Prima's tongue swept across her lower lip, chasing the ghost of cream that was already gone. The taste lingered anyway—sweet, thick, coating the roof of her mouth—and her throat worked around a swallow that did nothing to ease the hunger coiling in her belly. She watched Salma's finger hover over the jar's opening, watched a smear of cream catch the jaundiced light, and her own mouth watered so hard it ached.

Salma caught her looking. Of course she caught her looking. Those brown eyes had been reading Prima like a book since the moment the collar first closed around her throat, and they didn't miss a single desperate flicker now. A smile curved her red-painted lips—slow, knowing, cruel in exactly the way that made Prima's thighs press together.

"You want this." Salma's finger lifted from the jar, cream gleaming on the pad. "Don't you, brat. You want me to give it to you. You want to open that smart mouth of yours and have me put it right on your tongue."

Prima's lips parted. The word yes sat there, fat and eager, ready to fall out and betray her. She caught it, bit down on it, and forced her chin up instead. "I want a lot of things," she said, and her voice only cracked a little. "Doesn't mean I'm going to beg for them."

"No?" Salma shifted on the stool, the leather of her corset creaking a complaint. She brought her finger to her own lips, slow, deliberate, and took the cream into her mouth. Her tongue curled around it, and she let her eyes drift half-closed as she swallowed. "That's a shame. Because I was thinking about giving you something else. Something better than cream."

Prima's heart gave a traitorous lurch. "Better than—" She stopped herself. Bit the inside of her cheek. Hard.

"Mmm." Salma's eyes opened, and they were laughing at her. "There it is. The curiosity. The hunger. You can't hide it, pet. It's written all over that pretty face." She uncrossed her legs, planted her boots on the concrete with a soft thud, and leaned forward. The movement brought her close enough that Prima could smell her—leather and sweat and something floral underneath, warm and womanly and intoxicating. "You want to know what it is."

Prima's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "I don't—"

"Yes, you do." Salma's hand came up, and Prima flinched—not away, never away, but toward, a muscle-memory lean that made her cheeks burn. Salma's fingers caught her chin instead, tilted her face up, held her there. "You've been good for three days. Three whole days of keeping that mouth mostly shut and those hands mostly to yourself. And I told you I'd give you a taste."

"You gave me a taste." Prima's voice came out rough. "You poured it on the floor."

"And you lapped it up like a good little thing." Salma's thumb dragged across Prima's lower lip, smearing the last of the cream there. "And now you want more. But you won't ask for it. Won't say please. Won't admit that you'd do anything I told you to, just for another bite."

The truth of it sat between them, heavy and undeniable. Prima could feel it pressing against the inside of her ribs, pushing up her throat, demanding to be spoken. She swallowed it down. "You're cruel," she said instead, and the words came out weaker than she wanted them to.

"I'm honest." Salma's thumb pressed harder, sliding across Prima's lip, and the taste of cream flooded her mouth again. "There's a difference, pet. Cruelty is doing this for no reason. Honesty is doing it because you need it, and I'm the only one brave enough to give it to you." She let go, sat back, and reached for the jar. "Now. You owe me an answer. What did you learn?"

Prima's tongue swept across her lip, chasing the smear. Her mind was blank—not from defiance, but from the sheer overwhelming fact of Salma's attention, the weight of those brown eyes on her, the way the air in the room seemed to thicken whenever Salma leaned in. She scrambled for words, for anything that would satisfy the question and earn her a reprieve.

"I learned," she started, and her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "I learned that wanting something isn't the same as deserving it."

Salma's eyebrows rose. "Go on."

"I learned that—" Prima's hands twisted in her lap. The concrete was cold under her knees, hard and unforgiving, and she could feel the ghost of the caramel still sticky on her skin. "I learned that you give me things because you want to, not because I ask for them. And that I should be grateful for what I get instead of demanding more."

The words tasted like ash in her mouth. They were true, and that made it worse.

