Praise Me Like You Own Me: The Research Files No. 8

All orgasms are earned. This one came with cuffs.

“Go stand in the corner,” he says.

The command is absurd, and for a second, I almost laugh—but his eyes stop me cold. They say don’t you dare. So I obey. I walk to the corner of the room, facing a cold, blank white wall under a ceiling taller than anything my apartment would ever allow, and I stand.

My legs are bare. His t-shirt hangs just long enough to suggest decency, but not enough to offer it. I feel ridiculous at first, like I’ve wandered into someone else’s power fantasy. But the longer I stand there, the more aware I become of my own body. Every nerve. Every inch of skin. Behind me, I can hear him moving through his morning. The scrape of the French press. The delicate clink of a spoon in a glass. The sound of his footsteps approaching... then retreating again.

I want to turn around—my muscles twitch with it—but I know the rules. I’m not here to watch. I’m here to be watched.

Time becomes elastic. It might have been three minutes. It might have been forever.

“You look good there,” he says eventually, his voice so casual it nearly makes me flinch. But when he speaks again, he’s close—so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on the crown of my head.

“Every person should have at least one moment this humbling.”

His finger traces up the back of my thigh—slow, not sexual, just... observational, like he’s making a map no one else will see. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I want to say something clever. Something deflective and sharp. But all I come up with is the truth. “I feel ridiculous.”

“That’s the genius of it,” he murmurs. “All the intelligence, all the poise—useless. You stand. You wait. You feel. What else?”

His presence behind me shifts, heavier now, like his body is drawing mine upright. I stand taller. I lift my chin.

“Exposed,” I say, the word barely audible.

He doesn’t respond. Not with words. Not even with breath. Just silence, thick and electric.

“But it’s not bad,” I add, searching for the shape of what I mean. “It’s just... I’ve never been this honest before. Even with myself.”

His hand comes up, fingers sliding gently along my jaw, turning my face so I can barely catch his profile out of the corner of my eye.

“That’s all I ever wanted from you,” he says softly. “Everything else? Theater. This is real.”

He turns my face the rest of the way. The pressure isn’t harsh, but it doesn’t ask for permission either. I meet his eyes.

“I could fuck you right here,” he says, calm as anything. “Punish you for thinking honesty is a flaw. But I’m not going to.”

My surprise must show on my face—he sees it, of course, he does—and grins. Almost affectionate.

Instead of words, he kisses my shoulder. His hands slide slowly down my arms until his palms rest against mine. His chest presses against my back, and when he speaks again, it’s a whisper meant for me alone.

“I want you to remember this feeling. Naked. Real. No armour.”

Then he steps back, and the air around me seems to stretch. The room feels twice as large. The windows, wider. The city beyond them, infinite.

“Get dressed,” he says. “We have plans.”

We.

I brought a change of clothes. But those aren’t what I’m meant to wear.

On the bed, he’s left a garment bag.

Inside: a silk blouse, delicate and dark. A fitted skirt, black but nowhere near corporate—shorter, tighter, suggestive. The skirt hugs my hips like a promise. The heels are modest, lower than I prefer, designed to keep me just slightly off balance.

The lingerie tucked beneath it all is white. Lace. Virginal. A joke. A dare.

I dress slowly, resisting the urge to analyze every choice he made for me. But I know he’s watching. There’s no mirror, so I have to rely on feel. The fabric. The fit. The shape of his silence behind me. My hands shake slightly as I button the blouse.

And when I’m done, I don’t wait. I walk to him.

I find him in the foyer, hands in his pockets, the clean lines of his jacket immaculate over a white shirt. Car keys in one hand—a different kind of leash.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says. No irony. No edge. He isn’t looking at the blouse, or the skirt, or the shoes—but at me. Straight through, as if I’m nothing but the sum of all the ways I’ve unravelled for him.

“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice only slightly shaky.

“Surprise.”

