmed, of course—and wrapped her in it. Covered the ruin I’d made.
My fingers moved through her hair. Slowly. Rhythmically. And in the quiet, I let the words slip.
“I’ll break every rule I’ve built if you keep looking at me like that.”
She looked up, just for a second, before I stood.
“Don’t mistake comfort for affection,” I said, voice a blade again right before I left. “You’re here to serve.”