The words should have made him laugh. But they didn’t. Because as she stepped closer, she radiated not cruelty — but certainty. The same certainty as the steel locked between his legs. The kind you don’t argue with. The kind you don’t beg from. The kind that watches while you break yourself.
The first ritual was exposure.
He was bound, not with rope, but with posture. Forced to kneel, thighs spread, hands behind his back. The room had no mirrors — only a single camera, its red light blinking slowly.
Mistress Seraphine walked a circle around him, her heels silent on the padded floor. She said nothing. Just walked. Watched. Waited.
Then, without a word, she reached down and — slap.
Her gloved palm struck his inner thigh. Not harsh. But not gentle. Testing. Measuring.
“You flinched,” she said. “Do you know what that means?”
“No, Mistress,” he replied, the words unfamiliar in his mouth.
“It means your body still thinks it belongs to you. We’ll fix that.”
Later — hours or maybe minutes later — came the first breaking.
The strap-on was already in place when she returned. Dark silicone. Strapped high. Commanding. The moment Elias saw it, his pulse accelerated. He didn’t know why. Fear. Anticipation. Humiliation.
She said nothing. Just walked toward him and placed a single gloved finger under his chin, lifting his face.
“Open.”
He opened.
Not his mouth — not yet. But something else. A door inside him. A slow, deliberate surrender of posture, of pride. When she pushed him down onto the padded bench, he didn’t resist.
When she fastened the cuffs, he didn’t speak. And when she slid into him, slowly, like a knife through butter left on the counter too long, his breath caught — but he did not scream.