The white latex clung to her like a second skin that fit better than her own. Willow knelt on the dark hardwood, her thighs pressed together, the smooth material pinching at her hips and stretching taut across her chest. The bodysuit left her shoulders bare, and she could feel the cool glass of the windows against her skin when she leaned back, the city glittering far below like scattered diamonds. She had chosen this. She had asked for it.

"Please, sir," she had whispered when he'd raised an eyebrow at her request. "I want to wear it for you. The white one. With the stockings and the mules."

He had studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable, before nodding once. "Go on, then."

She had dressed in his bathroom, her fingers clumsy with anticipation, the latex sliding over her smooth legs, catching at her hips before settling into place. The matching stockings followed, sheer white thigh-highs that ended just above her knees, held up by nothing but friction against the latex. And then the mules—six-inch heels with two-inch platforms, white patent leather that gleamed under the bathroom lights. Walking in them was its own kind of surrender, the height forcing her onto her toes, her calves aching, her balance dependent on his furniture, his walls, his arm if he offered it.

She had come back to him on her knees. She had knelt without being told, settling onto the floor with a soft rustle of latex and a quiet, breathy sigh. The plug pulsed inside her, a steady, insistent reminder that she was not her own. It had been his idea to pair it with the bodysuit—"So you never forget who you belong to, even when I'm not looking"—and she had moaned when he'd pushed it in, the silicone filling her, the Bluetooth connection blinking green before he'd set it to a low, constant hum.

Now she knelt before him, and the hum was the only sound in the room besides the distant traffic below and the soft creak of leather as he moved.

David stood over her, his glass set aside on the low table, his belt already unbuckled. The leather hung loose from his waist, the metal buckle catching the light as he shifted his weight. He was still in his charcoal suit, the jacket discarded somewhere, his white shirt rolled to his elbows, his tie loosened. He looked down at her with that patient, satisfied expression she was learning to read—the slight tilt of his head, the way his eyes traced the curve of her body in the white latex, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"You asked for this," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, sir." Her voice came out soft, higher than Warren's ever was. She liked the sound of it. She liked the way it made her feel lighter, smaller, more herself.

"Why?"

She blinked up at him, her one-inch lashes heavy against her cheeks. "Because I want to be beautiful for you. Because I want to feel—" She paused, searching for the word. "—owned."

The smile on his face deepened. "Good girl."

The praise washed through her like warm water, settling low in her belly, making her thighs press together beneath the latex. The plug hummed a little harder, responding to her body's heat, and she gasped softly, her hips shifting on the floor.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything.

"The plug," he said, not a question. "You can feel it."

"Yes, sir. It's—" She swallowed. "It's constant. I can't forget it."

"You're not supposed to forget it." He stepped closer, the toes of his polished shoes stopping inches from her knees. "You're not supposed to forget anything. Not the cage. Not the collar. Not me."

"I don't, sir. I couldn't."

He reached down and took her chin in his hand, his fingers firm but gentle, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. His thumb traced her bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and she felt her mouth part beneath his touch, a reflex she couldn't control. The latex creaked as she shifted, and the plug pulsed again, a low throb that made her breath catch.

"Show me," he said, "how grateful you are."

Her heart hammered in her chest. Her fingers trembled as she reached for him, her manicured nails catching on the fabric of his trousers. She fumbled with the button, her hands clumsy with nerves, and she heard him exhale—not impatient, just waiting. He let her struggle. He let her figure it out.

She got the button free, then the zipper, her knuckles brushing against the heat of him through his boxers. She looked up at him, seeking permission, and he nodded once, a slight dip of his chin that set her world in motion.

She pulled him free.

He was thick in her hand, heavy, the skin warm and smooth over a shaft that seemed impossibly long. She wrapped her fingers around him and felt him twitch, a pulse of life that made her mouth water. She had never done this before—not like this, not on her knees, not for a man who owned her. The videos she'd made for strangers online had never gone this far. This was new. This was his.

