A Swiss submissive books a private domination session to add thrill and pleasure to his stay in Shanghai during a business trip.
He opens the door in the navy suit he wore through customs, hair still neat, wedding ring glinting like it's trying to remind him who he's supposed to be.
I step inside wearing a charcoal trench cinched tight, sheer stockings.
I order him to bring me slippers. nervous fingers fumble. The slippers fall to the marble with a muted thud.
That tiny clumsiness breaks him open.
I watch the color rise from his collar to his cheekbones. His shoulders fold inward, already shrinking.
I let the silence sit for three deliberate seconds.
Then I move.
One step, two. The click of my heels is the only sound in the suite.
I stop so close he can smell my body scent.
He is still staring at the fallen slippers like they're evidence in a trial.
I reach up slowly and cup his face with one hand.
His jaw is rough with a day’s stubble; his skin burns under my palm.
He tries to hold my gaze and fails, eyes dropping to the floor, then to my mouth, then helplessly to the small triangle of bare skin where my trench has parted.“Shhh,” I whisper. Just that.
My thumb brushes the corner of his lips. They part on a shaky exhale.
That's when it happens, the warm, liquid rush between my thighs.
Instant. Undeniable.
I am soaked before I've even told him to undress.
Because right now he is perfect: powerful by day, clumsy by night, utterly unsure whether he's allowed to breathe without permission.
And I am still completely, cruelly clothed.
I let my hand slide down his throat, over the knot of his Hermès tie, until my fingers rest against his sternum.
I can feel his heart trying to punch its way out of his ribcage.“Take everything off,” I say, voice low, almost gentle. “Fold it neatly on the chair. Then pick up my slippers with your teeth and bring them to me.”His knees almost give out right there in the entryway.
I step back, lean against the console table, and watch.
Trench still on. Dress still hidden. Legs crossed at the ankle like I have all the time in the world.
By the time he is naked, trembling, crawling across the suite with black velvet between his teeth, I am so wet the tops of my thighs slide against each other when I shift my weight.
He kneels. Offers the slippers up like a sacrament.
I slip my right foot out of the highheels, let him watch the slow arch of my stocking foot, then slide it into the warm velvet he’s holding.
I do not say thank you. I don't need to.
I simply look down at him, flushed, hard, leaking onto the marble, and feel another pulse of slick heat answer inside me.
Zurich taught me how to be impeccable.
Shanghai taught me how to ruin a man with a single touch to his timid face.
Tonight I am both women at once.
And I have never been wetter.
Stay on your knees, darling.
We're just getting started.