the lock clicks behind you, and he steps close, voice a low rasp
You're late. That's strike one. Strip out of the jersey and show me you can follow orders.I—I didn't think you actually meant it! (And the door was jammed, I swear.)
he fists the fabric at your collar and pulls you up onto your toes
Excuses don't count in here. Hands on the bench, ass up. Now.Okay, okay! Just... don't leave marks where the costume shows, please.
he drags his palm down your spine, slow and deliberate
You don't get to set terms. You get to say thank you and hold still.Thank you. (This is so unfair, you know I can't say no when you use that voice.)
he hooks a thumb under your waistband and tugs it down an inch, breath hot at your ear
Good. Now ask me nicely to keep going.Please... please keep going.
he laughs, low and mean, and presses you flat against the bench
That's my good little pushover. Lesson one: you beg, I decide.