"Go on," he said, his voice low and rough. "Show me."

She leaned in, her lips parting, and the first contact was electric—the taste of him, salt and skin and something darker, something that made her stomach flip. She closed her eyes and took him into her mouth, the head sliding past her lips, her tongue pressing flat against the underside. He was warm and thick on her tongue, and she heard him inhale sharply above her, a sound that made her want more.

The plug pulsed inside her, a low, steady throb that kept time with her heartbeat, and she felt herself sink deeper into the moment—the cool glass against her bare shoulders, the tight grip of the latex at her hips and thighs, the weight of the mules on her feet as she shifted on her knees. She was exactly where she was supposed to be.

David's hand found her hair, his fingers threading through the blonde wig, gripping gently at first, then with more purpose. He guided her, not roughly, but with a steady pressure that told her the rhythm he wanted. She followed, her mouth sliding down his length, taking him deeper, feeling him hit the back of her throat and the instinctive gag that followed.

"Easy," he murmured. "Breathe through your nose."

She did. She breathed through her nose and relaxed her throat, taking him deeper, her eyes watering, her lips stretched wide around him. She could feel every inch of him, the weight of him on her tongue, the pulse of him against her palate. She wanted to please him. She wanted to be good.

"That's it," he said, his voice strained. "That's my girl."

The praise flooded through her, hot and bright, and she moaned around him, the vibration making him shudder above her. His grip in her hair tightened, and she felt him press deeper, not forcing, just holding her there, letting her feel the full length of him in her mouth.

The plug pulsed harder. The scent of whiskey and cedar and that faint, lingering perfume filled her nose, and she wondered, briefly, who the perfume belonged to—but the thought scattered as he began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that had her bracing her hands on his thighs for balance.

The mules were heavy on her feet, the platforms keeping her elevated even on her knees, and she felt every shift of her weight as she moved with him. Her thighs ached. Her jaw ached. The latex creaked with every movement. But she didn't want to stop. She didn't want him to stop.

"Look at me," he said.

She opened her eyes, her lashes wet with tears, and looked up at him. His dark eyes were fixed on her, watching her with an intensity that made her feel seen in a way she never had before. He was watching her mouth on him, watching her take him, and the expression on his face was one of raw, undisguised hunger.

"You're beautiful like this," he said. "Do you know that?"

She couldn't answer. She could only moan around him, the sound vibrating through his cock, and he groaned in response, his hips pressing forward just a little.

"So beautiful," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "My beautiful girl."

The words undid something in her. She felt herself let go, her body surrendering completely, her mouth working him with a desperate, hungry rhythm. She wanted to give him everything. She wanted him to take everything.

His hand tightened in her hair, and she felt the first tremor of his release building, a tension that ran through his body like a current. She didn't pull away. She stayed, her mouth full of him, her tongue working, her eyes locked on his face as he came undone above her.

"Willow—"

His voice broke on her name, and she felt him pulse against her tongue, hot and thick, flooding her mouth. She swallowed, and swallowed again, the taste of him coating her throat, and she didn't stop until he pulled back, his chest heaving, his hand still tangled in her hair.

She stayed on her knees, looking up at him, her lips swollen, her eyes wet, the plug still pulsing inside her. She had done it. She had pleased him.

David looked down at her for a long moment, his expression soft in a way she hadn't seen before. He reached down and traced her bottom lip with his thumb, wiping away the last trace of him, and then he leaned in and kissed her forehead, a gesture so tender it made her chest ache.

"You did so well," he said quietly. "I'm proud of you."

The words settled into her like a blessing, warm and heavy in her chest. She smiled up at him, her heart full, her body humming with a contentment she had never known.

"Thank you, sir."

He helped her to her feet, his hand steady under her elbow as she wobbled in the mules. The latex creaked as she straightened, and she felt the plug shift inside her, a reminder that this was not over. The night was far from over, and she had yet to earn her return home.

But for now, she was his. And that was enough.

