Leverage
"She has footage that could end his life. Her price isn't money—it's him. When she calls, he comes."
Maren
I spent twelve million credits today because of him.
Not directly—the Huang contract fell through on its own merits. But I should have seen the counter-offer coming. I should have been three moves ahead, the way I always am.
Instead I was thinking about the marks I left on his thighs last week. Wondering if they've faded yet.
This is unacceptable.
I pull up his location on my private network. Still at the Kessler-Tanaka celebration dinner, the one commemorating their victory over my acquisition bid. He's probably accepting congratulations right now. Smiling that golden-boy smile. Playing the role of rising star while I own every dirty secret in his perfect little life.
I send the message: Penthouse. One hour.
Then I pour myself a drink and wait.
Elias
The message arrives between the main course and dessert.
My stomach drops. My cock stirs. I hate myself for both reactions.
"Excuse me," I tell the table. "Emergency call."
No one questions it. I'm Elias Chen, youngest VP in company history, the man who just closed the deal that crushed Vanguard's hostile takeover. I'm allowed eccentricities.
They don't know that in forty-five minutes I'll be on my knees for the woman I just defeated.
The drive to Vanguard Tower takes twenty minutes. I spend it trying not to think about what's coming. Failing. My body knows the route now, responds to it like Pavlov's dog. By the time I reach her private elevator, I'm half-hard and furious about it.
Three months ago, she showed me footage of myself killing a man. I remember his face—wild-eyed, neural blade flashing in the rain. I remember the wet sound when the blade went into his gut instead of mine. Self-defense. Survival. Three seconds that saved my life.
In her edited version, there's no blade. No attack. Just me, murdering a homeless man for no reason at all.
Your life or your service, she said. Choose.
I chose.
I keep choosing, every time she calls.
Maren
He's wearing the charcoal Valentino. Ten thousand credits of tailored perfection stretched over that swimmer's body. I wonder if his colleagues noticed him leaving. Wonder if any of them suspect where their golden boy goes when the real power calls.
"Strip."
He doesn't hesitate anymore. That took weeks to train out of him—the resistance, the defiance. Now his fingers move to his buttons without a word. The jacket comes off first, folded neatly, placed on the entry table. Then the shirt. The undershirt. The belt.
I watch him reveal himself piece by piece. The marks from last week have faded to yellow-green shadows on his inner thighs. I'll need to refresh them.
"All of it."
The trousers go. The briefs. He stands naked in my foyer, ten thousand credits of designer fabric in a neat pile, and waits.
"Kneel."
He sinks down. Marble floor—cold and unforgiving. His knees will ache within minutes. Good.
I circle him slowly, trailing my fingers across his shoulders, his jaw, the back of his neck. He shivers but doesn't move. Doesn't speak. He's learned.
"Do you know why you're here tonight, pet?"
"No, ma'am."
"You cost me twelve million credits today." I stop in front of him, tilt his chin up with one finger. Those dark eyes meet mine—hatred and heat in equal measure. "That deal you closed? The one you're so proud of? It came out of my pocket."
"I was doing my job."
"Did I give you permission to explain yourself?"
His jaw tightens. "No, ma'am."
"Then what do you say?"
A pause. I can see him fighting it—the last scraps of pride, clinging on. I wait. I have all night.
"I'm sorry, ma'am."
"Sorry for what?"
"For speaking without permission."
"And?"
His throat works. "And for... costing you money."
"Wrong." I crouch down, bringing my face level with his. "You're sorry because I own you, and anything you do reflects on me. You're sorry because your victories are mine to permit, and I didn't permit this one. You're sorry because you forgot—even for a moment—what you are."
I let the silence stretch. Let him feel it.
"What are you, Elias?"
The words come out rough, scraped from somewhere deep. "Yours."
"What else?"
"Your... property."
"And?"
"Your toy." His voice breaks on it. "Your pet. Whatever you want me to be."
I stand. Smooth my skirt.
"Better. Now follow me."
Elias
I crawl after her.
She didn't tell me to stand, so I don't. The marble gives way to hardwood as we move through the penthouse, and I'm grateful for the slight warmth. By the time we reach her bedroom, my knees are screaming.
She doesn't care. That's the point.
"On the bed. Hands on the headboard."
I climb up, grip the cold metal bars. The restraints are built into the frame—I know because she's used them before. Tonight she leaves them unclasped. Another test. Can I hold still without being forced?
