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Good Girl

She had a long day at work planned, filled with boring meetings. She had set her alarm an hour earlier, so she could arrive early. She was surprised when her phone, not her alarm, woke her earlier than planned. Her sense of dread quickly subsided as she realized the alert tone was specific. It was the one she used only for Him. As that realization occurred, she felt a slight tingle between her legs. An echo of their last night together. The message was brief, but it pulsed with authority: "I'm coming back early. Today, you'll wear your most sinful lingerie beneath your work clothes. All day, I want your mind wrapped around what I might do to you when I arrive. Do not touch yourself. I'll know if you do." Her mind immediately began thinking of the possibilities and the tingling returned. Stronger this time. Having a highly creative imagination, it could be a very long day at work. She briefly considered laying back and letting her fingers do their magic, to take the edge off. She dismissed the idea. Anything good was worth waiting for and the anticipation would enhance the eventual pleasure. She had 10 minutes before she needed to get up, so she placed the phone on the nightstand and began to let her mind wander. In response, the tingling intensified, and the warmth began to spread. Without thinking, she brushed a hand across her breast and an unintended moan escaped her lips. Her other hand had drifted downward; her fingertips traced a path on her inner thigh. In response, she felt her mound swell with desire. The beeping alarm pulled her back from the brink and she resisted the urge to go any further. Her shower was longer and colder than normal, by necessity. She opened her dresser drawer and considered how best to obey the command. She had an extensive collection. After some brief consideration, she pulled out her favorite pair of thigh-high stockings. They were black, with a slight floral pattern and wide lace along the top. Next she pulled out a lace bra, thong, and garter belt set she had been saving for a special occasion. They were tight fitting and hugged all the right places. The bra was low cut, barely sufficient to hold her ample breasts, but with enough support to add to her already impressive cleavage. Lastly, she put on her red pencil skirt and black silk blouse. While it was still workplace appropriate, the ensemble was bound to draw some second glances. She pushed one more boundary by selecting a set of black 4-inch heels. Princess barely made it through the workday. Her body sat through meetings, responded to emails, and nodded through conference calls-but her mind? Her mind was wrapped in lace and command, lost in the steady pulse between her legs that had started the moment she slipped on the lingerie that morning. Every breath, every shift in her seat, reminded her of what lay hidden beneath her office attire: delicate straps, soft lace, and the heat pooling in her core with nowhere to go. Sir's message echoed in her thoughts with every passing hour. She obeyed, of course. That was never in question. But obedience didn't make the ache easier. It heightened it. She clenched her thighs during a quarterly update. Bit the inside of her cheek while reviewing a budget spreadsheet. Every now and then she would catch herself lightly rocking her hips in her chair, a ghost of rhythm moving through her without permission. The dampness between her thighs became constant. She felt it when she stood. When she walked. A liquid reminder that she was already primed for his return. Still, she didn't touch. She wouldn't. That pleasure didn't belong to her. Not without his voice, his hand, his permission. By the time she got home, her skin felt too tight for her body, her nerves tuned to his frequency. She stepped inside and immediately saw it: a note and a black silk blindfold, waiting for her on the console table beside the door. Her heart fluttered. Her mouth went dry. The note, written in his familiar hand, read: Strip down to what you wore beneath today's clothes. Put on the blindfold. Then wait. She drew in a shaky breath and obeyed without hesitation. One heel dropped to the floor. Then the other. Her skirt slid down her hips. The silk blouse slipped from her shoulders like a second skin. She stood for a moment in nothing but the carefully chosen lingerie, her body already trembling with anticipation. The lace clung damp against her, every movement a new sensation. The blindfold came last. As she tied it securely behind her head, her world fell into darkness. That was when she heard him. The sound of his slow, measured footsteps. The familiar scent of his cologne, subtle and commanding, drifting toward her. And then-his voice, low and full of warmth and power. "Good girl," he murmured. "You always do exactly as you're told. That's what I love about you." She nearly whimpered at the sound, the words hitting her like a caress. She felt the air shift in front of her-he was close-and then his hands were on her. She gasped softly, not expecting the first touch. His fingers skimmed her collarbone, slow and deliberate. Then down the curve of her arm, across her stomach, and along the edge of her hip. His