Under His Hand and Her Choice

The elevator climbed toward the thirty-second floor with the lazy confidence of something that had made this ascent a thousand times. Inside, Mara watched the numbers change and tried to ignore the pulse beating between her thighs. A single text had done that—four words glowing on her phone: Come straight upstairs.

No greeting, no explanation. No need for either. The rule had been simple: she was to arrive by seven, dressed only in what he’d left for her that morning. Instead she’d stopped at the hotel bar, ordered a negroni, and let the satin thistles of anticipation tease her for forty-three deliberate minutes. She knew the exact number because she’d watched the clock above the bartender’s head, counting every disobedient second. The bar had been a study in polished surfaces and low, confidential murmurs. As she’d sipped the bitter-citrus drink, her mind had wandered, not just to his hands or his rules, but to the edges of their games—the public spaces where a look could be a command, where a brush of his hand on her lower back in a crowded room felt like a brand. She’d imagined, for a fleeting, thrilling second, what it might be like to have their private dynamic witnessed, just a glimpse, by strangers in some hallowed, hushed place. The fantasy had been vague, formless, but it had shimmered there, adding a layer of heat to her deliberate rebellion.

The elevator chimed. The corridor smelled of ozone and hot light bulbs. Room 3212 waited at the far end, door already ajar, a vertical slit of gold cutting across the burgundy carpet. She paused on the threshold and heard the low thrum of music—something instrumental, strings bowed slow enough to mimic heartbeats.

“You’re late.” Adrian’s voice drifted from somewhere deeper inside. Calm, almost gentle, the way a held whip can look before it moves.

Mara stepped in, letting the door sigh shut behind her. The suite was larger than she remembered from last month: windows arcing toward the river, the city’s lights smeared across the glass like wet paint. A single lamp glowed beside the leather sofa. No other illumination. He understood the artistry of shadows.

“I had a drink,” she answered, slipping her coat from her shoulders. The silk lining whispered down her arms and pooled at her feet.

“I know.” Adrian emerged from the darkness near the window. He was in his mid-forties, the kind of age that had settled into his bones as authority. Black trousers, a white shirt of fine cotton unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled once over forearms corded with tendon. No shoes. His hair, dark and threaded with the first deliberate silver at the temples, was swept back from a face all angles and quiet intensity. He held her gaze the way he might hold a wrist—firm, measuring, ready to tighten. “Bar receipt prints the time.”

Heat crawled up her chest. She had hoped he would check, feared he wouldn’t. “Then you already know how late.”

“Forty-three minutes,” he supplied, stopping an arm’s length away. The city lights haloed him from behind, etching his silhouette. “You broke rule number four.”

Rule number four: arrival promptly at seven prepared and waiting. Nothing more, nothing ruder, yet it throbbed between them now like a shared bruise.

Mara lifted her chin. “The punishment is already decided?” She’d helped draft the list of consequences months ago, back when their games were still diagrams on hotel stationery. Each infraction carried a predetermined sentence, negotiated, consented to, craved.

Adrian’s eyes traveled the length of her—black heels, stockings clipped to a garter belt he’d chosen that morning, the dress a charcoal sheath that hugged without revealing. Approval flickered, but no smile. “You’ll count them tonight. And you’ll ask for each one.”

A slow clench rolled through her pelvis. She could refuse; the safeword hadn’t changed. She could also lower herself to her knees right there on the carpet, but that wasn’t the script. Punishment meant resistance first, surrender extracted, not offered.

“Understood,” she said, the word steadier than her stomach.

“Good.” He extended a hand, palm up. “Dress off.”

Mara reached behind, drew the zipper down the track of her spine. The fabric peeled away from her skin like an afterthought. Underneath: only the garter belt, stockings, and the thin ribbon of panties he’d laid on the bed that morning—nude lace, almost nothing. She stepped free, kicked the dress aside. Cool air tightened her nipples instantly.

Adrian circled her. She felt the heat of him without contact, the way planets must feel the sun. When he stopped behind her, his breath stirred the fine hairs at her nape. “Hands clasped at the back of your neck.”

She obeyed, elbows winging outward, breasts lifting. The posture exposed every vulnerable inch: the hollow beneath her ribs, the tremor in her belly, the wet spot darkening the gusset of her panties. He said nothing about that evidence; he didn’t need to. She was already soaked and they both knew why.

He moved again, this time to the tall armoire near the bedroom door. Its doors opened with a soft click. Inside, implements hung from satin ribbons like dangerous jewelry. He selected a short black crop tipped with a folded leather tongue. He tested it against his palm once—sharp, precise—then returned.

“Six,” he announced. “One for every ten minutes you stole.”

Mara’s throat tightened. Six sounded manageable on paper; standing bare before him, it felt like an earthquake measured in heartbeats. “Yes, Sir.”

“Ask for the first.”

She swallowed. “Please punish me with the first stroke.”

“Where?”

“Across my bottom, Sir.” The ritual felt both ridiculous and reverent. She loved every syllable.

He indicated the sofa. “Bend over the arm.”