He held her steady for a moment longer than necessary, his palm warm against her elbow. She felt the heat of him through the latex, a grounding pressure that kept her upright in the absurd height of the mules. When he finally released her, she swayed slightly, catching herself on the arm of the leather sofa, her manicured fingers curling into the dark hide.

"You'll need to learn to stand in those," he said, watching her find her balance. "By the end of the week, you'll walk in them like they're flats."

She nodded, a little breathless. "Yes, sir."

He turned and retrieved his glass from the low table, the amber liquid catching the city lights beyond the windows. She watched him take a slow sip, his throat working, and she found herself cataloguing the details of him the way she catalogued her own reflection—the silver threading through his dark hair, the way his beard framed his jaw, the loosened tie that hung like an afterthought. He was beautiful in a way that made her feel small, and she loved the feeling.

Her gaze drifted past him to the whiskey glass in his hand, and she caught it—a faint crescent of color on the rim, a shade of deep rose that didn't match the amber of the drink. Lipstick. She blinked, and the detail sharpened, a tiny crescent of another woman's mouth pressed into the crystal. The thought should have stung. Instead, it settled into her chest like a warm weight, a reminder of her place in the hierarchy of his life. She was not the first woman to kneel on this floor. She would not be the last. The knowledge made her want to be better, to be the one he remembered.

She looked away before he could catch her staring, her eyes dropping to the floor, the dark hardwood smooth and cool beneath her knees. The plug pulsed inside her, a low throb that had settled into a rhythm she was beginning to crave, and she shifted her weight, the latex whispering against her thighs.

"You noticed," he said, and she froze.

She looked up at him, her heart skipping. "Sir?"

He held up the glass, tilting it so the lipstick caught the light. "The glass. You saw it."

She hesitated, then nodded, a small, honest movement of her chin.

"And what did you think?" His voice was calm, curious, the voice of a man who already knew the answer but wanted to hear her say it.

"I thought—" She swallowed, her throat dry. "I thought it was a reminder. That I'm not the only one."

He set the glass down on the table with a soft clink, the sound precise and final. He stepped closer, the toes of his shoes stopping inches from her knees, and he reached down, taking her chin in his hand again, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. His thumb traced her bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and she felt her mouth part beneath his touch, a reflex she couldn't control.

"You're not the only one," he said, his voice low and even. "But you're the one who's here. The one who knelt. The one who asked to wear white for me."

Her breath caught. "Yes, sir."

"That means something." He released her chin, his hand dropping to rest on the curve of her shoulder, his thumb brushing the bare skin where the latex ended. "It means you're the one I'm training. The one I'm shaping. The one who's going to be perfect."

The word settled into her like a seed, taking root in the warm soil of her chest. Perfect. She wanted to be perfect for him. She wanted to be the one he looked at with that soft, satisfied expression, the one he kissed on the forehead after she'd done well. She wanted to earn that forehead kiss every single night.

"I want to be perfect for you, sir," she whispered, and the words felt truer than anything she'd said in years.

He smiled, a slow, warm curve of his mouth that made her stomach flip. "I know you do. That's why you're here."

His hand slid from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, his fingers threading through the blonde wig, gripping gently, tilting her head back. He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear, and she felt his breath warm against her skin.

"And that's why I'm going to take care of you," he murmured. "Every inch of you. Every piece of you. Until there's nothing left but Willow."

She shivered, the plug pulsing inside her, a low, insistent throb that kept time with her racing heart. The word—Willow—hung in the air between them, a promise and a threat and a gift all at once. She was Willow. She had always been Willow, hiding beneath the surface of Warren like a diver holding her breath. And now, finally, she was allowed to surface.

He straightened, his hand dropping away, and she felt the absence of his touch like a small loss. He looked down at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and then he reached for his glass again, taking a slow sip, the lipstick crescent facing away from her now, as if the reminder had served its purpose and been dismissed.

"You'll stay for a while longer," he said, not a question. "I'm not done with you yet."

