Obey Me in Room 406 - 5

I cum before I even touch the door.

One breath of the hallway outside Room 406, and my thighs clench. The memory of the crop, his voice, the humiliation, the begging—it floods me. I’m soaked and shaking.

And I haven’t even knocked.

I don’t have to. He already told me the rules.

When he wants me, the door will be open.

It is.

Just slightly ajar. Just enough for me to slip in, naked beneath a trench coat, my collar snug around my throat like a key.

I step inside.

Room 406 is dim, lit only by the flickering of a single candle in the corner. A note waits on the bed, written in thick black ink.

Kneel. Wait. Don’t speak.

I obey.

My knees find the floor, my hands rest on my thighs and my head bows.

I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like a raw nerve dressed in nothing but anticipation and need.

Time passes. I don’t know how long.

When the door closes softly behind me, my breath catches.

He’s here.

The heat in the room changes. I feel it the way you feel lightning before it strikes.

“I didn’t say you could breathe like that,” he murmurs.

I flinch, just barely but he notices.

“Did you touch yourself this week?”

“No.”

“Did you ache?”

“Yes.”

“Did you miss the way I break you?”

“I’m still broken, sir.”

His breath is against my neck now.

Then his hand, sliding slowly down my back.

He circles me.

Once. Twice.

Predator around prey.

Then he steps in front of me.

Unbuttons his shirt slowly and it to the floor. His pants follow. He’s already hard.

“Open your mouth.”

I do.

And he fucks my throat the way he’s fucked every part of me—possessive, merciless, like I belong to him and he intends to prove it.

My gag reflex disappears for him. My shame doesn’t exist here.

Only obedience, heat and him.

Later, I’m on the bed, wrists and ankles bound in soft black leather. Spread wide. Blindfolded.

Dripping. Begging.

He circles again, teasing me with touches—feathers, ice, his fingers, his words.

“Your cunt is so greedy,” he mutters. “So desperate.”

“Yes,” I gasp.

“You think I’m going to give it to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He chuckles low.

“You don’t get what you want. You get what you earn.”

He doesn’t enter me.

He slides the head of his cock along my slit. Slaps it against my clit. Circles the entrance, pulling away when I try to push down.

I whimper.

He slaps my pussy once. Hard.

I cry out, arching, shivering from the sting.

“You’ll take what I give you, when I give it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He starts again. This time with fingers.

Two at first. Then three.

Curled. Deep.

My hips rock, chasing his hand like a drug I can’t quit.

“I want to cum.”

“Not yet.”

“I need to.”

“I said not yet.”

He adds his thumb on my clit.

Flicks. Slow. Torturous. My toes curl.

The orgasm builds so tight I’m shaking. Ready to burst but he pulls away and slaps my pussy again.

I scream. Frustrated. Wild.

“Please.”

“You’ll come,” he says, “but not from fingers.”

He grabs my hips. Pulls me to the edge of the bed and slams into me in one thrust.

Deep. Thick and Ruthless.

I scream and come instantly.

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft.

He fucks me like I’m not a woman but a possession. Like I’m something to be conquered and taken. Something raw and writhing beneath his power.

“Good girl,” he growls.

The words are a gift.

I cry again. This time not from pain—but from the way it feels to be truly seen. Completely claimed.

He flips me over. Hands and knees, my yanked back, body trembling.

He spanks me as he fucks me—marking me, molding me, wrecking me.

I fall apart.

Again. And again.

He finishes deep inside me, not pulling out or letting go. And when he’s done, he wraps me in the softest blanket and lays me on his chest like a child.

“You were perfect tonight,” he murmurs.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Are you scared of what you’re becoming with me?”

I pause.

Then whisper, “No.”

“Good.”

He kisses my forehead.

“You’re going to be even more beautiful when I ruin you properly.”

The next morning, I wake up to an envelope on the pillow.

No name.

No note.

Just a single item inside: A key.

I stare at it, unsure if I’m supposed to use it. Unsure if it’s meant for a literal lock…

Or the metaphorical one inside my chest.

When I check my phone, there’s a message from a blocked number.

Room 406 won’t always be enough. You’re going to crave something deeper. And when you do—bring the key.

No name. No goodbye.

Just him.