Salma studied her for a long moment. Then she set the jar down on the tub's edge and stood. The motion was fluid, almost lazy, but something in it made Prima's breath catch. The corset creaked again as Salma stretched, arms rising over her head, and the leather pulled taut across her chest, emphasizing the generous swell of her breasts. She let out a soft sound of satisfaction, rolling her shoulders, and then her eyes dropped back to Prima.

"Good answer," she said, and the approval in her voice made Prima's stomach flip. "Not perfect. But good. And I think—" She crooked her finger, a single, unmistakable gesture. "I think you've earned the next lesson."

Prima's heart hammered. "What lesson?"

"The lesson can wait." Salma's smile was sharp and soft at once. "I want a bath. And you're going to wash me."

Prima blinked. "I'm going to—"

"Wash me." Salma's finger crooked again, beckoning. "On your knees, pet. That's how you follow me. That's how you learn."

The concrete scraped Prima's shins as she moved, rough and unforgiving against her bare skin. She could feel the grit digging in, the faint sting of it, but she didn't stop—couldn't stop, not with Salma's eyes on her, not with that crooking finger pulling her forward like a fish on a line. She crawled across the bathroom, her palms flat on the tile, her knees aching, and the heat of the room wrapped around her like a second skin.

The claw-foot tub stood against the far wall, its porcelain gleaming under a film of condensation. Steam curled from the water's surface, carrying the sharp mineral scent of the bath salts Salma must have added earlier. The air was thick with it, damp and heavy, and Prima could feel sweat beginning to bead at her hairline as she drew closer.

"There." Salma's voice came from above her, warm and commanding. "Stop there."

Prima stopped. Her knees screamed a protest, and she shifted her weight, trying to find a position that didn't ache quite so much. The tile was cool under her palms, a small mercy against the heat of the room.

Salma stepped past her, boots clicking on the tile, and Prima watched her silhouette move against the steam. She reached up, and the laces of her corset loosened with a soft whisper of sound. The leather fell away, revealing the curve of her back, the dip of her spine, the generous swell of her hips. She wore nothing underneath—just skin, warm and glowing in the amber light.

Prima's mouth went dry.

Salma didn't look at her. She stepped out of her boots, peeled off her stockings, and let them fall to the floor. Then she turned, and Prima got the full view—the heavy weight of her breasts, the dark nipples already peaked from the heat, the soft curve of her belly, the dark triangle of hair between her thighs. She was beautiful in a way that made Prima's chest ache, lush and ripe and utterly unselfconscious.

"You're staring," Salma said, and there was amusement in her voice.

Prima's cheeks burned. "I'm—"

"Don't apologize." Salma stepped into the tub, and the water swallowed her with a soft sigh. She sank down, letting the heat climb her body, and let out a low sound of pleasure that made Prima's thighs clench. "You should look. You should want. That's part of the lesson too."

The water sloshed gently as Salma settled, her arms resting on the tub's rim, her head tipped back. Steam curled around her, caught in her dark hair, beading on her skin. She looked like something out of a painting—a goddess in her element, surrounded by warmth and water and the worship of a kneeling supplicant.

"Soap," she said, and her eyes slit open. "On the ledge. Bring it to me."

Prima's gaze found the soap—a pale, smooth bar sitting on the tub's edge, next to the half-empty jar of cream. She reached for it, and her hand stopped an inch away. Her fingers trembled. She could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on her, the significance of what she was about to do.

"Go on," Salma said, and her voice had dropped, gone low and rough. "Pick it up, pet. You know you want to."

Prima's mouth opened. Some half-formed bratty retort rose to her lips—something about being ordered around, about not being a servant, about how Salma could wash her own damn feet—but it died before it could take shape. Because Salma's foot was rising from the water, lifting to rest on the porcelain rim, water beading on her arch, and Prima couldn't look away from it.

Her toes were painted a deep, glossy red. The color matched Salma's lips. Her skin was smooth, warm-looking, the ankle delicate and the arch high. Water ran down her calf, dripped from her heel, and she flexed her foot slightly, showing off the strength in it.

"Start with my feet," Salma said.

The words hung in the air, simple and absolute. There was no room for argument in them, no space for defiance. They were a command, and they landed somewhere deep in Prima's chest, somewhere primal and eager and utterly, shamefully willing.