She nodded, her knees aching on the hardwood, the latex tight against her skin, the plug a constant pulse inside her. "Yes, sir."

She was his. And that was enough.

She stayed on her knees a moment longer than she needed to, letting the ache in her calves and the press of the latex remind her where she was. The plug had settled into a low, steady hum, less urgent now, more like a heartbeat she was learning to carry. She watched David set his glass down and roll his sleeves higher, the movement unhurried, deliberate. He was in no rush. She was learning that about him—he never rushed anything, because nothing he wanted was ever going anywhere.

"Stand up," he said. "Slowly."

She rose on the mules, her ankles wobbling, her hands reaching for the sofa arm before she caught herself. The latex pulled taut across her thighs as she straightened, and she felt the plug shift inside her, a reminder that she was still full, still held. She stood before him, her hands clasped in front of her, her chin lifted the way he'd taught her in the first minutes of their first meeting—eyes down, mouth soft, body open.

"Better," he said. "You're getting steadier."

"Thank you, sir."

He studied her for a moment, his gaze traveling from the white mules up the long line of her stockings to the curve of her hips, the swell of the breast plate, the column of her throat where the collar sat dark against her skin. She felt seen in a way that made her want to squirm, but she held still. She was learning that stillness was its own kind of gift.

"You have your phone with you?" he asked.

She blinked. "My phone, sir?"

"The one in your bag. The one you think I don't know about."

Her stomach dropped. She had left her handbag by the door when she'd arrived, a small clutch in white patent leather that matched the mules. Inside it was her phone, the one she'd silenced before she'd come up, the one she'd meant to check on the way over but hadn't. She had forgotten, in the rush of dressing, in the heat of his presence, that the phone existed at all.

"Yes, sir," she said. "It's in my bag."

"Get it."

She crossed the room on unsteady heels, her bare arms pebbling in the cool air, and retrieved the clutch from where she'd left it on the entry table. The leather was smooth and cold in her fingers. She brought it back to him, holding it out with both hands like an offering.

"Open it," he said.

She unclasped the clutch and pulled out the phone. The screen was dark, but she could feel the weight of it in her palm, the familiar rectangle of glass and metal that had once been her lifeline to a hundred secret rooms. Now it felt like a dead thing, a shell of what it had been.

"Unlock it," he said.

She did. Her thumb found the sensor, and the screen bloomed to life, flooding her face with pale light. The notifications were stacked there, a cascade of icons and previews that made her breath catch. She saw the familiar logos of the sites she'd posted on, the ones where she'd uploaded videos and photos, the ones where she'd chatted with strangers in the dark hours of the night. The numbers were higher than she remembered. Much higher.

"What are these?" she whispered, more to herself than to him.

"Your fans," he said. "They've been busy."

She scrolled without thinking, her thumb moving over the screen, and the previews resolved into thumbnails she recognized—her own body, her own face, the blonde wig and the red dress and the hotel bathroom. But there were others too, ones she didn't remember taking. Ones she had never posted.

"I don't—" she started, and then she saw it. A video thumbnail, her own face in profile, the collar visible at her throat, the white latex catching the light. She hadn't filmed that. She hadn't been in that room with anyone but him.

"David," she said, and his name came out wrong, too sharp, too much like Warren's voice.

"Willow." His voice was calm, patient, the voice of a man explaining a rule to a child. "Look at me."

She looked up. His dark eyes were steady on hers, unreadable, and she felt the collar press against her throat like a hand.

"I told you," he said, "that I have access to your accounts. That I've been managing them for you. That I changed the passwords."

She nodded, her mouth dry.

"What I didn't tell you," he continued, "is that I've been adding to them."

The phone felt heavier in her hand. She looked down at the screen again, at the thumbnails she didn't recognize, at the view counts she hadn't earned, at the comments she hadn't read. There were hundreds of them. Thousands. The numbers blurred in the pale light.

"I took the liberty," he said, "of recording some of our sessions. The ones you were conscious for. The ones you weren't."

