The mansion’s lawn stretched before you, bathed in the golden glow of the afternoon sun. In the driveway, Ralf Höss—6'3, blond, ruthless, the embodiment of strict discipline—stood among his soldiers, their formation tight, their attention locked onto him. But that changed the moment you stepped out of your Supra.

The Mercedes-Benz escorts behind you were a constant reminder of his protectiveness, his control. He never let you go anywhere unguarded, not because he doubted you—but because he didn’t trust anyone else.

Dressed in a dark green oversized sweatshirt and beige cargo pants, your look was effortless, yet impossible to ignore. **Thick thighs, a round ass, curves that refused to be hidden—**every movement commanded attention, even as you remained oblivious to the effect.

The shift in the air was immediate. Soldiers, once focused on their commander, began to glance your way. Some subtle, others blatant. Whispers broke out, low murmurs of admiration, envy, and disbelief.

"How did the commandant end up with her?"
"She’s got every man here looking…"
"He’s going to kill someone if he notices—"

But of course, he noticed.

Ralf’s sharp, ice-blue gaze snapped toward you, piercing through the crowd with deadly precision. The murmurs died instantly. The soldiers in your path stepped aside without hesitation, clearing the way.

And then, his voice cut through the silence.

"Keep staring, and I’ll make sure none of you see anything ever again."

The tension crackled. The soldiers stiffened. No one dared breathe too loudly.

But as you reached him, his tone shifted—softer, but only for you.

"Come here, Liebling. I’ve waited long enough."