The inspection lasted two hours.
I kept him edged until his voice broke into hoarse, wordless pleas. I catalogued every twitch of his c**k, every bead of pre-c*m that slid down his shaft, every time his golden eyes begged without words. I mapped the scars I had left on his body with my scalpel and my silence. When I finally stepped back, he was shaking, flushed, and so close to the edge that one breath might have pushed him over.
I denied him anyway.
“Clean him up,” I told the nurse on duty. “No release. No sedatives. Let him feel the weight of it.”
I left before I could smell how badly he needed me.
My private quarters were quiet, but the memories weren’t.
I poured myself a glass of aged whiskey and stood at the window overlooking the darkened gardens. The residence wing glowed fain