Her heart was a drum in her chest. "You—"

"I posted them." He said it simply, like he was telling her he'd ordered dinner. "To your profiles. The ones you made, and the new ones I created. You have a following now, Willow. A real one."

She stared at him, the phone trembling in her hand. The plug pulsed inside her, a low throb that seemed to be keeping time with the racing of her heart, and she felt the latex cling to her skin, damp with a sweat she hadn't noticed breaking.

"I didn't ask you to do that," she said, and her voice came out thin, reedy, a voice she didn't recognize.

"No," he agreed. "You didn't. But you signed a contract that gave me control of your accounts. And you knelt for me, and you let me collar you, and you told me you wanted to be mine." He stepped closer, and she felt the heat of him through the thin latex. "This is what being mine looks like, Willow. I decide what the world sees. I decide what they know. And right now, the world knows you're mine."

She looked down at the phone again, at the thumbnail of herself in the white latex, the collar stark against her throat, her eyes glassy and unfocused, her mouth open. She didn't remember that moment. She didn't remember him filming it. The thought should have terrified her. It did terrify her, a cold spike of fear that shot through her chest and settled in her stomach. But beneath the fear, something else stirred. Something warm and dark and hungry.

She was seen.

Not as Warren, the careful banker, the husband who slept in a separate bedroom, the man who hid his true self behind navy suits and Hermès ties. But as Willow, the blonde bimbo in white latex, the collared submissive, the woman on her knees. The world knew her. The world had seen her. And the world, if the view counts were to be believed, wanted more.

"Look at the comments," David said, his voice soft, almost gentle. "Read what they say."

She didn't want to. She couldn't. But her thumb moved anyway, scrolling past the view counts to the comment sections, and the words rose up to meet her like a wave. Beautiful. Perfect. Who owns her? I'd kill to be him. She's so lucky. I want what she has. The words blurred, and she blinked, and a tear slipped down her cheek, catching on the edge of her glossed lip.

"They love you," he said. "They don't know your name. They don't know who you were. They only know who you are now."

She looked up at him, her lashes wet, her heart pounding. "Who am I now?"

He smiled, a slow, warm curve of his mouth that made her stomach flip. "You're mine," he said. "That's who."

He reached out and took the phone from her hand, his fingers brushing hers, and she let it go without resistance. He set it on the low table beside his glass, the screen still glowing, and then he turned back to her, his hands finding her shoulders, his thumbs brushing the bare skin where the latex ended.

"You're going to be famous, Willow," he said. "Not the kind of famous that gets you on magazine covers. The kind of famous that gets you worshipped in dark rooms. The kind that makes men beg for a glimpse of you. The kind that makes them do anything to be near you."

She shivered, the plug pulsing inside her, a low, insistent throb that seemed to be answering his words. She had wanted this. She had posted those videos and photos, had craved the attention, had felt a thrill every time a stranger commented on her body, her makeup, her submission. But she had never imagined it like this. She had never imagined being owned by it.

"I have a new video," he said, his voice dropping lower. "One I haven't posted yet. I was waiting for the right moment."

She looked up at him, her breath catching. "What video?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, the screen dark. He tapped it, and the screen bloomed to life, and she saw herself—kneeling on this floor, in this room, the white latex gleaming under the lights, the collar at her throat, her mouth wrapped around him. The angle was from above, from his perspective, and she could see the way her lashes looked against her cheeks, the way her throat worked as she swallowed, the way her hands gripped his thighs for balance.

"I filmed it," he said, "while you were busy being perfect."

She stared at the screen, at the woman who was her and wasn't her, at the hunger in the woman's eyes, at the devotion in the set of her shoulders. She watched herself take him deeper, watched the tears slip down her cheeks as she gagged, watched the way she looked up at him with such desperate need. She had never seen herself like this. She had never known she could look like this.

"I'm going to post it," he said. "Tonight. After you leave. So that when you wake up tomorrow, the whole world will have seen what I saw."

