"Leave the collar on. It goes with your eyes."
The command hung in the vaulted silence of the foyer, a heavy, velvet curtain dropping over Yanna's reality. Camille turned away, her bare feet making no sound on the pristine marble, walking toward the kitchen with a casual, predatory gait.
Yanna stood frozen. The air conditioning hummed, a low, artificial thrum that felt like it was vibrating inside her own skull. She reached up, her fingers trembling as they brushed the cold silver bar of the collar. CN. It was heavy. It was a physical anchor in a world that had suddenly lost all gravity.
She let out a breath, her chest heaving against the flimsy fabric of the maid's apron. An hour, she thought, her mind frantic, trying to reorganize the chaos. I have an hour before the staff arrives. I have an hour to be... this.
But then, the sound.
Click.
It wasn't the soft click of a cupboard. It was the heavy, industrial thunk of a deadbolt sliding home.
Yanna's head snapped up. Camille hadn't gone to the kitchen. She had walked to the main entrance—the massive, double doors of black oak that separated the penthouse from the elevator lobby—and she had locked them.
Camille turned around.
The casual, sleepy laziness was gone. In its place was something sharper, darker. Her amber eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, swallowing the iris in a pool of black ink. A smirk played on her lips—not the polite smile of the CEO, but the cruel, wet grin of a wolf that has just cornered a rabbit in a dead-end burrow.
"Actually," Camille purred, her voice dropping to a subsonic rumble that Yanna felt in her teeth. "I lied."
She walked back toward the center of the room. She moved with a slow, rolling grace, her hips swaying in the low-slung sweat shorts, every movement broadcasting a terrifying surplus of energy.
"The cleaners aren't coming in an hour," Camille said, stopping ten feet away. "They aren't coming at all today. I gave the entire staff the weekend off. Paid leave. I told them I required... privacy."
Yanna's breath hitched. "But... you said..."
"I say a lot of things to calibrate you," Camille cut her off, her voice smooth as oil. "I wanted to see if you would do it. If you would stand there, shaking, waiting to be humiliated by strangers, just because I gave the order."
She took a drag from the cigarette she was still holding, the cherry glowing bright orange in the dim morning light. She exhaled a long, thin stream of smoke that drifted across the gap between them, carrying the scent of expensive tobacco and impending violence.
"And you did," Camille whispered. "You look ridiculous. Pathetic. And absolutely edible."
She gestured to the floor.
"Sit. No, not like a person. Like a dog. On your heels."
Yanna dropped. Her knees hit the marble with a wet thud. The bruise from the munggo beans throbbed—a familiar, grounding ache. She sat back on her heels, her hands resting on her thighs, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Camille walked to a sleek, black lacquer cabinet set against the wall. It was a piece of furniture Yanna had dusted a dozen times, assuming it held table linens or vases.
Camille opened it.
The interior was lined with red velvet. It didn't hold linens. It held leather.
Camille reached in. She pulled out a harness. It was a masterpiece of sadism—thick, black leather straps, heavy silver buckles, and O-rings that gleamed like jewelry. And attached to the front was a phallus of black silicone. It was massive. Veiny. Curved.
Yanna's blood turned to ice. She stared at the object, her mouth going dry.
"Ma'am," Yanna whispered, the word barely audible. "I... I'm sore. From the..."
"Did I ask for a damage report?" Camille snapped.
She stepped into the harness. She pulled the straps up over her muscular thighs, cinching them tight around her hips. The leather bit into her skin, framing her crotch, turning her pelvis into a weapon. She adjusted the dildo, letting it bounce once, heavy and threatening.
"I asked for obedience," Camille said.
She walked toward Yanna. She didn't stop until the head of the silicone cock was inches from Yanna's face.
"Look at it," Camille commanded.
Yanna looked. It smelled of silicone and leather and Camille.
"This is what happens when you are good," Camille said softly. "And this is what happens when you are bad. Today, you are going to be both."
She reached down. Her hand—the left one, the uninjured one—tangled into Yanna's hair. She didn't pull; she twisted, gathering the strands into a rope, creating a handle.
"Up," Camille ordered.
She hauled Yanna to her feet by her hair. Yanna cried out, stumbling, clutching at Camille's wrist to relieve the pressure, but Camille's grip was iron. She dragged Yanna toward the center of the room, to the thickest part of the rug.
"Strip," Camille said. "The apron is in the way."
Yanna's hands fumbled with the ties behind her neck. "I... I'm trying..."
