Chapter 7 Obey: Part I

I've always been drawn to quiet men. Not the kind who brood for attention or wear their silence like armor. No-I mean the ones who observe more than they speak. The ones who choose their words the way a sommelier chooses wine.

He was one of them.

At first glance, he didn't stand out. Clean lines. Sharp jaw. Buttoned shirt too stiff for his skin. But it was his eyes-soft, unsure, always darting-that betrayed something else. Something aching to be molded.

I met him in my Tuesday night workshop. "Erotics of Language"-a curated space for writers who wanted to learn how to use sensuality in storytelling. Most came in with curiosity or thinly veiled hunger. He came in with a notebook gripped like a lifeline and questions trembling on his lips.

I noticed him in the third session. He waited until everyone had left to speak to me.

"I-um-can I ask you something... off the record?"

I folded my arms, tilted my head. "You just did."

He flushed. "Right. Sorry."

His nervous energy delighted me. "Go on."

"I signed up for this workshop because... I wanted to understand women better. Sexually." He looked at his shoes. "I've never really... pleased anyone. Not truly. And I thought maybe learning how to write it might help me... feel it."

I stepped closer, letting silence stretch between us. He didn't meet my eyes.

"Why do you think you haven't pleased a woman before?" I asked.

He exhaled. "Because I focus too much on what I think they want. Or what I want. I don't listen. I don't read between the lines. And... it shows."

God, he was honest. Beautifully, painfully honest.

I smiled, slow and amused. "What are you asking me for, then?"

He finally looked up, eyes desperate but soft. "I want you to teach me. Not just through writing. Through... experience."

The word hung in the air like a held breath.

I let it linger. Let him squirm in its weight.

Then I stepped close enough for him to smell my perfume-something rich and spiced, like warm skin at midnight.

"I don't do pity lessons," I said. "And I don't fuck men who can't follow instructions."

"I can follow instructions," he said, fast.

"Mm." I circled him once, slowly, like a lioness eyeing prey. "Even if they make you ache?"

"Yes."

"Even if I don't let you touch me until I say so?"

He hesitated. Then nodded.

I stopped in front of him, close enough that our breaths brushed. I tilted his chin up with one finger. His lips parted.

"Then I will teach you," I whispered. "But you will obey me. Utterly."

"Yes," he breathed. "I will."

The first rule of dominance is not to ask. It's to claim.

I stepped back, took off my heels, and walked barefoot across the dark wooden floor of the studio space.

"Close the door."

He obeyed.

"Lock it."

He did.

I sat in the leather chair at the front of the room, crossed one leg over the other, and looked at him-really looked.

"Take off your clothes," I said.

He blinked. "All of them?"

I said nothing.

He swallowed hard. Fingers moved to his buttons, fumbling at first. He peeled off the shirt, revealing a lean, lightly muscled torso-one that looked like it had more tension than ease. He paused at his belt, looked at me again.

Still, I said nothing.

He took off his pants. Then his briefs.

He stood there, completely naked, hands at his sides, breath shallow.

The second rule of dominance? Stillness is power. I let my gaze rake over him-soft in places, hard in others. His arousal was visible, but not arrogant. Just... eager.

I didn't smile. Not yet.

"Do you know how to listen to a woman's body?" I asked.

"No," he admitted.

"Do you know how to look at one without trying to possess it?"

"I... want to."

I stood, walked over, and touched his chest with just two fingers. Traced them down, slow, watching the way his skin rose in goosebumps. His cock twitched, helplessly.

I looked into his eyes. "Then you'll learn."

He nodded again. So ready. So breakable.

I picked up my silk scarf from the table-red, long, soft. I stepped behind him and wrapped it over his eyes, tying it gently.

"You'll be blindfolded tonight," I said. "You don't get to see me until you've learned how to feel me. Is that clear?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"And you will not speak unless I ask a question."

He inhaled shakily. "Yes."

"Good." I brushed my fingers down his spine. He shivered. "Lesson one: surrender isn't weakness. It's trust. And trust," I said, walking around to face him again, "is the most seductive thing a man can give."

I guided him to his knees.

He obeyed without question.

The sight of him-nude, blindfolded, kneeling-stirred something deep in me. Not pity. Not amusement. Hunger.

"Stay there," I said.

I let the silence grow heavy again. Let his mind race. His cock was hard now, flushed and proud, but I didn't touch it. Not yet.

I walked over to the chair, sat, and uncrossed my legs slowly.

"I'm going to touch myself," I said calmly. "And you're going to listen. You're going to hear what pleasure sounds like. How breath changes. How silence curves."

He gasped softly.

I didn't give him permission to speak.

I slipped one hand between my thighs, never breaking eye contact-though he couldn't see it.

The first moan was soft. Just enough to make his lips part.

The second came when I pressed deeper, let my breath catch in my throat.

He shifted, instinctively reaching toward the sound.

"No," I snapped.

He froze.

"You will not move unless I tell you to."

"Yes," he said.

I kept going, slowly, audibly. Let the rhythm of my pleasure become a lesson. Let the sounds of my breath, the wet of my fingers, become his guide.

He stayed still. Trembling. Aching.

I stood when I was close, walked to him again. I touched his mouth, slipping two fingers inside.

"Taste what you don't get to have yet."

He moaned into my fingers. His tongue moved slowly, reverently.

I pulled away and leaned down to whisper against his cheek.

"Next time," I said, "if you've been good, I might let you earn more."

He exhaled shakily.

I kissed his temple.

"Lesson one is over."