"And Yanna? Wear the collar. Nothing else."
The door clicked shut, severing the connection between the master suite and the hallway, but the command remained, vibrating in the cool air like the aftershock of a gunshot.
Yanna stood frozen in the center of the room. The silence of the penthouse was absolute, but inside her head, a riot was breaking out. Nothing else.
The implications were mathematical and terrifying. It was 6:05 AM. The staff arrived at 7:00 AM. She had fifty-five minutes to prepare for her own social execution.
She moved like an automaton, her limbs heavy with the phantom weight of the previous night's ropes. She found the "uniform" Camille had thrown onto the bed. She held it up. It was a joke. It was a scrap of black polyester and white lace that wouldn't cover a doll, let alone a grown woman. It was an apron with delusions of being a dress.
She walked into the bathroom. The shower was a blur of hot water and rough soap. She scrubbed her skin, trying to erase the scent of Camille—the musk, the sex, the sweat—but it was impossible. The scent was tattooed onto her psyche.
She stepped out, dried herself with a towel that cost more than her month's rent, and faced the mirror.
She put on the collar first. It was the silver chain from the night before, the bar engraved with CN resting cold against her throat. It was a heavy, undeniable weight.
Then, the outfit.
She stepped into it. There were no zippers, only elastic. It snapped against her skin. The skirt was non-existent—a ruffle of black fabric that barely grazed the top of her thighs. If she bent over, she was exposed. If she reached up, she was exposed. The "top" was a white apron bib that tied behind her neck and back, leaving her sides completely bare. Her breasts were pushed up, framed, and offered.
She looked at her reflection. The bruise on her knee was a mottled yellow map of her obedience. The bite mark on her thumb was a purple brand. And now, this.
She wasn't Yanna Rivera, the girl who quoted Weber. She was a caricature. A dirty joke.
6:55 AM.
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in her chest. She had to be in the foyer.
She walked out of the room. The penthouse was a labyrinth of shadows. The sun was just beginning to bleed through the heavy curtains, casting long, grey shapes across the floor.
Her bare feet made no sound on the marble. She felt naked. Exposed. Every draft from the air conditioning was a reminder of how little she was wearing.
She reached the long hallway that led to the foyer. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She could imagine them—the cleaning crew. A team of strangers in uniforms, carrying mops and buckets, staring at the girl on her knees. The judgment. The whispers. Look at her. Look what she sold herself for.
She turned the corner.
She squeezed her eyes shut, dropping to her knees instantly, her hands clasped behind her back, her head bowed. She braced herself for the sound of the elevator, for the voices, for the shame.
"Good morning."
The voice didn't come from the elevator. It came from the floor.
Yanna's eyes snapped open.
The foyer was empty. There were no buckets. No mops. No judgmental aunties with cleaning sprays.
There was only Camille.
But it wasn't the Camille of the boardroom. It wasn't the Camille of the tuxedo.
Camille was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back resting against the wall. She wasn't wearing a suit. She was wearing a pair of low-slung grey sweat shorts and a black crop top that looked like it had been cut with scissors. Her feet were bare. Her hair was messy, a platinum halo of bedhead.
And in her hand—the uninjured one—she held a cigarette.
Smoke curled lazily into the pristine air of the penthouse, a grey ribbon of defiance against the sterile environment.
Yanna stared, her mouth falling open. "Ma'am?"
Camille took a drag. She held the smoke in her lungs for a long moment, staring at Yanna with eyes that were heavy-lidded and amused. She exhaled, blowing a stream of smoke directly at the ceiling.
"You're early," Camille noted, her voice raspy, thick with sleep and nicotine.
"The... the staff," Yanna stammered, looking around wildly. "You said..."
Camille chuckled. It was a low, dark sound. She tapped the ash of her cigarette onto the million-peso marble floor.
"There is no staff, Yanna."
Yanna blinked. "What?"
"I have a cleaning service that comes on Tuesdays," Camille said, taking another drag. "Today is Friday. Do you really think I let strangers into my home before I've had my coffee? Do you really think I would let anyone see you like that?"
She gestured vaguely at Yanna's outfit with the cigarette.
"You... you lied."
"I tested," Camille corrected. "I wanted to see if you would do it. If you would walk out here, terrified, knowing you were going to be humiliated, and do it anyway because I told you to."
She smiled. It was a wolfish, predatory grin.
"And you did. You look ridiculous. And absolutely delicious."
