Episode Three: A taste of control
1021 Words
The next invitation came in the same fashion—no call, no text, just an envelope slipped under her door like a whispered threat.
This time, there was no address.
Just a time: Midnight.
And a location: The car will find you.
It was absurd. Arrogant. Borderline psychotic.
But at 11:55 PM, Ava stood in her black heels outside her building, coat pulled tight, waiting like a damn addict.
The black car slid to the curb at 11:58.
She didn’t hesitate. She got in.
The driver said nothing. Just nodded once and started driving. Tinted windows, smooth jazz on low volume, an interior that smelled of leather and secrets.
She pressed her knees together and didn’t speak.
After fifteen minutes, the city fell away. No more traffic. No lights. They pulled into a private driveway, long and tree-lined, leading to a glass-and-steel mansion she didn’t recognize.
Her heart hammered.
What was this?
The driver opened her door.
“Inside,” he said. Nothing more.
She obeyed.
The house was silent. Too clean. Too perfect. Like a place no one actually lived in.
The kind of house built for one purpose: to impress—or to control.
Ava stepped into the foyer, and the door shut behind her with a thud that echoed like a threat.
Dim lights glowed along the walls, guiding her forward. No sign of Damien. Just the thrum of tension in her chest.
Then she saw it.
A note on a small table. Neat, expensive stationery.
Upstairs. Strip in the hallway. Leave everything behind. Then knock.
She froze.
It was a test. A game.
She could leave.
She didn’t.
She climbed the staircase slowly, heels clicking with every step, nerves rattling beneath her skin.
At the landing, she paused. Looked around. Empty.
Then, one by one, she slipped out of her coat. Her dress. Her bra. Her underwear. Everything.
Her breath trembled in her throat as she placed each item on the floor.
She stood naked in the quiet, heat crawling up her neck.
Then she walked to the black door at the end of the hall and knocked.
It opened instantly.
Damien stood there, dressed in nothing but dark slacks and that smirk she now hated to love.
He didn’t say a word.
Just stepped back and let her enter.
The room was warm. Lit with nothing but soft amber lamps. A fire crackled in the corner.
The centerpiece was a leather armchair—and next to it, a slim black box.
Her eyes caught the glint of something inside.
He saw her stare.
“Curious?” he asked.
She nodded, slowly.
“Good. Curiosity’s the first sign of surrender.”
She looked at him. “I’m not yours.”
He stepped in close, brushing his fingers along her jaw. “You are when you’re naked in my house.”
“I can leave.”
“You won’t.”
She hated how right he was.
He circled her like a predator. “Tonight’s different,” he said. “I’ve touched your body. But now I want more.”
“More what?”
“More of you.”
He moved to the box and opened it.
Inside: silk ties. A blindfold. A collar.
Her stomach flipped.
“Tonight,” he said, “you learn what it means to give up control.”
Her throat went dry. “What if I say no?”
“Then you leave. I won’t stop you.” He paused. “But you’ll think about it for the rest of your life.”
She closed her eyes.
“I need your consent,” he added. “Say it.”
A long silence.
Then, finally: “Yes.”
He smiled, slow and dark. “Good girl.”
The blindfold went on first.
Then the silk ties—wrists, ankles, each knot deliberate, just tight enough.
He guided her to the chair, made her kneel.
Every sound—his breath, the rustle of clothes, the snap of a cap—was amplified without sight.
Her skin buzzed.
She heard him move behind her, felt the cool brush of oil down her spine, slick fingers spreading it across her skin, her thighs, her hips.
He took his time. Touched her like she was a canvas, not a woman.
And she loved it.
He whispered in her ear. “Tell me how it feels.”
“Hot. Scary.”
“And?”
“Right.”
He chuckled. “You’re learning.”
Then came the crop.
Light at first—soft slaps against her thighs, her ass, each one sending fire up her spine.
She whimpered.
“Color?” he asked.
She barely remembered the safe word. “Green.”
He continued.
He pushed her boundaries—tied, blindfolded, teased until her mind fractured into pleasure and need.
When he finally entered her, it wasn’t fast or hard.
It was deep. Slow. Cruel in how much it gave and how much it withheld.
He made her say things. Dirty things. Honest things.
He made her beg.
And when she came, she screamed.
Afterward, he untied her gently.
Held her for a long time.
Silence stretched between them.
She should’ve felt used.
But she didn’t.
She felt… freed.
“I could ruin you,” he said softly, lips against her hair.
“You already are.”
He pulled back to look at her. “You want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Then don’t ask for love,” he said. “I don’t have any left.”
“I don’t want love,” she lied. “I want this.”
“You want to be owned.”
She didn’t answer.
Because it was true.
He walked her back to the hallway, helped her dress.
Then handed her another card.
Next week. New rules. No questions.
“Say it,” he said, brushing her hair back.
She looked up at him.
“I’m yours.”
He kissed her, slow and deep.
And in that moment, she forgot who she used to be.
She only remembered this—
She was the Devil’s favorite toy.
And she loved being played with.
- Writer
