I stand in the thick air of my apartment, watching Orlando kneel in the lace stockings and garter I ordered him to wear. His narrow shoulders tremble under the thin straps, and I feel the familiar mix of power and dread that always comes when I push him further into what he secretly craves.
My hand finds his exposed hip, the skirt bunched in my fist as I hold him in place. The guardianship papers remain untouched on the desk, but the real stakes sit in the silence between my next command and his answer, the one that could bind him to me or send him walking out the door forever.
He needs this remaking as much as I need to own it, yet the thought of him leaving after I have stripped every last defense from him leaves me raw and hungry in equal measure.