The leather was cool against her skin when she lowered herself, breasts pressed to the padded slope, back flat, toes barely touching the floor. He adjusted her stance—feet wider, back arched, hips angled so her weight rested on her forearms. The panties were no barrier; he peeled them down to mid-thigh where the lace lodged against the garters. Air kissed exposed flesh.

“Count.”

The first stroke landed with a crisp snap, pain blooming hot and bright. She hissed, “One.”

He waited for her breathing to level. “Ask.”

“Please… give me the second.”

Snap. A fresh welt raised just below the first. “Two.”

By four her legs shook. By five she could feel her own wetness sliding down the inside of her thigh, could smell the tang of her arousal mixing with leather. The sixth cracked across the fullest part of her ass and tears sprang, not from the hurt but from the release coiling underneath it.

“Six,” she choked out, panting.

He laid the crop aside and traced the welts with a fingertip, collecting heat, measuring damage. His touch gentled into soothing circles that made her moan despite herself. When his hand slipped between her legs, the sound became a whimper.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Dripping. Did my punishment hurt?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Did you break the rule on purpose so I’d do this?”

“I—” She hesitated, tasting the truth. “I considered it.”

His finger stilled. “That’s not an answer.”

“I wanted to feel this,” she admitted, cheeks flaming hotter than her ass. “Wanted your hands deciding.”

“Then we’re not finished.” He withdrew, leaving her empty and clenching at nothing. “Stand.”

Mara pushed upright, the room tilting slightly. Adrian unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, the leather sliding free one hole at a time. He folded it, snapped the two halves together. She couldn’t tear her gaze away.

“Bedroom,” he said.

She walked ahead, hyper-aware of every inch of skin, the sting shifting to a throb with each step. The bedroom glowed with the city’s spill of light—no lamps needed. The king bed was stripped to fitted sheet, corners tight. At its foot waited the leather bench from the gym, relocated. Wide enough for a torso, lower at one end. On the nightstand, she noted a small, unopened box of condoms and a bottle of lube placed neatly beside a glass of water—a tableau of preparedness.

“Kneel on it,” he instructed. “Forearms flat, ass high.”

She climbed up, knees apart so the garter straps framed her punished flesh. The position reopened the seam of her arousal; cool air licked where she was hottest. He let her wait, listening to her breath racket off the walls.

Behind her, a drawer opened; the unmistakable rasp of a bottle pump, then the slick sound of lube warmed in his palm. She closed her eyes, her body tensing in anticipation of his touch.

“Tell me what you thought about at the bar,” he said, his voice a low vibration in the dim room.

“Your hands,” she whispered. “Your rules. Wondering whether you’d already guessed I’d disobey.”

“Did you touch yourself?”

“No, Sir.”

“Good girl.” His fingers, slick and cool, slid along her folds, spreading wetness upward. She shuddered. Then his touch moved higher, to the tight, forbidden pucker of muscle above. She jolted, a bolt of pure anxiety shooting through her pleasure. He pressed a steadying hand to the small of her back. “Easy.”

“Sir, I—” The words caught. This was a threshold. They’d played with fingers before, fleeting touches, but it had always remained at the periphery. An idea, not an expectation.

“Color, Mara?” His question was calm, clear, a checkpoint in the dark. It didn’t break the tension; it framed it, made the space around them safe enough to be truly dangerous.

She breathed in, out. The safeword—red—sat on her tongue, ready. But beneath the spike of fear was that dark, shimmering curiosity, the one that had made her watch the clock at the bar. “Green,” she whispered, the word feeling like a plunge.

“Tonight you’ll take more than fingers,” he affirmed, his tone leaving no doubt that her consent was the lock, and his will the key.

He worked one finger into her ass, then two, scissoring carefully. The stretch burned, delicious and frightening, a full, insistent pressure that made her gasp. When he replaced his fingers with the cool, blunt nose of a glass plug, she exhaled into the invasion, forcing herself to relax. It seated with a soft, definitive pop, the base snug between her sore cheeks. The feeling—fullness, exposure, a profound sense of being claimed—sent a moan rippling out of her. It was overwhelming, almost too much, and yet it anchored her deeper into the moment, into her submission.

Adrian’s zipper descended. She heard the rustle of fabric, the wet slap of him stroking himself, though she dared not look back. Then he mounted the bench behind her, knees braced outside hers. The broad head of his cock nudged her entrance, slid through her folds, gathered her slick. He teased, not pushing inside, letting the dual sensation of the plug and his nearness tighten every muscle to a trembling wire.

“Tell me the truth,” he growled, his voice rough at her ear. “Did you break my rule deliberately?”

She could lie, claim accident, traffic, lost keys. Instead she breathed, “Yes, Sir. I wanted your discipline.”

He drove into her in a single, conquering stroke, filling her cunt while the plug pulsed in her ass. The dual stretch tore a cry from her throat—pleasure edged perfectly by the lingering burn of punishment and the shocking novelty of the intrusion. He gave her no time to adjust, setting a relentless pace, his hips slapping against the welts, his fingers biting into the flesh of her waist.

