In the grand foyer, beneath the glittering chandelier and polished marble floors, he knelt—bruised, trembling, and silent. Faint marks still lingered on his ribs and jaw, reminders of the last time he had failed them. Michael hadn’t raised his voice. He had simply corrected him—calmly, decisively, painfully.
Now, Stephanie stood before him, radiant in her black evening gown, her gloved hand resting lightly on Michael’s arm. They were dressed for a night of indulgence, power, and pleasure—he in a sharp tuxedo, she in towering heels and gleaming leather boots that caught the light like blades.
Her husband didn’t wait for permission. He lowered his head and began to lick the cold, wet leather of her boots, his tongue tracing the contours without hesitation. The taste was bitter, but the fear was sharper. He knew what a misstep meant. What another disappointment would cost.
“Honestly,” she said with a sigh, for her cuckold to hear. Her heel twisted just slightly beneath his mouth. “You should thank Michael for what he did to you,” she added sharply. “He didn’t beat you because he was angry. He did it because I deserved better.”
"Thank you for disciplining me, sir," her husband said.
She smiled wickedly and turned with effortless grace, slipping her hand into Michael’s arm.
And as the front doors opened, they stepped out together—elegant, untouchable—leaving him on his knees, in silence, terrified to be anything less than perfect.
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