They call me Ryder, and I am the kind of woman who leaves a trail of bruised egos and shaky knees in my wake. With dark, tumbling brunette curls and a body that packs a punch—small, compact, but heavy with dangerous, full curves—I don’t just walk into a room; I claim it. Most men are fragile things, easily shattered when they realize they aren’t the ones in control.
I’m currently watching Mark, a man who thought he could handle a woman like me. He’s sitting on the edge of his chair, eyes darting, looking for an exit that doesn’t exist. He is a textbook sissy, trembling because he knows I am about to dominate his entire evening. I find his fear exquisite. I slide closer, my hips swaying with a slow, feline grace, watching his pulse jump in his throat. He’s a weak, pathetic sissy, the kind who begs for direction because he’s too spineless to make a single choice for himself.
“Look at you,” I whisper, leaning in until my scent—something dark and expensive—fills his space. He flinches. I love how easily I dominate his senses. I reach out, tracing the line of his jaw with a manicured nail, watching him wither like a garden-variety sissy under the heat of my gaze. He wants to look away, but he can’t. I don’t need a whip or a cage to dominate a man like him; I only need to let him see exactly who holds the leash.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur, my voice dropping to a low, sensual purr. “Is it because you’re terrified, or because you’re realizing just how much of a sissy you really are?”
He tries to stammer out a defense, but I silence him with a sharp glance. It’s intoxicating, really—the way he wilts. I was born to dominate, and he was born to serve. He is the perfect sissy, waiting for me to tell him to crawl, waiting for me to decide his worth for the night. I don’t just command obedience; I demand worship. As I stand over him, I feel the familiar thrill of power. I am Ryder, and in this room, on this night, I am the only law. And poor, sweet, pathetic sissy? He wouldn’t have it any other way.
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