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The next, he’s dragging me into the playroom for lessons I don’t even realize I’m failing until I’m gagged, wrists bound behind me, pulse hammering as he whispers, “You broke posture again. That’s ten minutes kneeling, no speaking, hands on your thighs. Eyes down. Learn your place.”
Ihatehow fast I learn it.
But I hate even more how my body loves it.
He never fucks me. But his hands… God. They’re everywhere.
Rough and soft.
Demanding and patient.
Exploring andwithholdinguntil I ache in ways I don’t have names for.  He teaches me the freedom to strip on command without protest.
How to ask—properly—before touching myself.
“You’ll earn every goddamn stroke,” he growls one night, his mouth inches from my cunt as I tremble, sweat-slicked and leaking onto silk sheets I’ve stained with my shame.
“Please,” I gasp. “Dante—please?—”
And I hate myself for how much I enjoy the taste of my own begging.
The fourth nightbegins like the others: with silence.
But tonight, the silence is heavier, charged with anticipation.
Dante stands by the edge of the bed, his charcoal-gray eyes fixed on me. His gaze is intense, unwavering, as if he’s trying to read every thought that crosses my mind.
“Strip,” he commands, his voice low and firm.
I obey, my fingers trembling slightly as I remove each piece of clothing. The air is cool against my skin, causing goosebumps to rise. Standing naked before him, I feel both vulnerable and empowered.
He approaches, holding a small, sleek toy in his hand. I know what it is. An anal plug. It’s surprisingly pretty for something I know for sure is going to hurt.
“Tonight, we add a new element,” he says, his tone devoid of emotion, yet his eyes betray a flicker of something deeper.
I nod, recalling the list of limits I filled out days ago. This was within the boundaries I set, and when it comes to this, to surrendering, he’s in charge. And while I can’t say I trust himfarther than I can throw him, for now, my surrender serves us both.
He guides me to the bed, positioning me on all fours. His hands are steady, thoughtful, even a touch indulgent. He stares at me for an age, a slow sizzle in his eyes that tells me he likes what he sees. Well, if he doesn’t then he needs to have a word with that hot rod in his pants.
I’m caught in a half-laugh, half-terror situation that luckily stays trapped inside as Dante prepares me. A trail of kisses on my neck, shoulders, down my spine.
A generous smearing of lube on the plug.
Then an unfamiliar sensation, a mix of discomfort and curiosity.
His fingers glide between my butt cheeks and oh God, that’s so alien but… interestingly sensual. No, fuck sensual. I’m getting wet. Dripping. Tensing as heat turns into a hot little blaze low in my belly.
“Relax. Breathe,” he instructs, his voice softer now. He steps closer, his eyes ravenously devouring my every expression. “Look at me, Dahlia.”
I look up into his furnace-hot face and whatever he sees in mine makes his cock surge, once, behind his fly. Drags color high into his sculpted cheekbones.
“You’re ready.” It’s an edict. Inescapable.
I nod and inhale deeply, focusing on the rhythm of my breath, feel him place the tip of the toy against my puckered hole and force myself not to tense.
Slowly, he inserts the plug, pausing at intervals to ensure I’m comfortable. Once it’s fully in place, he gently caresses my lower back, a silent gesture of reassurance.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and a shiver runs down my spine, far too thrilled with the praise.