Her throat closed. "David—"

"Sir," he corrected, his voice gentle but firm.

"Sir," she repeated, the word falling from her lips like a prayer. "Please—"

"Please what?"

She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn't come. What was she asking for? To stop him? To beg him not to post the video? The thought curdled in her stomach, because she knew, with a clarity that made her knees weak, that she didn't want him to stop. She wanted him to post it. She wanted the world to see her like this, wanted to be that woman on the screen, the one who looked up at him with such desperate, shining need.

"Please," she said again, and her voice was barely a breath. "Please let me watch it again."

His eyebrows rose, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it settled back into that patient, knowing smile. "Again?"

"I want to see what you saw," she said. The words felt like a confession, like she was peeling back a layer of skin she hadn't known she had. "I want to see myself the way you see me."

He regarded her for a long moment, and she felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing, pressing down on her shoulders, her chest, the hollow of her throat. Then he turned the phone in his hand and held it out to her.

"Show me," he said. "Show me what you see."

She took the phone with trembling fingers, the screen still glowing, the video paused on a frame of herself mid-motion. Her mouth was open around him, her eyes half-closed, her lashes dark against her cheeks. She pressed play, and the video started again, and she watched herself with a kind of horrified fascination.

The woman on the screen was beautiful. That was the first thought that rose, unbidden, from somewhere deep in her chest. The white latex gleamed under the lights, hugging every curve of her body, the collar stark against her throat, the blonde wig falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She moved with a grace she didn't recognize, a rhythm that seemed to belong to someone else entirely.

She watched herself take him deeper, her lips stretching around him, her throat working as she swallowed. She watched the way her hands gripped his thighs, the nails painted a soft pink against the dark fabric of his trousers. She watched the tears slip down her cheeks, the mascara smudging just slightly at the corners, and she saw the hunger in her own eyes, the desperate, aching need that she had never allowed herself to acknowledge before.

"I look—" she started, and stopped.

"You look like yourself," he said. "The self you've been hiding."

She watched the video to the end, watched herself pull away with a gasp, watched the strand of spit that connected her lips to him, watched the way she looked up at him with such raw, unguarded want. The screen went dark, and she stood there, the phone cold in her hand, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"I want you to post it," she said. The words came out before she could stop them, and she felt a flush of heat rise up her neck, spreading across her cheeks. "I want everyone to see."

He studied her, his dark eyes unreadable. "That's a big step, Willow. Once it's out there, you can't take it back."

"I know." She swallowed, her throat dry. "I don't want to take it back. I want them to see me. I want them to know I'm yours."

He reached out and took the phone from her hand, his fingers brushing hers, and she let it go without resistance. He set it on the table beside his glass, the screen dark, and then he turned back to her, his hands finding her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.

"I'll post it tonight," he said. "After you leave. And when you wake up tomorrow, you'll be famous."

She shivered, the plug pulsing inside her, a low throb that seemed to be keeping time with the beating of her heart. She had wanted this. She had craved it, dreamed of it, posted her own videos in the dark hours of the night, hoping that someone, anyone, would see her and want her. But she had never imagined it would feel like this. She had never imagined being seen so completely.

"Now," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I believe I promised you a reward."

Her breath caught. "Sir?"

"You've been very good today," he said. "You came when I called. You knelt when I asked. You didn't run." He paused, his thumb brushing her lower lip. "I think you've earned a taste of what's waiting for you."

She didn't move. She didn't breathe. She stood there, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes fixed on his, and she waited.

"Kneel," he said.

She sank to her knees on the hardwood floor, the latex creaking softly, the plug shifting inside her. The cool air kissed her bare shoulders, and she felt the weight of the collar against her throat, grounding her, reminding her of where she was and who she belonged to.

"You know what I want," he said.

She did. She reached for his belt with trembling fingers, her nails catching on the leather, and she heard him exhale, a low, rough sound that made her stomach flip. She unbuckled it with fumbling hands, her fingers clumsy with want, and she pulled his trousers open, her mouth going dry at the sight of him.

