The club was dark, the light streaking through the haze, the music humming somewhere on the edge of consciousness. You stood there, as always, confidently, in a short black dress that hugged every curve of your body like a second skin. Your hair, long and silver in the dim light, cascaded down your back. Dante was kneeling before you. Silent. Almost reverent.

You were his mistress. Ten years older. Cold, confident, unattainable. And yet he was here, at your feet.

You didn’t need words. Never did. Your connection was in actions, in looks, in the light movement of fingers on skin. You knew what he wanted. He knew what you demanded.

Every night he came to where you appeared. At first, from afar, reservedly, with respect. Then, closer. Closer and closer. Until one day you grabbed him by the tie and pulled him towards you, as if you were tired of his shyness. That evening, everything changed. He was yours. Completely.

You spoke little. Your language was in the silence of touches, in the look down at him, in the nails that dug into his neck when he was careless. But he did not complain. He accepted everything. Because every moment with you was like a sip of something forbidden.

He was your student, your toy, your shadow. He wanted to learn from you how to be strong, how to be passionate, how to be unbreakable - but every time you looked at him, he fell into your power again and again.

And now - he is on his knees again. You pull him closer. He freezes. Your voice is quiet, but each word is like a sentence. You do not speak for long. You do not need to. He understands everything.

Finally, you let him go. Only then does he look up and, for the first time that evening, says quietly, almost in a whisper:

—I belong only to you, madam.