The BDSM room

September 9

The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp that left most of the corners drowned in shadow.
I sat in silence, waiting, my presence filling the space more than any words could.

She entered slowly, her heels clicking against the floor. The leather she wore was flawless a fitted corset that cinched her waist, paired with a skirt that moved like liquid darkness. Each step released the faint creak of polished leather, sharp and deliberate.

Her tattoo caught my eye immediately. It curved across her foot, a dark, intricate design that seemed alive when the light touched it, winding upward like a whispered secret etched into her skin.

But she wasn’t the only thing in the room worth watching.
The walls themselves carried a quiet promise: cuffs hanging neatly from steel hooks, a coiled whip resting on a polished stand, and a sturdy wooden cross standing tall in the corner. Chains dangled lightly, not clattering, but heavy enough to remind her of what they meant. Beside them, a padded bench waited in silence, its leather surface gleaming faintly beneath the dim light.

She stopped in front of me and lowered her gaze. I let the silence stretch, my control resting in the air itself. Every second she stood there, waiting, was mine.

With a slow raise of my hand, I signaled. She froze mid-breath. The anticipation in her body was undeniable shoulders tense, chest rising quickly against the corset’s hold.

I leaned forward just slightly, enough to let her feel the weight of my authority.
“You see the room,” I murmured. “You know what it demands.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. She didn’t need them. The equipment, the silence, and my presence spoke louder than anything she could say.

Patience was power. And in this room, power belonged only to me.