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“Lower the panties.”
Her breath catches. “I’m not doing that.”
“Yes, you will. This is an order. Lower your fucking panties to the tops of your thighs and hold the skirt up so I can see.”
Ivy glares at me but again, takes my order like a good little sub.
“Pull one of the shoulder straps down.”
“But—”
“Do it.”
She does, and her tit is exposed.
“Good girl. Turn around, bend at the waist, and flip up your skirt. I want to inspect my property.”
I’m pushing it and her resentment surges. Her eyes glitter as they meet mine, but I don’t respond, just look at her like I have the rest of the evening, the week, the fucking month. I’m not angry, not anything at all, and it does something to her. The wall melts and she turns and does what I say.
I grit my teeth to keep my cock from exploding out of my pants. “Drop those panties, go to your sofa, bend over and kneel on it, thighs spread for me.”
She hesitates a second too long. I’m pushing real fucking hard here, bringing on full core domination and humiliation. She’s getting stretched to the limit. I want her over that limit, leaving it shattered behind her.
Ivy hates me, hates I’m doing this. But she craves it. She’s helpless, and if I push and make her do this, she’ll be mine.
I want her to be mine. It’s got nothing to do with like or soft fucking emotions. It’s a brutal, elemental thing.
“Ivy.”
She sighs, the heat of her blush darkening but she does as I order as she walks over to the sofa.
Her eyes squeeze shut but I need her to look. “Open your eyes. I want to see you and you to see me.”
“Is this?—”
I come around and crouch in front of her face, the misery warring with unwanted pleasure. “Necessary? For what I need you for? Probably not.”
A small sound escapes.
“But for you and me and what we are? Absolutely.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I turned you in. I was fourteen and worried about Elise. She had the drugs in her hands.” Her words quiver and tremble. “Please, please don’t do this to me. I’ll help you, I’ll sleep with you if I have to, but this? It’s too much. I…” She pauses, gulping hard. “If you have any compassion…”
“Oh Ivy,” I say, my voice soft, almost gentle. “I don’t. I’m not a compassionate man. I’m not a man who feels beyond hate, lust, need, and desire. I like control and you like giving it up.”
“No,” she rasps.
“Yes. You do. I see it in you. Right now I’m betting you’re throbbing, your little clit so fucking swollen, your cunt wet andwaiting for me to soothe the ache, for me to let you come. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Mercer.” The little beat of pain and need in her voice is a drug. Pure fucking heroin to my veins.
“I don’t give a shit how old you were or what the circumstances were. You did it. You ruined me.”
“Mercer, please.”
“It’s fucking Sir. Or Master,” I seethe, gripping her hair tight.
“S-sir.”
