It started with curiosity.
Just a harmless peek, I told myself.
Damien had left early that morning—something about a "sit-down" with a rival family. I had a few hours to myself in the penthouse. No rules were spoken before he left, no goodbye kiss, no warning.
But the room down the hall—the one I wasn't allowed to touch—had always pulled at me like gravity. A door too expensive-looking to be just storage. Always locked. Always off-limits.
Until today.
Because today… it wasn't.
The handle turned easily.
Inside, it was darker than the dungeon. No chains, no toys. Just a vault-like walk-in lined with drawers, files, screens. Surveillance monitors showed angles of the building I didn't know existed.
And in the center, a massive leather-bound book sat on a pedestal. No title. Just initials burned into the front: D.V.
I opened it.
There were photographs. Of women. Dozens. Dossiers. Ages, background, notes.
Slaves.
A sharp sound echoed behind me—the soft click of a door closing.
I froze.
"You disobeyed."
His voice was quiet. Controlled. More terrifying than if he'd shouted.
"I—" I turned, words fumbling. "I just… it was open. I thought—"
"You thought?" he snapped, stepping into the room, coat still on, tie undone. His eyes were fire and ice. "You thought you could walk into my private space without consequence?"
My throat dried. "I didn't know what was in here."
"That's the fucking point."
He was in front of me in seconds. His hand wrapped around my throat—not enough to choke, just to remind me.
"You have one rule, pet. Obey. And you broke it."
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
He smiled.
"Too late."
---
The punishment room was lit with soft red lighting. I didn't know if it was meant to soothe me or ignite me.
He said nothing as he bound my wrists to the ceiling hook, my feet flat on the padded floor. The silk rope burned against my skin—not painful, but firm. I was helpless, hanging in the air like a caught animal.
"Eyes up," he said, voice low, now stripped of warmth. "Count for me."
He reached for the flogger. Black leather, expertly worn.
The first lash landed across my thighs.
"One," I gasped.
The next hit my ass, fire blooming beneath my skin.
"Two."
By the fifth, my legs shook. By the tenth, tears pricked my eyes—not from pain, but from the maddening ache building inside me. My pussy throbbed. My clit pulsed. I was wet.
Shamelessly, obscenely wet.
He stepped in front of me, fingers grazing between my thighs.
"Dripping," he murmured. "You like punishment, don't you?"
I moaned. "Yes, Master."
He rewarded me with a firm slap between my legs—sharp, sweet.
"I could take you now," he said. "Use you. Not even let you come. You'd still beg for more."
"I would," I admitted.
"Good," he whispered, pressing his fingers against my clit—slow circles, maddening. "But I'm not going to fuck you yet."
My head snapped up.
"What?"
"Punishment, pet," he said with a smirk. "No release."
He untied me slowly, like unwrapping a present he wasn't allowed to open. Then he lifted me into his arms and laid me on the bed like I was glass.
I writhed beneath him.
He kissed me. Slowly. Deeply. Like a man claiming territory after war.
"You'll sleep aching," he whispered against my lips. "Next time, remember this before touching what isn't yours."
He stood, adjusted his shirt, and left.
And I lay there. Wrung out. Empty. Needing.
Begging.
Silently.