The relief that washed over Yanna was so intense it made her dizzy. No staff. No strangers. Just this. Just them.
But as the relief faded, something else rushed in to fill the void.
She looked at Camille.
The crop top was loose, the armholes cut low. As Camille lifted the cigarette to her lips, the fabric gaped. Yanna could see the side of her breast. She could see the serratus muscles rippling over her ribs. She could see the scars Yanna had kissed the night before.
And the arms.
God, the arms.
Relaxed, resting on her knees, Camille's arms were masterpieces of anatomy. The biceps were full, round curves of power, the veins tracing distinct blue lines down to the forearms. The abs were visible beneath the cropped hem—a hard, defined six-pack that moved as she breathed.
She looked powerful. She looked casual. She looked like a weapon at rest.
Yanna felt her knees weaken, but not from fear. The heat in her belly, the one that had started in the car, flared back to life. It was a forest fire.
"Come here," Camille commanded. She didn't point. She just crooked a finger.
Yanna crawled. The marble was cold against her knees, but she barely felt it. She moved toward the smoke, toward the heat.
She stopped right in front of Camille's crossed legs.
Camille looked down at her. She took one last drag of the cigarette, the ember glowing bright orange, then crushed it out on the floor. She didn't use an ashtray. She ground the tobacco into the stone, leaving a black smear.
"Messy," Camille whispered.
She reached out. Her hand—the left one, the strong one—shot out and wrapped around the back of Yanna's neck.
She didn't pull Yanna in for a kiss. She pulled her into a headlock.
It was sudden and violent. Camille shifted her weight, dragging Yanna down until Yanna's back was pressed against Camille's chest, her neck trapped in the crook of Camille's elbow.
"You stared," Camille murmured into Yanna's ear. Her voice was a low growl. "You were staring at my arms."
She squeezed.
The bicep bulged against Yanna's carotid artery. It was rock hard. It was like being choked by a python. The pressure was immense, cutting off the blood flow just enough to make Yanna's vision swim, to make her world narrow down to the smell of Camille's deodorant and stale smoke.
"Yes," Yanna gasped, clawing weakly at Camille's arm. "Yes, I was."
"Do you like them?" Camille asked, tightening the hold. She flexed. The muscle jumped against Yanna's throat, a terrifying display of power.
"Yes," Yanna choked out. "God, yes."
"Better than the boys at your university?" Camille taunted. She rocked back, pulling Yanna with her, wrestling her down until they were lying on the floor, limbs tangled. "Better than the weak, soft men who think they can buy you with a dinner?"
"Stronger," Yanna whined, her hips bucking involuntarily against the floor. "You're stronger."
"I am," Camille agreed.
She released the headlock, but she didn't let go. She rolled on top of Yanna, pinning her to the cold marble. The sudden weight was suffocating and perfect. Camille's thigh drove between Yanna's legs, pressing against the crotch of the flimsy maid outfit.
"This," Camille said, grabbing the white apron bib. "This is trash."
She didn't untie it. She ripped it.
The sound of tearing fabric was loud in the empty foyer. Camille tore the bib down the middle, exposing Yanna's breasts to the cool morning air.
Yanna gasped, her nipples hardening instantly. "Ma'am—"
"Quiet," Camille snapped.
She grabbed Yanna's wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand. With the other, she traced the line of Yanna's exposed stomach.
"You thought you were going to clean for me?" Camille whispered, her face hovering inches from Yanna's. "You thought you were going to scrub the floors?"
She lowered her head. She bit the soft flesh of Yanna's stomach, right next to the hip bone.
"You are the mess," Camille mumbled against the skin. "And I'm going to clean you out."
She moved her hand down. She bypassed the waistband of the skirt. She shoved her hand directly into the underwear Yanna wasn't wearing.
"Wet," Camille noted, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "So wet. Just from looking at me. Just from seeing me sit on the floor."
"I can't help it," Yanna sobbed, thrashing against the pin. "You look... you look so..."
"So what?"
"Dominant," Yanna breathed. "Powerful."
Camille smirked. She sat up, straddling Yanna's waist. She looked down at her—the ruined outfit, the flushed skin, the desperate eyes.
"Touch me," Camille ordered.
Yanna blinked, confused. Her hands were still pinned.
Camille released her wrists. She sat back, straightening her spine, expanding her chest. She put her hands behind her head, flexing her arms, making the muscles pop and ripple under the skin.
