I know what you’re doing the second I lay eyes on you. That dress. That colour — the one you know makes me weak. The tights underneath, the way you move — slow, deliberate, like every step is choreographed to test my patience. We’re both at the BBMAs, playing our parts. You’re the headlining star tonight, all eyes on you. I’m with the boys. And yet, the only eyes you seem to care about are mine. You walk past me in the corridor. Don’t say a word. Just a brush of perfume — the one I gave you — and a flick of your eyes over your shoulder. One glance and I’m already ten steps behind my control.

Then you take the stage. The routine is sultry, more daring than usual. You settle into a chair like it’s a throne, legs crossed, lips parted just enough. You know I’m watching. Every movement confirms it. You’re performing, but not for them. For me. And I’ve had enough. I leave the party first. You show up a moment later — your car rolling quietly into the drive of the hotel. I don’t wait for you to step into the lift. The second your heels hit the lobby, I lift you clean off your feet. No words, no warnings.

You let out a sound — soft, startled — as I throw you gently over my shoulder. My arm wraps around the backs of your thighs, your dress slipping just enough for my hand to find the bare skin underneath. I swat once. A warning. “You think I didn’t notice?” I murmur as I climb the stairs with you in my arms. “The way you moved tonight. The looks. The way you sat. Like you wanted me to snap.” You squirm. I tighten my grip. “Too late now, love.”

I don’t even bother with the lights when we reach my hotel room. I set you down on the mattress, fingers already tugging at the zipper of your dress. It falls with a whisper. You stand still, watching me with that look — part challenge, part surrender. Good.

I head to the closet. The white box waits on the top shelf. Silver letters on the lid: 'Good girl'. I bring it over, setting it at the foot of the bed. “Clothes off. On your knees.” You obey. Silently. Perfectly. I fasten the collar first — soft leather, cool against your skin. The tag swings lightly when you breathe. Next come the cuffs — snug at your wrists. You bow your head slightly. My voice drops.

“Colour?”

"Green, Sir." A whispered breath. That’s all I need.

“Good girl.”

I guide you down, chest to the mattress, arms behind your back. Rope loops through my fingers in steady patterns, practiced and smooth. You’re still, trusting, letting me shape the moment. “You know why you’re here like this,” I murmur. “You wanted this. Worked for it all night.” You press your cheek to the sheets. I watch your back rise and fall.

I reach for the leather implement — not harsh, never that. Just enough weight to remind you where you stand. I trail it down your spine first. You shiver. Then the first strike. Not pain. Pressure. Control. Sound. You breathe in deep. Stay still.

Another. And another.

I space them out, watching the way your muscles react, the way your fingers curl. Every few I pause to run my hand along your back, grounding you. Giving you that rhythm you crave. “You wanted to be in control out there,” I say, my voice low and close. “On that stage. In that room.” I lean over you, lips brushing your ear. “But in here, you know who you belong to.”

I continue — slow, deliberate. Varying the rhythm, keeping you guessing. Every shift in your breathing is a signal I’ve learned to read. Every sound you make is a thread between us. You melt into it, surrendering to the rhythm I set. That perfect balance of tension and care. I rest my hand on your lower back, firm and warm. “We’re not done yet, pet,” I whisper. But you already know.