The room was velvet-drenched.
Not literally--but it felt that way. Deep plum shadows soaked the walls, thick curtains muffled the corners, and a low violet glow bathed everything in power. A single mirrored panel caught the light and flung it back in glimmers--just enough to show the truth, if you were brave enough to look.
It was warm. Intentional. A room built for ritual.
The bench in the center was padded in black leather, worn to a soft sheen from use. Every tool along the far wall had been chosen, tested, claimed. Paddles, crops, straps--some glossy, some matte, all clearly used. But tonight, they'd stay where they were. Silent. Watching.
Tonight was for boots.
And shoes.
And bruises.
My stiletto landed first--click.
Miss Love's step followed--smooth as shadow, but twice as heavy.
A rhythm began. Measured. Inevitable.
She caught My eye across the room, her smirk already curling with promise.
She looked divine: black corset, high-waisted pencil skirt, and lips painted in a red that warned you exactly what she'd take from you.
We didn't need to speak. We already knew how this would unfold.
He was still waiting behind the door, of course. Exactly where I'd told him to stay.
Naked. On all fours. Head down.
The silence in the room wasn't his.
It was ours.
I imagined his thoughts crawling over each other--ugly, frantic things--trying to guess what was next.
I took My time walking to the door. Let My heels announce Me. Then opened it--slowly.
"Come in, buggy."
He crawled in low, head down. The sound of his hands brushing the floor barely louder than his breathing.
I stepped aside and let him feel the space he was entering--the silence, the eyes, the expectation.
"Up."
He obeyed. Knees wide. Back straight. That little thing between his legs dangling like it didn't know what was coming.
And then I moved. Just far enough to strike.
No warmup. No count.
Just the sharp lift of My leg and--
CRACK.
The sound hit the walls like punctuation. He jolted. Choked. His spine folded halfway, but he caught himself.
"Thank You, Miss Velvet," he gasped.
Miss Love didn't move immediately. She took a moment--eyes on him like she was savoring the slow collapse of something weak.
She closed the distance like she'd done it a hundred times--no rush, no doubt. She didn't speak. Didn't smile.
She just swung.
Boom.
Her kick landed lower. Harder. Not technical--just punishing.
He staggered to the side with a sound that didn't belong in a human throat.
"Thank You, Miss Love," he rasped. His voice cracked on the last word.
I was pleased.
-------------
We circled him slowly now, the sound of our steps writing his failure into the floor.
He was breathing faster.
Shoulders twitching.
Cock still soft--but eager.
His thighs shook like he'd forgotten how to hold himself.
Miss Love stepped behind him again. "Already slipping."
"Let him," I said. "He needs to learn how far he can fall."
I moved closer, brushing My fingers under his chin. Lifting him.
"You begged for this," I whispered. "Don't act surprised it hurts."
He looked up, glassy-eyed. Silent. Needing.
His breath was fractured now. Chest heaving. Shoulders twitching. Thighs trembling.
But he stayed upright. Exactly where he'd been told.
We moved around him--measured, slow. Me in stilettos. Miss Love in heeled ankle boots that didn't click, but crushed.
Opposites in gait, matched in hunger.
Her gaze slid to Mine, tilted her head. "You smell that?"
I nodded, already smiling. "Fear."
Her grin returned.
I turned toward the mirror--floor to ceiling, black wood polished to a cold gleam.
It didn't just reflect--it revealed.
Everything.
His damage.
Our control.
"Bring him."
Miss Love didn't hesitate. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him forward like she was dragging trash to the curb.
He scrambled on all fours--knees scraping, breath hitching--until she forced him into position in front of the mirror.
She shoved him in place.
"Stand up. Knees wide. Hands behind your back."
He obeyed instantly.
The mirror framed every angle of him--flushed, trembling, red where we'd struck him, cock twitching between thighs that no longer knew how to stay still.
His reflection was pathetic.
Exposed.
And worst of all, aroused.
His balls hung low--already heavier. Bruised.
His cock: soft, unsure, but pulsing like it had forgotten where it was.
Miss Love lowered herself beside him, deliberate as a descending verdict.
Her hand hovered just above his shaft, holding nothing but heat and possibility.
She watched the way his breath caught. The way his legs tightened.
The way that pathetic excuse for a cock twitched at the idea of contact.
He held his breath.
I watched it happen--that flicker. That stupid glint of hope that we might reward him.
That this had anything to do with pleasure.
And then she pulled away.
No contact. No mercy.
Just a low exhale and the faintest shake of her head.
His cock twitched harder.
"You see that?" I murmured. "Even broken, you're still begging."
--------
Miss Love stood and moved beside Me.
Our shoulders met--warm and electric.
He made a sound like a wire snapping.
"Eyes forward," I said. "You're not here to watch us. You're here to witness what we do to you."
He nodded fast, as if movement could save him.
Miss Love turned her face toward Me, lips parted in amusement. "You're warm."
I stepped in.
Our mouths met.
Slow. Intentional.
Not a kiss for show--but one that tasted of shared hunger.
One that reminded him: this was never about him. This was always ours.
He whimpered again.
I didn't even glance at him.
She pulled back first, swiping her thumb across My lip.
Not tender. Just clean-up.
"Eyes," I snapped again. "On yourself. Not us."
Miss Love circled behind. I stayed in front.
Our rhythm was wordless--practiced without ever needing practice.
I eased My shoe between his knees, close enough to change the air around him.
Close enough to make him wonder when the tension would snap.
He shuddered.
Miss Love leaned in, her breath catching My throat.
"Let's see what happens when we make it grow... just to take it away."
She crouched low. Her hand moved up his thigh in a slow, calculated glide--nothing affectionate, nothing indulgent.
It was the kind of touch that measured, assessed, and dismissed all at once.
He gasped--like something sacred had happened.
It pulsed. Rose. Stupid, eager thing.
And then--spit.
She let it land right on the tip.
He flinched. Shook.
"That's all you get," she said, standing again. "Now stay hard for your punishment."
She let go. Stood back.
Then kicked.
CRACK.
He collapsed forward, his moan crashing into the mirror.
Forehead against glass, mouth open, breath fogging his own reflection.
It played it all back to him--his face, his failure, the way his cock refused to learn.
"Get up," I said. "Let's see you try."
He obeyed.
Shaking.
Cock half-hard.
Helpless.
Miss Love laughed. "Look at him. He's unraveling just from attention."
I crouched in front of him, tilting My head as I studied his flushed face.
"That thing between your legs isn't a cock anymore. It's a warning sign."
His knees buckled slightly. He caught himself. Barely.