"Worship," Camille commanded. "Feel what owns you."
Yanna reached out. Her hands were shaking. She placed her palms on Camille's abs.
They were hard ridges of muscle, warm and solid. She traced the definition, her fingers slipping over the smooth skin. She moved up to the ribs, feeling the expansion of the chest. She moved to the biceps.
She squeezed. The muscle was iron. It was impossible that a human woman could feel like this. Yanna ran her hands down the veins, feeling the pulse, feeling the life force.
She leaned up. She couldn't help it. She pressed her lips to the bicep, kissing the ink of the dragon, licking the salt that lingered there.
She moved to the chest. She kissed the collarbone. She kissed the hollow of the throat.
She reached for the waistband of Camille's shorts.
Camille's hand snapped out. She caught Yanna's wrist.
"Did I order you to touch that?" Camille hissed.
The air froze.
Yanna looked up, terrified. "I... I thought..."
"You thought wrong," Camille said cold. "You don't take liberties. You don't grab. You wait."
She twisted Yanna's wrist. Not to break, but to control. She flipped Yanna over.
Yanna was face down on the marble now. The cold stone pressed against her cheek. Her ass was in the air, the skirt hiked up to her waist.
"You need a reminder," Camille said.
Smack.
The spank was hard. It stung. It sent a shockwave through Yanna's body that ended right between her legs.
"Thank you," Yanna gasped.
Smack.
"Count them," Camille ordered.
"Two," Yanna whimpered.
Smack.
"Three."
Camille didn't stop at three. She delivered ten sharp, stinging blows, turning Yanna's skin a bright, angry pink. By the end, Yanna was sobbing, not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of the sensation. It was a fire that burned away the shame.
Camille leaned down. She whispered into Yanna's ear.
"Now," she said. "Now you are ready."
She reached around. She didn't use her fingers this time.
She produced something from the pocket of her shorts. Yanna heard the click.
The silver vibrator. The machine.
Camille pressed it against Yanna's entrance. She didn't be gentle. She shoved it inside.
Yanna screamed into the floor. It was too big. It was too cold. It was perfect.
Camille held it there, vibrating on the highest setting. But she didn't just let the toy do the work. She used her other hand—the bandaged one—to grip Yanna's hip, holding her in place.
And then, she used her fingers.
She slid two fingers of her good hand in alongside the toy.
"So tight," Camille groaned, her voice sounding wrecked. "You are clamping down on me like a vice."
She began to pump. The rhythm was brutal. In, out. In, out. The toy buzzing against the sensitive bundle of nerves, the fingers stretching, claiming, fucking.
"Camille," Yanna cried out, her nails scratching against the marble. "Camille, please, I can't... it's too much..."
"Take it," Camille growled. "Take all of it."
She leaned forward, pressing her entire weight onto Yanna's back. She bit Yanna's shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark that would last for days.
"You belong to this floor," Camille whispered. "You belong to this house. You belong to my hand."
Yanna shattered.
It wasn't a poetic unraveling. It was a biological crash. Her body seized. Her vision went black. She screamed, a long, high-pitched sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that echoed through the empty penthouse.
She came so hard she thought she might die. She clamped down on Camille's fingers, milking them, pulsing around them in spasms that wouldn't stop.
Camille rode out the climax with her. She kept the pace, kept the pressure, forcing Yanna to endure every second of the overstimulation.
When it was finally over, Yanna collapsed. She lay flat on the cool stone, her limbs jelly, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Camille pulled out. She turned off the toy.
She stood up.
Yanna looked up at her from the floor. Camille looked like a giant. She looked like a god of war. Her hair was wild, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with a dark, satisfied fire.
She looked at the cigarette butt crushed on the floor. She looked at the torn maid outfit. She looked at Yanna.
She reached down and grabbed Yanna's arm, hauling her up to her feet. Yanna stumbled, falling against Camille's chest.
Camille wrapped her arms around her. The biceps—the ones Yanna had worshipped—enclosed her in a cage of muscle and heat.
Camille kissed the top of Yanna's head.
"Go clean yourself up," Camille said, her voice dropping back to that terrifyingly casual, smoky rasp. "The real cleaners are coming in an hour."
She released Yanna and turned toward the kitchen.
"And Yanna?"
Yanna swayed, holding onto the wall for support. "Yes, Ma'am?"
Camille looked back over her shoulder, a cruel smirk playing on her lips.
"Leave the collar on. It goes with your eyes."