~GEMMA~
"What are you doing? Are you still sleeping? It's almost time. Get ready to meet your savior." I hear Margarete say as she enters my room.
I roll my eyes. I don't respond.
Of course, I'm not sleeping in this situation.
I haven't slept since I came. I couldn't sleep. My mind has been wandering around.
"I'm ready. I just need to get changed. I have taken my bath already," I tell her.
She eyes me from head to toe like someone infected with leprosy.
"Take another bath so that you'll not suffocate him with a foul smell," She says mockingly but sternly.
I turn to look at her but don't say anything.
Why is she being unnecessary rude? I can easily talk back at her but I need to keep my cool…. for now.
I head to the bathroom.
Soon I am done bathing and now inside the room. I walk into the closet, my damp hair clinging to my shoulders.
I put on lingerie. It looks bare. I put on a coat on top of it.
I am soon pacing around the dark hardwood floor, panicking because it's two minutes until the bell tolls for my first session as the personal stripper.
At 6:00 PM precisely, a chime sounds, soft and deep, emanating from the wall panel near the door. It is not a knock…. it is a summon.
I approach the door to his suite. My hand trembles, hesitating for only a second. I stand for a while, breathing deeply, letting the vulnerability be my armor.
I hear a subtle click from the door, a silent summons, a command given without a word.
I push the door open. The air in his suite is heavy, dense with a masculine scent of sandalwood and something cold, metallic, like fear.
The suite is immense, even grander than my room but full of cold frames. It holds no personal clutter, only functionality and control.
Leonardo is there, standing by a massive window overlooking the dark, manicured grounds.
He wears only tailored black trousers. His torso is a lethal landscape of defined muscles. The arm tattoo, the dark, complex scribble of power runs up his bicep. I see no flaw. He is taller than I remember.
He doesn't turn. He doesn't move. He simply says, "Close the door."
I obey. The sound of the latch clicking is deafening.
The world outside is gone. It is just the two of us, naked surrender facing absolute power.
"You stand there like a statue," he murmurs, his voice low, commanding. "You are not a statue, Gemma. You are a stripper. My personal stripper."
He turns, and his glacial gaze sweeps over my body, slow and deliberate, a physical claim that leaves me breathless.
There is no lust. There is only intense, terrifying focus.
"I am not a tool for pleasure," I whisper, my voice thick with fear.
"No," he agrees, taking a slow step toward me. "Pleasure is a distraction. You are a requirement."
I feel a strange sensation in my heart. It becomes soft for a second. But I snap out of it immediately.
He stops three feet away. The heat radiating off his body is a stark contrast to the coldness of his eyes.
"Dance for me, Gemma. Show me the rhythm that kills the noise," he tells me.
There is no music but a pole.
"You want me to dance without a song playing?" I ask in disbelief.
"Yes" he replies briefly.
I stare at him hard as I realize I must create the sound in my head. The grinding, desperate beat of the club, the drum of survival.
I start to move slowly. I let my body remember the routine, the language of seduction I hate but wield expertly. I arch my back, raising my arms, letting my spine curve in a perfect, desperate line.
The performance is not for men now. It is for the predator.
I flow into the pole, my eyes locked on his. I trace the pole before me, my hand running down the pole seductively.
My movements are precisely hypnotic. My muscles coil and release, creating a silent, potent rhythm.
I sway my boobs in a seductive manner. I let out a soft moan. Licking and biting my lips without removing my gaze on him.
I see the change in him. It's not from excitement. It's a relief.
As I move, the rigid tension in his shoulders begins to relax. His eyes are fixed entirely on the continuous motion of my hips and my plum boobs.
He is absorbing the energy. He is using me as a visual metronome.
I push harder, faster, letting the internal rhythm take over, allowing my raw, rebellious energy to fuel the erotic performance. It is fierce.
I swing down the pole and execute a sudden, controlled drop, landing on my knees.
The silence of the suite is broken only by the sharp, ragged sound of Leonardo's breathing.
"Stop," he commands. The word is barely a whisper, strained.
I freeze, my body burning. I look at his face. His granite façade has cracked. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
He steps toward me, stopping directly over me. He doesn't look at my body. He looks into my eyes.
"You are not a whore," he whispers, the truth cutting deep. "You are an essential tool. Your dance brings me peace over the chaos in my mind."
He bends down, bringing his face close to mine. His scent is intoxicating, dangerous. He lifts one hand, and his fingertips brush the damp curve of my jawline, a terrifying gentle caress.
"Rule No. 9," he murmurs, the words hot against my ear. "THE SUBMISSIVE'S BODY IS THE EXCLUSIVE PROPERTY OF THE DOMINANT…FOR ALL PURPOSES DEEMED NECESSARY… I need to see the compliance in your eyes, not the defiance."
He keeps his hand there, pressing just enough to feel the slight pulse beneath my skin.
"Remove your lingerie," he commands, his voice dropping to a low timbre that vibrates through my sternum. "I need no barriers between the noise and the quiet."
My heart rate spikes, the exact chaos he claims to abhor.
But I do not argue. I do not hesitate.
My mind flashes to Chloe, safe in her bed, her future secured. That memory is the engine of my compliance.
I reach behind my neck, my fingers fumbling slightly with the zipper of the slip dress. It hisses down my back, and the fabric pools around my feet. I stand before him naked with no panties or bra. A necessary vanity I allowed myself.
He stares, but the look is not predatory in the way I expected. It is clinical, possessive, and desperately needful. He is looking at the remedy for his ailment.
He steps closer, closing the last space. He doesn't touch me with his hands again. Instead, he simply lowers his head, resting his forehead against mine. His skin is hot, slightly damp with perspiration from his meeting.
I feel the powerful, irregular thrum of his pulse beneath his skin.
He begins to move, a slow, deliberate rock that is intimate, but mechanical. It is the rhythm he needs me to keep.
"Slow your heart," he commands, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Match my pulse. Be the slow, predictable beat."
I focus fiercely on my breathing, forcing it deep and steady. I feel the desperate possessiveness in his grip. This is not pleasure; this is survival.
He lifts one hand, still pressed tight against my lower back, and slides it up, tracing the curve of my spine. The contact is demanding, absolute. He is mapping the boundary of his new possession.
He pulls back slightly, resting his cheek against my head. His breathing is slowing, deepening. The violent tremor in his arms is subsiding.
He finally releases me, the sudden absence of his heat making the room feel instantly cold. He steps back, collecting his composure, becoming the granite Don once more.
"You report here every night at 6:00 PM unless otherwise instructed," he says, his voice flat. "Dismissed."
He walks back to the window, the movement restoring his armor.
I retrieve my dress, my hands shaking as I pull the fabric back over my chilled skin.
I do not look back at him. I walk to the door, open it, and leave the room, carrying the crushing, physical weight of his need branded onto my skin. The silence of the hallway feels like a judgment. I am broken, yet I am victorious. I survived the first session.