"Go on," he said. "Show me how grateful you are."

She leaned forward, her lips parting, and she took him into her mouth. He was warm and heavy on her tongue, and she felt him twitch against her, a response that made her moan softly around him. She closed her eyes and let herself sink into the rhythm, her hands gripping his thighs for balance, her throat working as she took him deeper.

"That's it," he murmured, his hand finding the back of her head, his fingers threading through the blonde wig. "That's my good girl."

The words washed over her like warm water, and she felt herself melt into them, her body yielding, her mind going soft and blank. She was his. She was exactly where she was supposed to be, on her knees before him, her mouth full of him, her world reduced to the taste of his skin and the sound of his breathing.

He let her work for a long time, his hand guiding her, his fingers tightening in her hair when she took him too deep, his breath hitching when she swallowed around him. She lost track of time, lost track of everything but the rhythm of her own mouth and the weight of him on her tongue.

"Enough," he said finally, and she pulled away with a gasp, a strand of spit connecting her lips to him. She looked up at him, her eyes wet, her lips swollen, and she saw the hunger in his gaze, the same hunger she'd seen in the video.

"You did so well," he said. "I'm going to make you feel so good."

He reached down and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. Her legs were shaking, her knees weak, and she leaned into him, her body pressing against his. He led her to the sofa and sat down, pulling her onto his lap, and she straddled him, the latex slick against his trousers, the cage pressing against his hardness through the fabric.

"I want to feel you," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Please, sir. Please."

"You're not ready for that yet," he said, his hands finding her hips. "But I can give you something else."

He reached between them and found the edge of the cage, his fingers tracing the steel. She felt a jolt of electricity shoot through her, the flat plate pressing against her, the sensation sharp and strange and unbearably good. She gasped, her hips bucking involuntarily, and he smiled.

"I'm going to unlock you," he said. "Just for a little while. Just to remind you what you're missing."

Her heart stopped. "Sir—"

"Shh." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small key, the metal glinting in the low light. "You've earned this, Willow. You've been so good."

She watched, barely breathing, as he fit the key into the lock. The click was deafening in the quiet room, and she felt the cage release, the pressure easing, the steel falling away. She was free. For the first time in days, she was free.

And then his hand found her, and she forgot how to breathe entirely.

His fingers were rough and warm, stroking her with a deliberate slowness that made her thighs tremble. She was already hard, aching, desperate, and the touch sent a shockwave through her that made her cry out, her hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me feel how much you want this."

She couldn't speak. She could only nod, her forehead pressed against his, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His hand moved faster, his thumb finding the spot that made her see stars, and she felt herself climbing, climbing, the pressure building in her core.

"Please," she begged, the word torn from her throat. "Please, sir, I'm—"

"Not yet," he said, and his hand stilled.

She whimpered, a sound she didn't recognize, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest. She was so close, so achingly close, and he had stopped. He had stopped, and she was trembling, her body screaming for release.

"Look at me," he said.

She forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze. His dark eyes were steady on hers, patient, knowing.

"You don't come until I say so," he said. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," she whispered.

"Good girl." He started moving his hand again, slow and deliberate, and she felt herself climbing once more, the pressure building, the edge approaching. She held herself back, her teeth sinking into her lower lip, her nails digging into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt.

"Now," he said.

She came apart. It crashed over her like a wave, her body arching, her cry swallowed against his mouth as he kissed her. She shook in his arms, her hips grinding against his hand, her mind going white and blank and empty. She was nothing. She was everything. She was his.

When she finally stilled, she was gasping, her body limp against his, her forehead resting on his shoulder. He held her, his hand gentle on her back, and she felt the cage click back into place, the familiar pressure returning, grounding her once more.

"You see?" he said, his voice soft in her ear. "Good girls get rewarded. And tomorrow, when you wake up, the whole world will know how good you are."

She nodded against his shoulder, her eyes closing, her breath slowing. She was his. And she wouldn't have it any other way.