obey me 1

The gold star shimmered under the halogen lights of the study. Phoebe stared at the chart, her breath hitching in her throat. It hung on the mahogany door like a silent judge.

Saint leaned back in his leather chair, the scent of sandalwood and expensive cigars clinging to his wool waistcoat. He watched her with heavy-lidded eyes that stripped her bare. His fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat against the desk.

"Do you know why you are standing there, Phoebe?"

"I finished the mock exam for the linguistics seminar," she whispered.

"And the result?"

"I got a ninety-eight percent."

Saint smiled, a slow movement that didn't quite reach his calculating eyes. He stood up, his tall frame casting a long shadow over her small, trembling form. He walked toward her with a predator's grace.

"A near-perfect score," he murmured.

"Does that mean I get a star?"

"It means you've earned a prize, my good girl."

He reached out, his large hand cupping her jaw and forcing her to look up at him. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, pulling it down to reveal her teeth. Phoebe leaned into the touch, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"I've been thinking about your prize all morning," Saint whispered.

"What is it?"

"Strip. Now."

Phoebe didn't hesitate, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of her white blouse. The fabric slid off her shoulders, pooling on the hardwood floor like a discarded skin. She stepped out of her skirt, leaving her in nothing but a pair of sheer lace panties.

"Slowly," Saint commanded.

"I'm sorry."

"I didn't say you should apologize, I said you should take your time."

He watched as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of the lace. She slid them down her thighs, the fabric whispering against her skin. She stood before him completely naked, her nipples hardening in the cool air of the room.

"Come here," he ordered.

Phoebe walked toward him, her hips swaying instinctively. She stopped inches from him, the heat radiating from his body warming her chilled skin. He didn't touch her immediately, letting the tension coil between them.

"You worked so hard this week," he said.

"I wanted to make you proud."

"And you did."

He reached down, his hand sliding between her thighs. His fingers were warm, finding the swollen crease of her lips with practiced precision. Phoebe gasped, her back arching as he pressed a finger against her clit.

"Are you wet for me, Phoebe?"

"Yes, Saint. Please."

"Please what?"

"Please touch me."

He groaned, a low sound in his chest, and guided her toward the desk. He cleared a stack of papers with one swift motion, sending them fluttering to the floor. He lifted her up, seating her on the edge of the mahogany surface.

"Open your legs," he whispered.

Phoebe obeyed, draping her legs over his broad shoulders. She felt exposed, her pussy presented to him in the harsh light. He leaned in, his breath hot against her sensitive flesh.

"You smell like sweetness and desperation," he murmured.

He lowered his head, his tongue darting out to lick the length of her opening. Phoebe screamed, her fingers digging into the leather of his waistcoat. He began to lap at her, his tongue wide and flat, sucking the clit into his mouth.

The sound of his tongue squelching against her wetness filled the quiet room. He worked her with a rhythmic intensity, swirling his tongue around the hood of her clit. Phoebe's hips bucked, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

"Saint, I'm... I'm going to..."

"Not yet," he mumbled against her skin.

"Please, I can't take it!"

He pulled away abruptly, leaving her shivering and empty. He reached for his trousers, unzipping them with a metallic rasp that sounded like a gunshot. His cock sprang free, thick and pulsing, a deep vein running along the side.

Phoebe stared at him, her eyes wide with longing. The head of his penis was glistening with pre-cum, a clear bead clinging to the slit. He grabbed her hips, pulling her to the very edge of the desk.

"Look at it," he commanded.

"It's so big."

"It's exactly what you deserve for being a good girl."

He guided the head of his cock to her opening, rubbing it against her soaking wet lips. The friction created a wet, slapping sound as he teased the entrance. Phoebe whimpered, her legs shaking as she tried to pull him inside.

"Don't move," he warned.

"Please, just put it in."

"I'll decide when you're ready."

He thrust forward suddenly, burying himself deep inside her in one powerful motion. Phoebe let out a strangled cry, her internal muscles clamping tight around his girth. The sensation was overwhelming, a mixture of fullness and sharp pleasure.

He began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate. Each time he withdrew, he almost slipped out, the sound of air being pushed out of her orifice creating a wet popping noise. He pushed back in, his balls slapping hard against her perineum.

"Do you feel how tight you are for me?" he groaned.

"Yes, it feels... so full."

"You're shaking, Phoebe."

He increased the pace, his movements becoming more frantic. The shlicking sound of their bodies meeting grew louder, a visceral rhythm of skin on skin. Phoebe's breasts bounced with every impact, her nipples scraping against his chest.

"I love it when you're like this," Saint whispered, his voice raw.

"I love you," she sobbed.

"You love the reward."

He gripped her thighs, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. He hit her cervix with a deep, punishing thrust that made her vision blur. Phoebe's orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her walls pulsing violently around him.

Saint let out a guttural roar, his body stiffening as he came. He pumped his seed deep inside her, the heat of it flooding her womb. He stayed buried in her for a long moment, their breathing the only sound in the room.

He withdrew slowly, a string of mixed fluids stretching between them before snapping. He stepped back, adjusting his clothes with an effortless calm. Phoebe remained on the desk, her legs still trembling, her skin flushed.

"Go clean yourself up," he said.

"Thank you, Saint."

"Don't thank me. Just keep those grades up."

The following Tuesday brought a different atmosphere to the house. The air felt heavy, charged with a tension that made Phoebe's skin crawl. She sat at the dining table, a single sheet of paper lying between her and Saint.

He didn't speak for five minutes, simply staring at the grade. It was a seventy-four percent on her mid-term history essay. The red ink of the professor's critiques looked like blood on the page.

"Explain this," Saint said.

"I struggled with the sources," Phoebe whispered.

"You struggled, or you became complacent?"

"I tried, I swear."

Saint stood up, his chair screeching against the floor. He didn't look angry; he looked disappointed, which was far worse. He walked around the table, his presence looming over her.

"We had an agreement, Phoebe," he reminded her.

"I know."

"The chart is very clear about failures."

Phoebe felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. She knew what came next, and the anticipation was almost as painful as the punishment. She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes.

"Please, I'll do better on the next one."

"The next one doesn't erase this failure."

"Saint, please don't."

"Go to the room, Phoebe."

The "room" was a converted walk-in closet in the basement, soundproofed and devoid of light. It contained nothing but a comfortable mat and a set of restraints. Phoebe walked down the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the silence.

Saint followed her, his hand firm on the nape of her neck. He guided her inside and shut the door, plunging them into absolute darkness. He didn't speak as he led her to the mat.

"Lie down," he commanded.

Phoebe obeyed, her heart racing in the void. She felt his hands on her wrists, the cold click of leather cuffs snapping shut. He did the same to her ankles, spreading her wide.

"Now for the silence," he whispered.

He slid heavy, foam earplugs into her ears, cutting off the ambient hum of the house. Then, he tied a thick silk blindfold around her eyes, though the room was already black. She was now trapped in a sensory vacuum.

The first hour was an exercise in panic. Without sight or sound, Phoebe's mind began to play tricks on her. She felt as though she were floating in a vast, empty ocean. Every shift in her own breathing sounded like a roar in her skull.

She waited for his touch, for any sign that he was still there. But there was nothing but the pressure of the restraints and the scent of the rubber mat. She began to cry, the tears hot against the silk of the blindfold.

"Saint!" she tried to scream, but the sound felt muffled and distant.