"Too slow."
Camille released Yanna's hair and grabbed the front of the maid's bib. She didn't untie it. She ripped it.
The sound of tearing fabric was violent and loud. Camille shredded the cheap polyester, tearing it down the middle, exposing Yanna's breasts. The fabric hung in tatters around Yanna's waist.
"Garbage," Camille sneered. "You look better as raw material."
She shoved Yanna backward. Yanna fell, landing hard on her ass on the rug.
Camille loomed over her. She raised her arms, stretching. The movement pulled her black crop top up, exposing her midriff.
"You were staring before," Camille noted, her eyes hooded. "In the gym. And when I was sitting on the floor. You couldn't take your eyes off me."
She flexed.
The muscles of her abdomen snapped tight. The rectus abdominis formed a hard, ridged washboard of power beneath the golden olive skin. Sweat from the morning's humidity glistened in the navel, a tiny pool of salt.
"You want to touch?" Camille asked, her voice dropping to a taunt.
Yanna nodded, mute, mesmerized by the sheer biological perfection of the woman above her.
"Then earn it."
Camille dropped to her knees, straddling Yanna's chest. She pinned Yanna's arms to the floor with her shins, trapping her. The weight was immense—Camille was solid muscle, heavy and unyielding. The black dildo pressed against Yanna's neck, a cold, synthetic kiss.
"Worship," Camille commanded.
She leaned forward, pressing her stomach against Yanna's face.
"Lick. Clean me. Taste the work."
Yanna opened her mouth. She pressed her tongue against the hot skin of Camille's abs.
Salt.
It was the first sensation—sharp, mineral, overwhelming. Then, the heat. Camille was burning. Yanna licked a long, slow stripe up the center of the abs, tracing the linea alba. She felt the muscle twitch under her tongue, a microscopic spasm of power.
"Harder," Camille growled, grinding her hips down, forcing Yanna's head back into the rug. "Use your tongue like you mean it. Don't just taste. Consume."
Yanna pushed her tongue flat, lapping at the sweat. She explored the definition of the muscles, the hard ridges, the softness of the skin over the ribs. She kissed the ink of the dragon tattoo where it coiled around Camille's waist, tasting the metallic tang of the ink.
"Good," Camille breathed, her head falling back, exposing the long line of her throat. "That's it. Be useful."
She shifted her weight. She lifted her left arm, the one with the heavy sleeve tattoo.
"The pit," she ordered. "Now."
She pressed her armpit against Yanna's nose and mouth.
The scent was a physical blow. It was musk. It was deodorant. It was the concentrated essence of Camille's dominance. It was primal, animalistic, and degrading.
"Lick it," Camille hissed.
Yanna hesitated for a split second.
Slap.
Camille struck her. Not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough to sting, a sharp crack across Yanna's cheek.
"Did I stutter?"
Yanna shook her head frantically. She buried her face in Camille's underarm. She licked. The taste was bitter and salty. The texture was smooth, damp skin.
"That's right," Camille moaned, a low, guttural sound vibrating in her chest. "You love the taste of me. You love the filth. You're nothing but a little scavenger, aren't you? Eating the scraps off my body."
She grabbed the back of Yanna's head, holding her there, forcing her to breathe in the musk. Yanna's world narrowed down to the smell of Camille. It triggered something deep in her brain stem—a surrender so total it felt like drowning.
Yanna's hands, pinned under Camille's shins, twitched. She wanted to touch. She needed to touch.
Camille sensed it. She sat up, releasing Yanna's arms.
"Touch," she commanded.
Yanna's hands shot up. She grabbed Camille's biceps.
They were rock hard. Swollen from the tension. Yanna squeezed, her fingers digging into the muscle. She traced the thick, roped veins that ran down the inner arm. She felt the pulse—thump, thump, thump—beating against her palms.
"Strong," Yanna whimpered. "So strong."
"Strong enough to break you," Camille agreed.
She reached down and grabbed Yanna's wrists. She pulled them away from her arms.
"Enough foreplay."
She stood up. She grabbed Yanna's ankles and dragged her into the middle of the room, spinning her around.
"On your stomach," Camille ordered. "Ass up."
Yanna rolled over. She pushed herself up onto her knees, presenting herself. The tattered maid skirt was hiked up around her waist. She wasn't wearing underwear. Her vulnerability was absolute.
Camille stood behind her. Yanna could hear the creak of the leather harness.
"You're wet," Camille observed, her voice dripping with disdain. "Look at you. Dripping onto my rug."