touch wasn't hurried. It was exploratory. Appreciative. Reverent. "Being blindfolded sharpens everything," he said softly, fingers drifting across her ribs. "You don't see me... so all you can do is feel. You don't get to anticipate. You only get to receive." She shivered. Her lips parted. The desire she'd been suppressing all day began to rise like a tide. Her breathing quickened, her body aching for more. His hand cupped her jaw. His thumb swept across her lower lip. "Your body tells me everything I need to know," he whispered. "You're already soaked, aren't you, Princess?" Her cheeks flushed. Her thighs pressed together. She nodded once, small and trembling. He said nothing for a long moment-only let his hands roam, gliding over lace, teasing the under-curve of her breast, the swell of her ass, the inside of her thigh without quite touching where she craved it most. Then, finally, he took her hand in his. His grip was firm, grounding. He guided her down the hallway, each footstep echoing with silent anticipation. When they stopped, she knew where they were-the spare bedroom. But something was different. She could sense it. "Strip," he commanded gently. "But keep the blindfold on." She obeyed, feeling the cool air kiss her skin as each piece of lingerie peeled away, her arousal growing more raw in its vulnerability. The last thing she removed was her garter belt, letting it fall in a slow coil to the floor. "Now," he said, "onto the table. Face down." Table? She hesitated for a breath. There hadn't been a table in here before. But the moment she reached out, her hands touched soft leather padding. A massage table. A tremor passed through her. Her body tensed with the thrill of the unknown. He'd prepared this. For her. While she'd been obedient and wet and desperate all day, he'd been planning something exquisite. She climbed onto the table, skin flushed, senses sharp. The padding was cool against her breasts, her thighs, her stomach. Her nipples grazed the surface, sending jolts through her. Face down. Blindfolded. Naked. Exposed. And completely, deliciously, at his mercy. She exhaled slowly, bracing herself. The room was silent but for the rustle of Sir's movements behind her. Blindfolded, face down, and bare, Princess could only listen-each sound amplified by her own anticipation. She heard the gentle clink of ceramic, followed by the unmistakable slick sound of oil being poured into waiting hands. Then the friction-his hands rubbing together slowly, deliberately, building warmth. "This will be warm, Princess," Sir said softly, his voice like silk sliding through the quiet-smooth, intimate, full of promise. She nodded against the table, trusting. Expectant. And then-drip. The first drop landed just between her shoulder blades, and she gasped. Not painful-not quite-but intense. Another droplet followed, trailing in a slow line down her spine. A final bead rolled over the small of her back, lingering at the curve where her cheeks met. It clung there for a moment like a kiss of heat. She exhaled sharply, trembling beneath it. The scent drifted up-jasmine, sandalwood, something darker. Recognition bloomed in her chest. The oil massage candle. The one she'd shown him months ago in passing, not expecting he'd remember. But Sir remembered everything. His hands made first contact, palms gliding over her back in one long stroke that stole her breath. The warmth spread like fire in slow motion, easing into her skin, making her melt and ache all at once. "Tonight, Princess," Sir murmured, his voice low and deliberate, "I'm going to touch every inch of this beautiful body. Slowly. Thoroughly." He leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear. "And I expect to hear how it makes you feel. If you go silent..." A pause-pregnant, dangerous. "...I'll take it to mean you're not enjoying yourself. And you know how that would disappoint me." His touch continued, but she was momentarily speechless, lost in the exquisite sensation of heat and pressure. Her breath hitched, but no words came. SMACK. The sharp, sudden crack of his hand against her ass rang through the room, loud and startling. The pain was sharp, then faded into a blooming warmth that echoed deliciously through her body. "Yes, Sir!" she gasped, voice thick with arousal, clinging to the sting in her cheek like it was a medal. "Good girl," he murmured approvingly. His hands moved more firmly now, palms and fingers digging into the tense muscles of her back and neck. The pressure was deep and controlled, skilled in a way that made her moan without hesitation. Each knot he found, he unraveled with slow circles of his thumbs. And when it felt especially good, she let him hear it-the sound of her pleasure echoing softly into the pillow. Occasionally, his fingers swept up into her hair, tugging gently, massaging her scalp with just the right amount of pressure. She let out a loud, uninhibited moan, her body arching in response. