obey me 3

The deprivation of touch was a new kind of torture. She would find herself staring at his hands, imagining them on her skin. She would follow him through the house, grazing her shoulder against his, desperate for a spark.

"Focus, Phoebe," he would say, his voice cool.

"I am focusing."

"Then why is your mind on my bed?"

"How do you know?"

"Because you smell like hunger."

On the day of the final, Phoebe felt as though she were vibrating. She walked into the exam hall and sat down, the silence of the room echoing the silence of the basement. She tore through the questions, her pen flying across the paper.

When she handed in the exam, she felt a strange void in her chest. The goal had been achieved, but the reward was still an unknown. She walked home in a daze, the urban noise of the city fading into the background.

Saint was waiting for her in the foyer. He didn't say a word, simply holding out his hand. Phoebe placed her hand in his, feeling the familiar strength of his grip. He led her up to the study.

On the desk lay a sealed envelope from the university. Phoebe's hands shook as she reached for it, her fingers trembling so hard she almost dropped the paper. She tore it open and scanned the top of the page.

"One hundred percent," she whispered.

Saint's expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened. He reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a small, velvet box. He opened it to reveal a delicate gold collar with a small, diamond-encrusted tag.

"This is your prize," he said.

"A collar?"

"A symbol of your achievement. And your status."

He stepped behind her, the cold metal of the collar clicking shut around her neck. The fit was perfect, a constant, heavy reminder of his ownership. Phoebe touched the gold, a tear sliding down her cheek.

"Now," Saint whispered, his lips brushing her ear. "The real reward begins."

He led her to the center of the room, where a large, mirrored wall reflected their image. He told her to stand still and look at herself. She saw a beautiful, broken girl in a gold collar, standing beside a man who held her soul in his hand.

He stripped her slowly, his eyes locked on hers through the mirror. He spent an hour just touching her, exploring every inch of her body with a reverence that felt almost holy. He used a silk ribbon to tie her wrists behind her back.

"You've been so patient," he murmured.

"I wanted this."

"I know you did."

He knelt before her, his tongue finding her clit with an intensity that made her knees buckle. He didn't stop until she was sobbing, her body shaking with a build-up of tension that felt unbearable.

He stood up and entered her from behind, his chest pressed against her back. He gripped the gold collar, using it to pull her head back as he thrust deep into her. The reflection in the mirror showed her face contorted in a mixture of pain and ecstasy.

"You are the perfect student," he groaned, his voice vibrating through her spine.

"Thank you, Saint."

"You are my perfect girl."

The sex was slow, exhaustive, and visceral. He explored every angle, every position, ensuring she felt every inch of him. The sounds of their interaction—the wet slaps, the heavy breathing, the clinking of the collar—filled the room.

He pushed her against the mirror, the cold glass a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies. He entered her one last time, his movements desperate and raw. They came together in a shattering explosion of pleasure that left them both gasping for air.

As they lay on the floor, Phoebe felt the weight of the collar around her neck. She knew the system would continue, the stars and the time-outs, the rewards and the punishments. She didn't want it to end.

"What's the next goal, Saint?" she whispered.

He kissed her forehead, his eyes full of a terrifying, romantic devotion. He smiled, a predator who had finally tamed his prey.

"The graduate program, my love."

"I'll get a hundred percent in that, too."

"I know you will."