First training

The next morning didn’t bring sunlight. Only a pale, dull glow seeped through the tall windows, soft as breath, offering no warmth. Silence clung to Ivy like a second skin. It wasn’t the kind of quiet that brought peace. It pressed against her ribs and whispered that nothing about her life was going back to normal.

She hadn’t dreamed, or if she had, the memory of it dissolved by the time she opened her eyes. What remained was soreness in strange places—her thighs, the side of her neck, and a tension curled so tightly in her belly it pulsed with every heartbeat. She could still feel where he had touched her, where he had not. Victor hadn’t come to her room again after the kiss. He hadn’t touched her since the moment he left her kneeling and aching.

But he had done something far worse.

He had planted the hunger and then left it to grow.

She told herself it was anger. Frustration. A bruised sense of power. A wounded ego. But even as she slid from the bed, dressed in soft cotton, and caught her reflection in the mirror, the truth settled behind her eyes like smoke. She didn’t just want answers. She didn’t just want control.

She wanted him to finish what he had started.

The hallway lights flickered on as she opened her door, sensing her movement like the house itself had been waiting. The air was clean and cool, scented with fresh linen and roasted coffee. Somewhere in the distance, classical music played low, as if the whole estate had been set to a slower rhythm. Time had changed.

She found him in the kitchen.

Victor stood by the island with a mug in one hand and a tablet in the other. The dark slate shirt he wore clung to his form, rolled up at the sleeves, revealing strong forearms and veins that spoke of strength earned, not inherited. He hadn’t looked at her, but she could feel the shift in energy when she entered.

“Eat,” he said, without turning.

The table was already set. Scrambled eggs, a perfectly sliced avocado on toast, and black coffee with a delicate swirl of cream. She sat in silence and began to eat. She wasn’t sure if the hunger twisting inside her was physical or something else entirely. Every time she raised her cup or took a bite, she felt him watching.

She licked a smudge of butter from her finger.

His gaze lifted.

The pull in her stomach deepened.

When she finished, he placed his tablet aside and turned toward her fully. His presence filled the room in a way that made it hard to breathe.

“Today begins your training.”

Ivy’s spine straightened. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll learn how to submit properly.”

She frowned. “I already signed your contract.”

“Signing was consent. Not comprehension.”

A flush rose beneath her skin. “Then teach me.”

He studied her a moment, something slow and dangerous curving in his expression. It wasn’t a smile. Not really. But it felt like one.

“Follow me.”

They walked through the house, past the red room she had been blindfolded into the night before. This time, he led her to a smaller, darker space. The lighting was muted. The room was stripped of comfort. No bed. No mirrors. Just a wide padded mat on the floor and a low cabinet against one wall.

He closed the door behind her.

“Strip.”

The command settled over her like heat. Her breath caught. She hesitated, but her body moved. Her fingers tugged her sweater over her head. Then her bra. Her nipples peaked in the cool air. She slid her leggings down next, her underwear last. She folded everything neatly and placed it to the side.

Then she stood. Naked. Breathing hard.

Victor circled her slowly.

“Do you know how to kneel?”

She shook her head.

He stopped in front of her. “Knees apart. Back straight. Hands on your thighs. Palms down.”

She obeyed. The mat was cool against her skin. Her knees adjusted, her thighs parted. She placed her hands just where he had said and tried to ignore the way her body trembled from more than cold.

“Look straight ahead. Not at the floor. Not at me. You are not prey.”

Her chin lifted.

He stepped behind her, slow and silent.

“Now breathe.”

“I am.”

“Not how I want. Deep through the nose. Hold it. Then release.”

She inhaled. Held. Exhaled.

Her shoulders lowered.

“Again.”

His voice had a rhythm to it. Like breath itself was being recalibrated.

“Submission is not weakness. It is strength, offered by choice. It requires restraint. Precision. Devotion.”

She inhaled again. Held. Released.

“You will learn how to still your body. Control your reactions. Own your desire and offer it with discipline.”

Her stomach fluttered. The word desire hit low.

He came to stand before her. Then slowly, he knelt. His hand brushed her knee, warm and steady.

“Close your eyes.”

She obeyed.

The silence wrapped around her again, thick and expectant.

Then he touched her.

His fingers slid slowly up her inner thigh, warm and deliberate. Not rough. Not groping. He traced delicate shapes across her skin, always circling, never reaching the place she needed him most. Her core clenched. Her back tensed. Still, she didn’t move.

“Still.”

Her jaw tightened. She held her breath without meaning to.

His touch grew bolder. Fingers drifting higher, grazing her heat, not entering, not fully stroking, just enough to set her nerves on fire.

Her hands twitched.

“Still,” he said again, firmer now.

She trembled. Her chest rose sharply.

“Breathe, Ivy.”

She inhaled shakily. Her breath stuttered out, followed by a moan she caught just in time.

And then he stopped.

The absence of touch was immediate and cruel. Her body mourned it.

“You forgot to breathe,” he said simply. “You don’t yet know how to give yourself over without losing control.”

He stood.

The heat he had built inside her throbbed unanswered.

“You will kneel for ten minutes. Eyes closed. No sound. No movement. If you succeed, I’ll reward you. If you fail, your body will remember the lesson.”

Then he left.

The door closed.

She was alone.

The silence changed again. It didn’t just press—it weighed. Her thighs ached. Her nipples strained. Her sex pulsed with a need she couldn’t touch. And still, she stayed still.

One minute passed.

Then another.

She thought about the way his fingers felt.

The way he said “good girl” like it was sacred.

At minute seven, her knees threatened to buckle.

She held.

At minute nine, tears stung her eyes.

She blinked them back.

When the door finally opened, she didn’t lift her gaze.

Victor entered without a word.

He watched her. Let the silence stretch.

Then he said it.

“Good girl.”

Relief swept through her like warmth.

He stepped closer, slow and measured.

“You’ve earned your reward.”

He knelt beside her. Pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck, right where her pulse fluttered. Gentle. Devastating.

“Do not speak,” he said softly.

His hand slid into her hair and pulled, tilting her head back.

Her breath hitched, but she made no sound.

He eased her forward onto her hands and knees. Her body moved without question. Her back arched. Her hips lifted. She was offered to him, open and trembling.

His hands cupped her hips. Grounding. Possessive.

Then his fingers slid between her thighs. Parted her. Entered her.

She gasped.

He set the rhythm with cruel precision. Not fast. Not rough. But deep and perfectly controlled. Each stroke pulled a moan that she refused to release.

Her arms quaked. Her thighs clenched.

He slowed. Then stopped just as she reached the edge.

She whimpered low in her throat.

“You stopped breathing again,” he said. “I watched your chest.”

He withdrew his fingers.

She nearly sobbed.

He came around to face her, crouched, and lifted her chin again.

“Say it.”

“Say what?” she whispered.

“Thank me.”

Her lips parted. Her voice was soft and raw.

“Thank you… for denying me.”

He smiled faintly. “Good girl.”

Then he kissed her, and the kiss wasn’t reward—it was possession.

When he finally pulled away, her body leaned toward him instinctively.

“Tomorrow,” he said as he helped her stand, “we begin posture. Then the paddle. If you do well, I might let you come.”

The promise slid into her bloodstream like a drug.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t retreat.

She stood there naked. Breathless. Burning.

And smiled.