First Public Test
1150 Words
The black Maybach idled at the curb outside Blackwood Tech Tower at exactly 8:45 a.m.
Elena sat in the back seat beside Damian, knees pressed tightly together beneath the tailored black pencil skirt he’d chosen for the day. The silk blouse still dipped low at the neckline; she’d tried to adjust it in the elevator, only to have his hand catch her wrist mid-motion.
“Leave it,” he’d said quietly. “I like seeing the pulse jump in your throat.”
Now that pulse was hammering so hard she was sure he could see it.
He wore a charcoal three-piece suit today—vest hugging his lean torso, pocket square the exact shade of midnight blue from her original mood board. No tie. The top button of his white shirt undone. He looked like sin dressed for boardroom warfare.
The driver opened Damian’s door first.
He stepped out, buttoned his jacket with one smooth motion, then extended a hand back inside the car.
Elena hesitated for half a heartbeat.
His eyes met hers through the open door—steel gray, unblinking.
She placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers, firm and warm, and he drew her out onto the sidewalk with deliberate care, as though she were fragile porcelain instead of a woman he’d bought for a year.
Cameras flashed immediately.
Not paparazzi—corporate photographers stationed for the quarterly investor briefing. But still, the sudden burst of light made her flinch.
Damian’s arm slid around her waist in one fluid movement, pulling her flush against his side. His hand settled low on her hip—possessive, proprietary, thumb brushing the silk of her blouse in a slow, subtle stroke.
“Smile,” he murmured against her temple, lips barely moving. “You’re supposed to be in love with me.”
Elena forced her mouth into a soft curve. It felt like cracking ice.
The photographers surged closer.
“Mr. Blackwood! Who’s the new companion?”
“Care to comment on the rumors of a serious relationship?”
Damian didn’t break stride. He guided her through the glass revolving doors, his body angled to shield her from the worst of the lenses.
Inside the marble lobby, the noise dropped to a low hum. Employees in tailored suits paused mid-step, eyes widening as they registered the woman on his arm.
Elena felt every stare like a physical touch.
Damian leaned down, breath warm against her ear. “Rule Four, remember? Devoted. Touch me when appropriate.”
She swallowed.
Her free hand lifted—hesitant—then rested lightly on his chest, over the vest, fingers curling just enough to look natural.
His heart beat steady beneath her palm. Strong. Unhurried.
“Good girl,” he whispered.
They crossed to the private elevator.
The doors slid shut.
In the sudden quiet, Elena exhaled shakily.
Damian turned her to face him, backing her gently against the mirrored wall. One hand braced beside her head, the other still on her waist.
“You’re trembling,” he observed.
“I’m not used to being… displayed.”
“You’ll learn.”
His thumb traced the edge of her lower lip, smudging the red lipstick just enough to make it look kissed.
“Tonight’s gala is the real test,” he said. “Two hundred investors, board members, rivals. They’ll all be watching for cracks. You will give them none.”
The elevator dinged.
Top floor.
He stepped back as the doors opened, once again offering his hand.
She took it.
The executive wing was glass and steel and hushed voices. Damian led her straight to his corner office—floor-to-ceiling windows, black desk the size of a small car, a single visitor chair that looked more like a throne.
He closed the door.
Locked it.
Then he turned to her.
“Strip to your underwear.”
Elena froze.
“Here?”
“Now.”
She glanced toward the windows—tinted, but still transparent enough that anyone with a good vantage from the neighboring towers might see silhouettes.
Damian followed her gaze.
“The glass is one-way,” he said. “They see nothing. I see everything.”
Her hands moved to the buttons of her blouse—slow, shaking.
One by one, they opened.
The silk parted.
Black lace b*a—barely there, chosen by him.
She shrugged the blouse off her shoulders.
It pooled at her feet.
His eyes darkened.
“Skirt.”
She unzipped it. Let it slide down her legs.
Stepped out.
Black lace panties. Matching garter belt. Stockings.
No shoes—she’d kicked off the heels when he commanded her to strip.
She stood in nothing but lingerie and the leather cuff on her wrist.
Vulnerable.
Exposed.
His.
Damian circled her slowly.
Not touching. Just looking.
Like she was art he’d commissioned and was now appraising.
When he stopped behind her, his breath stirred the hair at her nape.
“You’re beautiful when you’re afraid,” he murmured.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Liar.”
His fingers brushed the small of her back—light, teasing.
She shivered.
“Tonight at the gala,” he continued, voice low, “you will sit beside me. You will let me touch you—your thigh under the table, your neck when I lean in to speak. You will lean into it. You will look at me like I’m the only man in the room.”
He stepped in front of her again.
Tipped her chin up with one finger.
“And when the night ends, when we return here, you will come to my bed. Not because the contract demands it. But because you’ll want to know what happens when I stop holding back.”
Elena’s breath caught.
His thumb pressed against her lower lip again.
“Say yes.”
She searched his face—looking for cruelty, for triumph.
What she found was hunger.
Raw. Patient. Terrifying.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His mouth curved.
Not a smile.
A promise.
He stepped back.
“Dress.”
She bent to retrieve her clothes—legs unsteady.
When she was clothed again, he unlocked the door.
“Carter will take you to the design suite down the hall. You’ll spend the day working on my private quarters. I’ll collect you at six.”
He paused at the threshold.
“One last thing.”
She looked up.
“Every time you obey today—every time you remember the rules—text me the word *yes* from the device. Just that. Nothing else.”
He left.
Elena stood alone in the office that smelled like him.
She opened the new phone.
Typed one word.
yes
Sent it.
The screen lit with his reply almost instantly.
Good girl.
She closed her eyes.
The first public test had barely begun.
And already, the lines between captivity and craving were starting to blur.
- Writer
