"I said get on your knees."
His voice cut through the silence like a blade, deep and commanding, leaving no room for hesitation. My heart pounded so violently inside my chest that I swore he could hear it. My legs trembled, but stubbornness still clung to me.
"Who do you think you are to order me around?" I shot back, my voice shaking despite my effort to sound steady. "You don't get to tell me to kneel. Not you, not anyone."
The room was dark, heavy with an air I couldn't explain. He didn't shout, didn't even move toward me. Instead, a dangerous calm wrapped around his words.
"You should be asking your father that question, not me," he replied smoothly, as though the truth lay hidden between his syllables. "Now… get on your knees."
That final command rolled through me like thunder. My resolve cracked. It wasn't just the words—it was the weight behind them, the certainty that resisting him was like resisting gravity itself. Without fully realizing it, my knees bent, and I found myself kneeling before him, breath uneven, pride slipping away like sand through my fingers.
The sound of his footsteps echoed closer, measured and confident. A strong, calloused hand slid through my hair, firm but not cruel. The sensation sent a shiver down my spine, a confusing mix of fear and something else I dared not name. He tilted my chin upward until I felt the heat of his presence looming over me.
"You think too much," he murmured, his tone both chastising and amused. "Sometimes it's better to feel instead."
I should have pulled away, shouted again, resisted with every ounce of strength left in me. Instead, I froze, caught between the urge to run and the inexplicable pull toward him. My chest rose and fell rapidly, my breath shallow as he bent closer.
Tears stung the corners of my eyes—not from pain, but from the storm inside me. Every warning bell in my head screamed that I shouldn't be here, that I shouldn't let this happen. Yet, my body betrayed me, trembling not only with fear but with anticipation.
"Strip," he said suddenly, the single word sharp as a whip.
My lips parted in shock. "W-what?"
He leaned close enough that his breath brushed against my ear. "Don't make me repeat myself, Daria. Strip."
I wanted to refuse. My pride screamed at me to push back, to stand up, to show him that I wasn't some pawn he could command. But the low timbre of his voice, the dominance radiating off of him, melted my defiance piece by piece. My fingers shook as they reached for the hem of my blouse, the silence of the room amplifying every small movement.
When the fabric slipped from my shoulders, leaving my skin bare to the cool air, I felt exposed in a way I'd never known before. Vulnerable, yet strangely alive. His eyes—dark, unreadable—scanned over me, and I swore I saw the ghost of a smirk tug at his lips.
"Good girl," he murmured, almost to himself.
Heat flooded my cheeks at the words, embarrassment mixing with a spark of pride I didn't want to admit.
He stepped closer, one hand trailing lightly along my neck, then down to the curve of my collarbone. The touch was gentle, almost teasing, yet it set my skin ablaze. My breath hitched as his fingers traced lower, brushing over the swell of my breast until they found my hardened nipple. The contact sent a jolt through me, my body arching instinctively toward his hand.
A low chuckle escaped him. "Sensitive, aren't you?"
The sound of it vibrated through me, both humiliating and intoxicating. My body was betraying me in every possible way—responding to him, craving his touch, desperate for something I couldn't even define.
When his mouth closed over my nipple, sucking with deliberate slowness, I gasped. The sensation was overwhelming, sparks shooting straight through me, pooling low in my stomach. My hands trembled as they gripped the floor beneath me, trying to anchor myself in the storm he was creating.
My heart thundered. My body burned. I hated how much I wanted more.
His free hand slid lower, exploring the curve of my waist before settling between my thighs. A sharp inhale escaped me as his fingers traced along the delicate fabric there, pressing lightly against my most sensitive spot. My hips jerked in response, shame flooding me even as waves of pleasure followed.
"Already wet for me," he whispered against my skin, his tone laced with satisfaction.
I wanted to deny it, to scream at him that it wasn't true—but the heat coursing through me, the ache building deep inside, betrayed the lie before I could speak it.
His fingers teased me mercilessly, stroking in slow, deliberate circles that made my breath hitch and my body quake. Each touch pulled me higher, unraveling the walls I'd built around myself. The dark room, the heavy silence, the danger of who he was—it all disappeared, leaving only the dizzying intensity of his touch.
A whimper slipped past my lips, unbidden.
"That's it," he said softly, his voice like velvet wrapping around steel. "Don't fight it. Feel it."
His pace quickened, fingers working me with skill that left me trembling, gasping, desperate. My head fell back, a broken moan escaping as pleasure consumed me. Every nerve in my body lit up, my skin tingling, my pulse racing so fast it felt like I was flying.
And then, just as I teetered on the edge, he pulled his hand away.
The sudden absence was agony. My body clenched, my breath caught, my eyes flew open wide in disbelief.
"No…" The word slipped out before I could stop it.
I stared at him, chest heaving, heart pounding, the need clawing at me so fiercely I couldn't hide it anymore. My pride shattered under the weight of it, leaving me raw, exposed, desperate.
"I—I can't…" My voice broke, trembling with urgency and shame. "Please… I can't control myself…"
The words tumbled out like a confession I couldn't hold back, a surrender I never imagined giving. My body burned with desire so intense it felt like pain.
And for the first time in my life, I begged.
"More," I whispered, my voice ragged and needy. "I need more… like I'll die if I don't get it."