Remote Control
1053 Words
Noon arrived with a soft knock.
Elena opened the door of the penthouse—still wearing nothing but the choker and one of Damien’s black dress shirts she’d found folded on a chair. Sleeves rolled to her elbows, hem brushing mid-thigh. The toy inside her had become a constant, maddening pressure; every step rubbed it against that spot, keeping her slick and on edge.
A courier handed her a large matte-black box. No words. Just a nod and gone.
Inside: emerald-green silk gown—floor-length, high slit up the left thigh, plunging neckline that would barely contain her breasts, back open to the waist. Strapless. No bra. No panties. Matching emerald heels. And a small velvet pouch.
She opened the pouch.
A pair of emerald teardrop earrings. And a thin platinum chain with a tiny key pendant—the key to her choker.
Her stomach flipped.
A note slipped out, typed in the same precise font:
Wear everything.
No underwear.
The toy stays.
Arrive at 8:45 p.m. in the lobby bar.
I’ll find you.
Disobey, and the key stays around my neck instead.
She stared at the key. Freedom dangling from a chain she could wear—or lose.
She showered again—careful not to dislodge the toy. Oiled her skin. Slipped into the gown. The silk kissed her like a lover’s mouth—cool against overheated skin. The slit exposed leg to mid-thigh with every step. The neckline dipped low enough to show the tops of her breasts and the faint red mark of his bite peeking above the fabric.
She fastened the earrings. Hung the key chain around her neck—pendant nestling between her breasts beside the choker’s lock.
Looked in the mirror.
She looked expensive. Dangerous. Owned.
At 8:42 p.m. she stepped into the Fairmont Olympic lobby bar.
The space was all marble and chandeliers, low jazz, clink of glasses. Men in tuxedos, women in jewels. She felt every eye turn—some curious, some hungry.
She took a stool at the bar. Ordered water. Hands folded in her lap to hide the tremble.
At 8:45 sharp, Damien appeared behind her.
Black tuxedo. No tie. Top button open. Cufflinks glinting like tiny blades.
He didn’t speak. Just placed a hand on her lower back—possessive, warm through silk—and steered her toward the ballroom entrance.
Inside: two hundred people. Crystal chandeliers. String quartet. Politicians shaking hands, venture capitalists trading smiles like currency.
He leaned to her ear.
“Smile.”
She did—tight, practiced.
He guided her through the crowd. Introduced her as “my guest, Elena Voss—the artist whose work will soon hang in every major collection on the West Coast.” Hands shook hers. Compliments flowed. She answered on autopilot, pulse roaring in her ears.
Then the speeches began.
Damien led her to a table near the front—center sightline. Pulled out her chair. Sat beside her.
His hand disappeared under the tablecloth.
Found the slit in her gown.
Slid up her thigh.
Higher.
Fingertips brushed the toy still nestled inside her.
He pressed—once—firm.
The vibration started—low, pulsing, right against her g-spot.
Elena gripped the table edge. Knuckles white.
He turned to the stage as if nothing was happening. Listened to the keynote speaker drone about “disruptive innovation.”
The vibration increased—steady climb.
Her thighs clenched. Breath shortened. Heat flooded her core.
He leaned close—lips brushing her ear under the guise of adjusting her earring.
“If you come,” he whispered, “I’ll make sure the entire room hears you scream my name when I f**k you in the restroom later.”
The toy pulsed harder.
She bit her lip until she tasted blood.
The speaker droned on.
The vibration shifted—fluttering pattern now, unpredictable, maddening.
Elena’s vision blurred. Hips rocked minutely under the table—couldn’t help it.
Damien’s hand returned to her thigh. Pinched hard enough to bruise.
“Still.”
She froze.
The toy went to maximum.
Her body seized—silent scream trapped in her throat.
She was going to come.
Right here.
In front of everyone.
And he wasn’t stopping it.
The cliff edge rushed toward her.
Then—nothing.
The vibration cut off completely.
She sagged forward, breathing ragged, forehead almost touching the tablecloth.
Damien stood smoothly. Offered his hand.
“Excuse us,” he told the table. “Miss Voss needs some air.”
He led her through the crowd—calm, polite smile never faltering—straight to the nearest private restroom corridor.
Door locked behind them.
He spun her to face the marble sink. Large mirror reflecting her flushed face, glassy eyes, swollen lips.
“Hike the dress.”
Hands shaking, she obeyed.
The gown pooled around her waist.
He pressed behind her—clothed erection grinding against her bare ass.
“Look at yourself,” he growled.
She did.
Wrecked. Desperate. Owned.
His fingers found the toy. Pressed it deeper—once.
Then pulled it out slowly—agonizingly—until it slipped free with a wet sound.
She whimpered at the emptiness.
He tossed the toy into the sink.
Unbuckled his belt.
Lowered his zipper.
“Not a sound,” he said.
And thrust into her in one brutal stroke.
The mirror showed everything—his hand around her throat, her head thrown back, mouth open in silent scream, the key pendant swinging between her breasts as he began to move.
Hard. Deep. Relentless.
And just as she started climbing again—body tightening, vision tunneling—he stilled.
Buried to the hilt.
Leaned to her ear.
“Beg for it.”
Her voice cracked—barely a whisper.
“Please, Sir… let me come.”
He smiled against her neck.
Then pulled out.
Stepped back.
Left her bent over the sink, legs shaking, gown around her waist, dripping down her thighs.
“Later,” he said.
He adjusted himself. Zipped up. Smoothed his tuxedo.
Opened the door.
“Fix your dress. Meet me back at the table in five minutes.”
The door closed.
She stared at her reflection—ruined, aching, the key still hanging around her neck like a taunt.
And realized the night was only beginning.
The punishment hadn’t even started.
Yet.
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