Her fingers closed around the soap.

The bar was cold, slick, heavier than she expected. Her knuckles went white around it, and she heard her own breath hitch, a small, desperate sound that she couldn't quite contain. The water was hot, the soap was cold, and her mouth was still wet with the taste of what came before—cream and caramel and the ghost of Salma's thumb on her lip.

Salma's foot was still on the rim. Waiting.

Prima's hand trembled. The soap shifted in her grip. And somewhere in the back of her mind, the bratty voice that had carried her through three days of good behavior fell silent, replaced by something hungrier, something that wanted nothing more than to press her lips to that warm, wet arch and worship.

"Start with my feet," Salma repeated, and her voice was soft now, almost gentle. "Show me what you learned, pet."

Prima's throat worked. The soap was cold in her hand, the water was hot, and Salma's foot was right there—close enough to touch, close enough to taste. Her defiance crumbled, thin and trembling, and something else rose up in its place.

She leaned forward.

Her tongue touched water.

The taste was salt and heat and the faint mineral bite of the bath salts, and underneath it, something else—something alive, something that was purely Salma. The water beaded on her instep, clung to the fine hairs there, and Prima's tongue swept across the arch with a hunger that surprised her.

She hadn't meant to do it.

She'd meant to pick up the soap. She'd meant to be good. But Salma's foot was right there, warm and wet, the red polish gleaming in the amber light, and the water had been running down that smooth skin in rivulets that caught the light, and her tongue had moved before her brain could stop it.

Now she was frozen, her lips still parted, the taste of Salma's skin on her tongue, waiting for the world to end.

Salma went very still.

The water in the tub stopped its gentle sloshing. The steam still curled, the bulb still buzzed, but the woman in the water was a statue, her brown eyes fixed on Prima with an expression that was impossible to read.

Prima's heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel the blood rushing in her ears, the heat flooding her cheeks, the desperate need to explain herself warring with the absolute certainty that there was no explanation that would save her.

"I—" she started, and the word came out as a croak.

Salma's foot twitched. Pulled back an inch. Then stopped.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, and Prima could feel it pressing down on her, could feel the weight of what she'd done settling into her bones. She'd broken the rules. She'd acted without permission. She'd tasted something she hadn't been offered.

And God help her, she wanted to do it again.

"Well," Salma said, and her voice was low, rough, doing something to Prima's spine that made her want to crawl out of her own skin. "That wasn't the lesson."

Prima's throat worked. "I know."

"You know." Salma's foot shifted again, and this time it moved toward her, not away. The toes brushed Prima's chin, light as a whisper, and Prima's breath caught in her chest. "And yet you did it anyway."

"I—" Prima's mouth opened, closed, opened again. The bratty retort that usually lived on the tip of her tongue was nowhere to be found. All she could feel was the ghost of that taste, the salt and heat of Salma's skin, and the desperate, shameful need to feel it again.

"You what?" Salma's toes traced along her jawline, leaving a trail of wetness that made Prima shiver. "You couldn't help yourself? You forgot the rules? You were just so overwhelmed by my beauty that your tongue acted on its own?"

Each option was worse than the last. Prima's cheeks burned. "I don't—"

"You don't what, pet?" The toes reached her ear, tugged gently at the lobe. "You don't have an excuse? You don't know why you did it? You don't want to admit that you've been thinking about putting your mouth on me since the moment the collar closed around your throat?"

Prima's breath hitched. The truth of it was a live wire in her chest, crackling and dangerous, and she couldn't deny it. She'd been thinking about it. She'd been thinking about it for three days, ever since Salma had first looked at her with those knowing brown eyes and crooked that finger.

She'd been thinking about it for longer than that, if she was honest. Since the moment she'd first seen Salma, standing in the doorway with her leather and her red lips and her absolute, unquestionable authority.

"I don't want to admit anything," Prima said, and her voice came out weaker than she wanted it to.