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his smile in the pause that followed. Then-closer. His hips brushing hers as he leaned in. She felt the unmistakable press of his arousal against her side. She inhaled sharply, her entire body clenching in response, instinctively tilting her hips for more contact she couldn't have yet. He moved on to her arms, sliding his fingers from shoulder to wrist, tracing every line of her with care. When he reached her hand, he lifted it, guided it to his body-onto his raised thigh, she realized. Bare and warm and solid. Her fingers curled reflexively, nails biting lightly into his skin. She didn't know if he wanted her to touch. She couldn't ask. But he didn't pull away. He let her cling, let her feel him. Then his hands returned to her lower back, his thumbs kneading deeper with each pass. Slowly, inevitably, he moved lower. The first contact to her backside was reverent-slow, open-palmed strokes that made her breath catch again. His grip tightened slightly, massaging the plush curve of her ass with deliberate attention. Her thighs parted instinctively, offering more. The cool air met the slick heat between her legs. She didn't care. She wanted him to see. She wanted him to know exactly what he'd done to her. She was dripping. Arousal coated her thighs, warm and unashamed. Her body was open, trembling, trembling for more. Sir's hands returned to her backside, gliding over the supple curves with practiced ease. At first, his touch was light-teasing, almost delicate-but it didn't stay that way for long. His palms grew firmer, more insistent, as he began to knead deeply into the strong muscle beneath her skin. His thumbs pressed in slow, deliberate circles, working into the tension she hadn't even realized she was holding. Then came the pressure of his elbow, sinking into the thickest part of her glutes, drawing a low, breathy groan from her lips. She yielded beneath him, sighing with every stroke, her mind floating on a current of touch and obedience. But it was the shift in his hands-the way they slid between her cheeks, tracing downward with luxurious slowness-that brought her breath to a halt. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin between her two most vulnerable places, and a shiver ran the length of her spine. When his knuckles grazed the tender cleft between her folds, slick with need, she let out a raw, involuntary sound-half gasp, half plea. She tilted her hips instinctively, offering herself more openly, silently begging for what she wasn't allowed to ask for. His fingers dipped lower, gathering her wetness, gliding between her folds with a slow, practiced stroke. Sir paused. She could feel his gaze settle on her body like heat. "Such a responsive little thing," he murmured, voice low and steady, almost reverent. "Every touch speaks to you." A single finger traced her slit, slow and unhurried, slickness clinging to him as he teased the line of her desire. Her hips lifted to meet the contact, unable to remain still beneath his hand. He chuckled softly, pleased. "You're already aching for more, aren't you, Princess?" She whimpered in response, the noise spilling from her throat before she could contain it. "Good," he said simply. "Because I'm not done with you yet. Not even close." One last stroke glided over her swollen folds-slow, deliberate, electric-before his hands withdrew and began their descent down her legs. Her thighs trembled beneath his grip as he massaged deeply into the long, toned muscles, his body pressing close, the heat of him brushing against her like a promise. Each time his hands worked the inside of her thigh, she couldn't help it-her hips rotated toward his touch, offering herself silently. She reached for him again, her fingers brushing against bare flesh. Solid. Warm. Him. Her nails dug in slightly, and he didn't stop her. He let her feel him-let her hold that connection for just a moment longer. Down he moved, slow and sure, to her calves, and his grip remained firm, coaxing pleasure from every tight muscle. "Such soft legs," he murmured, almost to himself, as if the feel of her beneath his hands brought him some private satisfaction. "So smooth... so ready." When he reached her feet, she moaned without shame. His thumbs pressed deep into her arches, fingers dancing over the tops of her feet. The massage wasn't just relaxing-it was sensual, purposeful. Each movement reminded her that she was not just being touched. She was being prepared. And then he stilled. The air changed. "On your back now, Princess," he said, voice quieter than before-calm, but thick with intent. She obeyed instantly, heart fluttering, the silk of the blindfold still dark over her eyes. She turned over slowly, skin slick with oil, breasts rising with every shallow breath, thighs still parted from the want she hadn't been permitted to satisfy. The silence that followed said everything. She couldn't see him, but she felt him. His eyes devouring her. His breath closer than before. The heat of his presence hovering above her bare chest. Her nipples tightened under the air, exposed and eager, aching for his mouth or his hands-she didn't care which came first. Every inch of her was alive, aware, waiting. She knew the massage wasn't ending. It was just beginning. And now that she was open to him-completely, shamelessly exposed-she understood what this had all been leading to. This was no longer about relaxation. This was about surrender.

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