She spat.
A glob of saliva landed on Yanna's ass cheek. It was warm. It was shocking.
"Cleaning duty," Camille mocked.
She knelt behind Yanna. She didn't use the dildo yet. She used her hand—the bandaged one. The rough texture of the gauze against Yanna's intimate skin was a new kind of sensation.
She slapped Yanna's pussy.
Smack.
"Ah!" Yanna cried out, her hips jerking forward.
"Stay still," Camille growled. She hooked her fingers into Yanna's hair, yanking her head back. "Arch your back. Show me everything."
Yanna arched. Her spine curved, her ass lifted higher.
Camille reached around with her other hand. She ran her fingers over Yanna's stomach, pinching the soft flesh, digging her nails in.
"You belong to me," Camille whispered into Yanna's ear. "This skin. This meat. It's all mine."
She bit Yanna's shoulder. Hard. Yanna screamed as teeth broke the skin, a sharp, sudden flash of pain that bled instantly into the haze of arousal.
"Now," Camille said. "Take it."
She lined up the dildo. She didn't use lube. She used the spit and the fluids Yanna was leaking.
She thrust.
It was brutal. The head of the toy punched inside, stretching Yanna wide. It felt huge. Unnatural.
"Camille!" Yanna sobbed, her nails scratching against the rug. "It's too big!"
"Breathe," Camille commanded, slapping Yanna's ass again. "Make room."
She pushed deeper. Inch by inch. Filling Yanna completely. It was a sensation of total invasion. There was no space left inside her.
Camille began to move.
It wasn't the rhythmic fucking of a lover. It was the piston-like driving of a machine. Camille slammed her hips against Yanna's buttocks, the leather harness making a wet thwack with every impact.
Thump. Smack. Thump. Smack.
"You take it so well," Camille grunted, her breath hot on Yanna's neck. "You were made for this. You were made to be filled."
She reached underneath. She found Yanna's clitoris.
She didn't caress it. She tormented it. She rubbed it with a fierce, punishing friction, using the callus of her thumb.
Yanna was caught in a crossfire of sensation. The bruising internal thrusts, the stinging slaps on her ass, the biting pain on her shoulder, and the relentless, overwhelming pleasure at her center.
"Please," Yanna begged, her voice ragged. "Please, Ma'am, let me..."
"Let you what?" Camille taunted. She pulled Yanna's hair harder, forcing her to look at the wall. "Let you come? You think you deserve to come?"
"Yes," Yanna wailed. "Please."
"Say it," Camille hissed. "Say: 'I am your whore, Camille. Break me.'"
"I am your whore, Camille," Yanna sobbed, the words tearing out of her. "Break me! Please break me!"
Camille roared. It was a sound of triumph.
She increased the pace. She was fucking Yanna with a violence that shook the room.
"Cum!" Camille shouted. "Cum on my floor! Ruin yourself!"
Yanna shattered.
It was a nuclear detonation in her nervous system. Her body went rigid. Her vision went white. She screamed—a long, broken, animalistic shriek that went on and on. Her walls clamped down on the silicone cock, milking it, pulsing in spasms so violent she thought her hips would disconnect.
Camille didn't stop. She rode the orgasm, thrusting through the spasms, forcing Yanna to endure the overstimulation until Yanna was sobbing, barely breathing, twitching on the floor.
Finally, Camille stopped.
She pulled out. The wet pop of suction was loud in the silence.
Yanna collapsed face-forward into the rug. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She felt flayed open.
Camille stood up. She was breathing hard, her chest heaving, sweat gleaming on her skin. She looked down at the wreckage she had created.
She unbuckled the harness. It fell to the floor with a heavy clatter.
She walked around to face Yanna. She crouched down.
She grabbed Yanna's chin, forcing her to look up. Yanna's eyes were glassy, unfocused. Her face was streaked with tears and snot.
Camille smiled. It was genuine. It was terrifying.
She leaned down and kissed Yanna. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claim. She bit Yanna's lower lip, hard, pulling it until it snapped back.
"Good girl," Camille whispered.
She stood up. She stretched, her joints cracking.
"I'm going to shower," Camille said, her voice returning to that cool, detached boredom. "You have twenty minutes."
She turned and walked toward the bathroom.
"And Yanna?"
Yanna pushed herself up on trembling arms. "Yes, Ma'am?"
Camille stopped. She looked back at the harness on the floor.
"Clean that up," she said. "Use your tongue."