Salma laughed. It was a low, rich sound that rolled through the steam and wrapped around Prima's ribs. "Of course you don't. That's what makes you such a delight, brat. You'd rather choke on your own pride than give me the satisfaction of a single honest word."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it?" Salma's foot dropped back to the rim of the tub, water sloshing. She settled deeper into the bath, her arms resting on the porcelain, her head tipped back. The steam curled around her, caught in her dark hair, and her eyes were half-closed, watching Prima through the haze. "You licked my instep. Without permission. Without being asked. That's not the behavior of someone who doesn't want to be here."

Prima's jaw tightened. "I was curious."

"Curious." Salma's lips curved. "About the taste of bathwater?"

"About—" Prima stopped. Swallowed. The truth was right there, pressing against the inside of her teeth, but she couldn't say it. Couldn't admit that she'd wanted to taste Salma, not the water, not the salts, but the woman herself. That she'd wanted to know what that warm, smooth skin felt like against her tongue, what the salt of her sweat tasted like, what sounds she might make if Prima pressed closer.

"About what, pet?" Salma's voice had gone soft, almost gentle. "Tell me. I promise I won't laugh."

"You always laugh."

"I promise I won't laugh at you."

Prima's throat worked. The words were there, fat and eager, ready to spill out and betray her. She caught them, bit down on them, and forced herself to look away from Salma's face, to stare at the tile instead.

"I wanted to know what you tasted like," she said, and the words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other. "Not the water. Not the soap. You. I wanted to know what your skin tasted like, and I thought—I thought if I just—"

She stopped. The silence stretched, and she could feel Salma's eyes on her, could feel the weight of that gaze like a physical thing.

"You thought if you just did it, I wouldn't notice?" Salma's voice was amused. "Or you thought if you just did it, I'd stop you before you got anywhere interesting?"

Prima's cheeks burned. "I didn't think."

"No. You didn't." Salma shifted in the tub, the water sloshing gently. "You acted on instinct. On hunger. On three days of being good and one moment of being very, very bad." She paused. "I should punish you."

Prima's heart lurched. "I know."

"I should make you wait. Make you kneel there and think about what you did. Make you watch me finish my bath and not let you touch me again until tomorrow."

Prima's stomach dropped. The thought of that—of being denied, of having to wait, of watching Salma's wet skin and not being allowed to taste it—was somehow worse than any punishment she could imagine.

"But," Salma said, and the word hung in the air, heavy with promise.

Prima looked up.

Salma was smiling. It was a slow, knowing smile, the kind that made Prima's thighs press together, the kind that said she was exactly where Salma wanted her, dancing on the end of a string.

"But I'm curious too," Salma said. "I want to know what you'd do if I let you continue."

Prima's breath caught. "You'd—"

"I'd let you taste me properly." Salma's foot lifted from the water again, and this time it came to rest on the rim, close enough for Prima to touch. Water beaded on her arch, ran down her heel, and her toes flexed, showing off the strength in them. "I'd let you put that clever mouth to work. I'd let you lick and suck and worship until I was satisfied."

Prima's mouth went dry. "And then?"

"And then we'd see how well you learned your lesson." Salma's smile sharpened. "You've been good for three days, pet. Three days of mostly keeping that mouth shut and those hands to yourself. And then you went and ruined it with one impulsive lick."

"I—"

"Shh." Salma's toes touched her lips, silencing her. "I'm not done. You licked without permission. That's a transgression. But it's also a confession. You've told me, without saying a word, exactly what you want. And I think—" She paused, her eyes glinting. "I think I'd like to hear you say it."

Prima's heart hammered. "Say what?"

"Say what you want." Salma's toes traced along her lower lip. "Say it out loud. Tell me what you'd do if I let you. Tell me what you want to taste."

The words sat in Prima's throat, thick and heavy. She could feel them pushing up, demanding to be spoken, and she could feel the weight of Salma's gaze on her, patient and knowing and absolutely certain that she would break.

She wanted to be good. She wanted to be the obedient little thing that Salma had been training her to be. But the hunger was there, coiling in her belly, and the taste of Salma's skin was still on her tongue, and she couldn't pretend anymore that she didn't want this.

"I want," she started, and her voice cracked.

"Go on."

