Leather and Lipstick

Control isn’t taken. It’s surrendered… one breath at a time.”

She hadn’t logged in for three days.

That was an eternity in the Velvet Room.

Her inbox had flooded with concern, desperation, and fury. Clients she’d trained to kneel were unraveling without their center of gravity. But Dominique—Domica—couldn’t bring herself to re-enter.

Not until now.

Her fingers hovered above the keyboard like she was touching an altar, not a machine. Her breath shook as she typed the password. The mask sat beside her on the desk. She didn’t put it on.

She didn’t need it.

She already felt exposed.

When the dashboard loaded, a red notification blinked at the top of the screen:

Private Room Request: WOLFEYES89.

Status: Waiting.

Not a message.

Not a tease.

A command.

Her heart raced.

She didn’t think. She clicked.

The cam loaded.

He was already inside.

Not naked. Not kneeling. Not bound.

Sitting.

In her chair.

The leather throne at the center of her private digital chamber—the one no one ever touched.

He sat there like he’d built it himself.

Black shirt rolled to the elbows. Veins visible on his forearms. A silver ring on one finger that caught the light when he drummed it on the armrest. His hair was a tousled storm, and his eyes—the color of storms on stone—met hers through the lens like they knew her blood type.

And beside him, on the table?

A glass bowl filled with ice.

Slowly melting. Like a threat.

He didn’t smile.

He just tilted his head and spoke with a voice so calm it coiled around her like rope.

“You’re late.”

She swallowed. Her throat was dry.

“I don’t take orders,” she said, trying to sound like Domica.

“That’s because you’ve never been given one by someone who could actually take your control.”

Silence.

His tone was steady, but his stare was sharp enough to cut skin.

He leaned forward slightly.

“You want to learn something real? Then kneel.”

Dominique stared.

She could close the laptop.

She could scoff.

She could retreat into that safe, glossy mask.

But her body betrayed her.

She stood up from her chair.

And slowly… dropped to her knees.

He didn’t react.

Not visibly.

But she saw it. In the slight shift of his mouth. In the tightening of his jaw.

“Good.”

Her camera adjusted with her movement. The view framed her on her knees in her thigh-highs and corset, hair loose down her back, breath already shallow.

“Now,” he said, reaching off-screen, “you’re going to listen. Not command. Not correct. Not dictate. Listen.”

He held up a cube of ice between his fingers.

Clear. Cold. Already beading with condensation.

“Do you know what this does to your body when it touches heat?”

She nodded.

“No. Words.”

“Yes… Sir.”

The smile that touched his lips was not kind.

It was knowing.

“Good girl.”

He guided her.

Told her where to touch.

Where not to.

No direct stimulation—yet. Just the edge of anticipation. A cube of ice between her thighs, not moving. Another along the curve of her breast. Her skin jerked at the contact, teeth clenching.

“Keep your hands behind your back.”

She obeyed. Fire and ice warred across her skin, goosebumps rising in waves.

“You think you’ve had control. But you’ve never known what it feels like to beg with your whole body.”

He pulled out another cube. Rolled it between his fingers.

“Open your mouth.”

She hesitated.

“Now.”

She opened.

He pushed the ice past her lips with deliberate slowness.

Her tongue met it. Cold. Painful. Divine.

“Suck.”

She did.

Eyes fluttering. Knees digging into the floor.

“You look better like this,” he murmured. “Messy. Human. Wanting.”

By the time the ice melted in her mouth, she was trembling.

Then came the real undoing.

“Touch yourself.”

She obeyed.

One hand dipped beneath the band of her panties. She gasped. She was soaked.

But she didn’t stroke. Not yet. Just circled. Built.

He watched.

Didn’t move. Just breathed. Just ruled.

“You’ll come on my command,” he said. “Not before.”

Her hips bucked. Her fingers moved. Slower. Deeper. Searching.

“Good girl,” he said.

Her breath hitched.

And then he added:

“Use two fingers.”

She did.

“Curl them. Just right there. Feel that ache? That’s where you break.”

Her knees spread wider.

“Now add your thumb.”

Her hand was trembling.

The pressure built like a scream behind her ribs. Her body curled forward. Her throat let out soft gasps that bordered on whimpers.

“Are you close?”

“Yes—Sir—please—”

“Then stop.”

She froze.

Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Did I say you could stop breathing?” he asked softly.

She whimpered.

“Touch again. Fast now.”

Her fingers were slick, her breath shallow. She moved fast, too fast, chasing the edge like it would vanish if she didn’t take it now.

“Beg.”

“Please—please let me come—please—need it—need you—”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Then come for me.”

Her world shattered.

The climax hit like an implosion—fierce, body-rattling, moan half-strangled by her own sob of release. She cried out, head thrown back, thighs clenched, the tremor breaking through her like thunder beneath her skin.

Her body pulsed around her fingers.

Her lips trembled.

And when it was over, she collapsed forward, shaking.

Breathless.

Exhausted.

Exposed.

Damien—WolfEyes—just leaned back in her throne and whispered:

“We’re not done.”

Then the screen went black.

The shower was already running when she stepped inside, steam curling along the glass like whispered judgment.

Her skin was still trembling. Her thighs sticky. Her breath shallow. She peeled her corset off with shaking hands, the laces leaving ghost impressions down her ribs. Her stockings rolled down like sins shed in silence. Every movement felt raw. Bare. Human.

She hated how much she craved that word now.

Good girl.

It echoed inside her skull louder than the water rushing over her.

He didn’t even touch her.

Not really.

No rope. No whip. No bindings.

Just voice.

And ice.

And truth.

She leaned her forehead against the tile, letting the hot water pound her back. It didn’t scald enough. It didn’t erase the tremble in her legs.

Her fingers curled against the wall.

Why did that undo me?

Why did kneeling for him feel more powerful than standing above a thousand men?

Dominique had always been in control.

Of her body.

Her words.

Her world.

But tonight… tonight she’d broken like glass under a whisper.

And she’d loved it.

The shame came next.

The question that crawled under her skin like needles in silk:

Am I still Domica if I want to kneel?

Or worse—

What if I’ve never really been her at all?

She let the water wash over her thighs, sticky and tender from the session. Her core still pulsed in aftershock, a silent echo of pleasure too large to name.

She had screamed for him.

Begged.

She touched the bruised swell of her breast where the ice had rested.

Cold.

Hot.

Gone.

Her fingers moved lower, instinctively, as if trying to feel him again. But it wasn’t the same. Her own touch was nothing now. Not after him.

Not after Sir.

A sob lodged in her throat, but she didn’t let it free.

Instead, she pressed her palm to her belly, trying to hold herself together.

It didn’t work.

She was coming undone, piece by piece, and the worst part?

She didn’t want it to stop.

She wanted more.

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