Words spilled from her mouth: please, more, fuck, sorry, thank you—syllables without grammar. He bent over her back, his mouth hot at her ear. “Next time you crave my attention, little girl, you will ask. You will not play games with clocks.”

“Yes—yes, Sir, I’ll ask.”

He reached beneath, found her clit swollen and slick. One circling touch and her orgasm ignited, a bright detonation racing outward from his fingertips. She screamed into the mattress, her walls clamping around him, the plug shifting with every clench. He rode her through it, prolonging the spasms until she sagged against the bench, breathless and spent.

Only then did he allow himself release, thrusting deep and holding, his cock jerking as he spilled into her with a rough, guttural groan. The sound rumbled through her bones, more reward than she had expected.

They stayed locked together while heartbeats slowed, sweat cooling on their skin. Finally he withdrew, and she heard the soft, efficient sounds of him seeing to the practicalities—the condom, ever prepared, then the careful, gentle removal of the plug. The absence left her hollow, tender, utterly claimed.

He helped her stand, her legs gelatinous, and wrapped her shaking limbs in his arms. “Good girl,” he murmured against her temple, his voice now all warmth. “Brave girl.”

Mara melted into him, inhaling cedar and sex and the faint metallic tang of the city. The punishment had burned away every pretense, left her luminous and new.

Aftercare unfolded in quiet, deliberate rituals. He led her to the bathroom, where a warm washcloth was pressed tenderly between her legs. He guided her to the bed, where she lay on her stomach as he smoothed arnica gel across the raised welts, his touch medicinal and reverent. He held a glass of water to her lips, making her drink. He slipped one of his own soft T-shirts over her head, the hem brushing mid-thigh like a flag of truce. They relocated to the sofa, the city a silent, glittering diorama beyond the glass, her body curled into the shelter of his. For a long time, there was only the syncopated rhythm of their breathing and the distant hum of the metropolis.

“Talk to me,” he said softly, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her arm. “Where did you go, during the sixth stroke?”

She nuzzled against his chest. “Nowhere. I was… completely there. In the sting. In the sound. It was like everything else—the bar, the elevator, my own thoughts—just dissolved. There was only the crop, and your voice, and the heat spreading under my skin.”

“And after? When you were on the bench?”

She was quiet, searching for the truth. “It was… more complicated. I was there, but I was also afraid. For a second. Then I chose not to be. Choosing that—choosing to take it—that’s when I really surrendered.” She looked up at him. “Thank you for asking for my color.”

“Always.” He kissed her forehead. “The check-in is part of the scene. It’s the guardrail that lets us drive faster.”

They lapsed into silence again, a comfortable, saturated quiet. Mara felt the events of the evening settle into her bones, not as a series of actions, but as a state of being. Submissive. Satisfied. Seen.

When the digital clock on the media console shifted to a later hour, he spoke again, his voice thoughtful. “Next Friday there’s a fundraiser at the Met. Art conservation something-or-other. Black tie. I want you on my arm at seven sharp.”

She traced idle circles on his chest, over the fine cotton of his shirt. “Prompt arrival guaranteed?”

A smile tugged at his mouth, but his eyes were serious, watching her. “If you’re late, the consequence will be immediate and specific. I’ll choose a different implement—perhaps the cane. Six of the best across the backs of your thighs, where the marks won’t show under a gown.” He paused, letting the image take shape. “And I won’t wait until we’re home. I’ll find a semi-private space. The coat-check alcove, maybe, if it’s vacant. Or a secluded corner of a marble corridor. I’ll truss you over an ottoman or bend you against a pedestal. Somewhere with the distinct possibility of an audience.”

Her pulse, which had been slow and steady, gave a hard, double-thump. The vague fantasy from the bar crystallized with terrifying, exquisite clarity. The threat was no longer abstract; it was a plan, a possibility laid at her feet. “We’d be caught,” she whispered, the words barely audible.

“Possibly.” His fingers threaded through her hair, gentle now. “The question, Mara, is whether that idea frightens you… or excites you. Or,” he added, his gaze knowing, “how thoroughly it does both.”

She closed her eyes, picturing it. Not just the sting of the cane, but the chill of the marble, the muffled echoes of footsteps and chamber music from the main hall, the rustle of her gown being lifted, the whistle of rattan cutting through the hushed air. Fear braided with desire so tightly she couldn’t tell the strands apart. It was a massive escalation, a step into a kink they had only ever danced around in theory. And he had foreshadowed it perfectly, tying it back to her own latent curiosity, making it feel not like a new twist, but like the next, inevitable chapter in the story of her surrender. He was offering her a new game, with higher stakes and a sharper edge, and every nerve in her well-used, well-loved body sang at the prospect.

She pressed her face to his neck, inhaling his scent, and let the possibility bloom, vast and terrifying and irresistible, inside her.

“I’ll be on time,” she said, her voice muffled against his skin.

And she wondered, with a certainty that felt like fate, whether in seven days, she would break that promise on purpose.