He opens the door and rests his hand at the small of my back—guiding, not claiming. It’s not a shove. It’s not a grip. It’s a boundary and a comfort, both.

The elevator ride is silent. He doesn’t touch me. Not quite. But his presence presses in. I smell his aftershave, that faint musk that’s only his—clean, restrained, dangerous.

The doors open. A black car waits at the curb, glass gleaming like a mirror held up to someone else’s life. I slide into the seat, and the skirt hikes up higher than the design ever intended. I fight the urge to tug it down.

He drives. Not slow. Not reckless. Just decisive—like the road already belongs to him. City lights blur into rain-streaked glass. My knees stay pressed together, hands folded tightly in my lap, because I don’t know what to do with them.

He glances sideways. His left hand drums a lazy rhythm on the wheel. “Are you nervous?”

My instinct is to be clever, but my mouth is dry. When I speak, the words thread out too thin. “You said it’s a surprise. I don’t like surprises.”

He nods once. “You like control.”

A red light halts us. City noise spills in—horns, brakes, rain against steel. He slips his hand from the wheel and takes mine, fingers lacing. The gesture is so gentle, so normal, it nearly guts me.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says, thumb brushing my knuckle as the light changes and we move again. “Not the way you’re thinking. Do you trust me?”

My belly flips. I don’t answer. But I don’t pull away.

The rest of the ride is quiet. No forced conversation. Just his hand in mine, and the steady cadence of his pulse slowing mine down.

We park in a private garage—unmarked, discreet. This isn’t a restaurant. Not a club. The building is older than anything I’ve seen him in before: carved stone façade, wrought iron, the weight of old money humming through its bones.

He leads me to a side entrance. Steel door. Double-bolted. Keyless. He knocks once. Waits. Then he knocks again, a different rhythm.

A woman answers. Forties, sharp as winter. Cheekbones like cut glass. She’s draped in velvet the colour of midnight, with a choker tight enough to be either a vow or a warning. Her eyes flick over me—blouse, skirt, knees tilted together, the tremor I can’t quite hide.

She smiles. Paper-cut sharp. And steps aside.

What I expect: a club. A scene. Leather and latex and stage-managed depravity.

What I get: a parlour. Private. Quiet. Intimate in the way money can afford—velvet shadows, antique lamps, and a silence so thick it might be curated. The scent is a blend of leather and wax, with a subtle undercurrent of something floral. Ancient and classy.

The woman closes the door behind us and waits, hands folded like a sentry with secrets.
“Password?” she asks.

My companion answers without hesitation. “Ultimatum.”

Her expression softens—just a flicker, like a slip in the mask. “You’re expected,” she says, then gestures for us to sit.

He guides me to the settee and waits for me to lower myself before joining, a careful quarter of a cushion-space apart. It’s deliberate. Measured. A performance, or maybe a warning.

There’s another couple already in the room, perched on a velvet loveseat across the space. They look more like gallery curators than sex club’s frequenters, but the tension in their posture says otherwise. The woman’s blouse is sheer enough to provoke scandal at a fundraiser, and the man keeps licking his canine like it owes him something. I don’t meet their eyes, but I feel them. Watching. Weighing. As if I’m a specimen. Or a prey.

My companion places my hand in his lap and squeezes once. I should be mortified.
Instead, I press closer, tuned, alert, and quietly ravenous.

The woman in velvet—host, mistress, or high priestess of this shadow cathedral—claims the chair opposite us. She crosses her legs with a precision that dares you to blink.

“Welcome,” she says, drawing the word out like a silken leash.
Her eyes settle on me. “I see you’ve brought a debutante.”

I glance at him, something tight fluttering in my chest. He squeezes my hand again—warning, anchor, command.

The Mistress smiles, all porcelain and predator. “You may observe or participate at will.” Her gaze lingers on me a breath too long before turning to him. “And you, sir, have requested a demonstration.”

He nods once, businesslike, as if confirming a decanting. “Go ahead. I want my pet to see what she’s agreeing to.”