"I want to taste you." The words came out in a rush, desperate and raw. "I want to put my mouth on your skin and lick every drop of water off you. I want to feel your toes against my tongue and your heel in my palm and I want to—"

She stopped. Swallowed. The rest of the sentence was too much, too honest, too dangerous.

Salma's eyes were dark, hungry, fixed on her. "You want to what?"

Prima's throat worked. "I want to make you feel good."

The words hung in the air, heavy and true. Prima could feel the weight of them, could feel the confession settling into her bones, and she couldn't take them back. Didn't want to.

Salma was silent for a long moment. Then she smiled, slow and warm, and it was different from the sharp, mocking smiles she'd given Prima before. This one was softer, almost fond, and it made Prima's chest ache.

"There it is," Salma said softly. "There's my good girl."

Prima's breath caught. The words were a balm and a brand, settling into her skin, marking her. She could feel the heat flooding her cheeks, the desperate need to please rising in her chest, and she didn't fight it. Not anymore.

"I'm not good," she said, but the protest was weak, automatic.

"You are." Salma's toes traced along her jaw, tilting her face up. "You're good, and you're mine, and you want to make me feel good. That's all I've ever asked of you, pet."

Prima's eyes stung. She blinked, hard, and the tears didn't fall, but they were there, pressing against the backs of her eyes. She'd spent three days fighting this, fighting the collar and the commands and the terrible, wonderful truth of belonging to someone, and now it was all crumbling, falling away like the caramel Salma had poured on the floor.

"I don't know how to be good," she whispered.

"I know." Salma's voice was gentle. "That's why I'm teaching you."

Her foot pressed forward, toes brushing Prima's lips, and this time Prima didn't hesitate. Her mouth opened, and her tongue swept out, and she tasted the salt and heat of Salma's skin, and she let herself want it.

She let herself be good.

The water was warm on her tongue, and the skin beneath it was softer than she'd imagined, smooth and yielding, and she could feel the pulse of Salma's blood through the arch of her foot, could feel the life in her. She licked along the instep, slow and deliberate, tasting the path the water had taken, and Salma let out a soft sound—not quite a gasp, not quite a sigh, but something in between that made Prima's stomach flip.

"That's it," Salma breathed. "Just like that."

Prima's hands came up, trembling, and closed around Salma's ankle. The skin was warm and wet under her palms, and she could feel the delicate bones, the strength of the tendons, the way Salma's foot flexed slightly in her grip. She held on, steadying herself, and pressed her mouth to the ball of Salma's foot, right where the red polish began.

Salma's toes curled. "Careful, pet."

Prima pulled back, her lips wet, her heart hammering. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No." Salma's voice was rough. "You did something very right. I just wasn't expecting it." She paused, and her eyes were dark, hungry. "Keep going."

Prima didn't need to be told twice.

She lowered her mouth to Salma's foot again, and this time she was bolder. Her tongue traced along the arch, dipping into the curve of it, tasting the salt that had gathered there. She licked between Salma's toes, one by one, and Salma made a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a moan, something caught in between.

"You're a natural," Salma said, and there was wonder in her voice. "Three days of good behavior and one moment of impulse, and you're already—" She broke off, her breath catching as Prima's tongue found a sensitive spot just below her ankle. "Already perfect."

Prima's cheeks burned, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. The taste of Salma was on her tongue, and it was better than cream, better than caramel, better than anything she'd ever eaten. She wanted to drink her in, wanted to memorize the salt and heat of her, wanted to press her mouth to every inch of that warm, wet skin until she knew it by heart.

"More," Salma breathed. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

Prima didn't. She pressed closer, her knees aching on the tile, her hands tight around Salma's ankle, and she worshipped.

The water was warm, the steam was thick, and the only sound in the room was the soft, wet sound of her tongue on Salma's skin, and the low, pleased hum that Salma made with every pass.

"Good girl," Salma murmured, and the words settled into Prima's bones like a promise. "My good, hungry little brat."

Prima's eyes fluttered closed, and she let herself have this. Let herself want it. Let herself be good.

And when Salma's other foot rose from the water to join the first, Prima took it in her hands without being asked, and she didn't stop.