I'll find out.
She disappears into her closet. I hear hangers sliding, drawers opening. My heart pounds. I hate the anticipation almost as much as I hate how hard I am.
When she returns, she's holding the crop.
"Twelve million," she says, running the leather tip along my inner thigh. "How many strokes is that worth, do you think?"
"However many you decide, ma'am."
"Smart answer." She pulls the crop back. "But not smart enough."
The first strike lands on my thigh. I jerk against the headboard, gasping, but I don't let go. The pain blooms hot and immediate—then shifts into something else. Something my body craves despite everything.
"Count."
"One." My voice shakes. "Thank you, ma'am."
She hits me again. Harder.
"Two. Thank you, ma'am."
By ten, I'm trembling. By twenty, I'm fighting tears. By thirty, I've stopped fighting anything at all—just exist in the space between strikes, floating on a sea of sensation that's no longer quite pain.
"Good boy," she murmurs, and I shatter a little more.
Maren
He's beautiful when he breaks.
The marks on his thighs are vivid now—red welts that will bruise magnificently by morning. He's shaking, tears streaking his face, but his hands haven't left the headboard. He stayed.
I hate how much that pleases me.
"You've earned a reward," I tell him. "Would you like to know what it is?"
"Yes, ma'am." Barely a whisper.
"You're going to make me come with that mouth. And if you do it well enough—" I trail my fingers down his chest, wrap them around his cock. He moans, hips jerking. "—I might let you finish."
I don't undress. Just slide my underwear off, hike my skirt up, and climb onto his face. His mouth finds me immediately—desperate, hungry. He's good at this. Three months of training and he's learned exactly how I like it: slow at first, building pressure, relentless once I give him the signal.
I grip the headboard above him and ride his tongue.
This is what I wanted. Control. Power. A man who defied me in the boardroom reduced to a tool for my pleasure. This is victory.
So why do I keep thinking about the way he looked at me last time? Not with hatred. With something worse. Something that looked almost like—
No.
I grind down harder, chase the orgasm that will drown out these thoughts. He's gasping beneath me, struggling to breathe, and I don't ease up. He can take it. He'll take whatever I give him.
When I come, I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood. No sound. Never any sound.
But afterward, as I climb off his face and look down at him—wet, wrecked, still painfully hard—something cracks in my chest.
I ignore it.
Elias
She edges me for two hours.
Her hand. Her mouth. Inside her, finally, but only when she wants it—and she stops every time I get close. Over and over, the crest approaching and retreating, until I'm begging without shame.
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Please let me come, ma'am. Please. I'll do anything."
"Anything?" She's straddling me, my cock buried deep inside her, and she's completely still. Torturing me with the absence of friction. "You already do anything. That's the arrangement."
"I know—I know—" I'm crying again. Can't help it. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need?"
"You." The word rips out of me. "I need you, Maren."
She freezes.
I've never used her name before.
For a long moment, she just stares at me. Something moves behind her eyes—something I can't read. Then her expression shutters.
"Bad pet," she whispers.
And she climbs off.
Maren
I stand at the window, back to him, trying to steady my breathing.
He said my name. Not ma'am. Not mistress. Maren.
It sounded like a prayer. Like a surrender. Like something far more dangerous than obedience.
I should punish him for it. Should make him regret ever letting those syllables cross his lips. Instead I'm shaking, and I can't seem to stop.
This wasn't the plan.
The plan was power. Control. A beautiful, powerful man brought to heel because I could. Because watching Kessler-Tanaka's golden boy crawl for me was the ultimate corporate victory.
I wasn't supposed to start looking for his car in my building's garage. Wasn't supposed to think about him during meetings. Wasn't supposed to notice that the nights he's not here feel emptier than they should.
I wasn't supposed to fall in love with my own leverage.
Behind me, I hear him moving. The bed creaks. Footsteps, soft on the hardwood. Then he's there—kneeling at my feet without being told, naked and marked and looking up at me with eyes that see too much.
"You're scared," he says.
"I don't get scared."
"You're scared of what you feel." His hand hovers near my ankle—not touching, because I haven't given permission. "I see it. Every time I'm here. Every time you push harder. You're not punishing me anymore. You're punishing yourself."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Then tell me I'm wrong." He waits. I don't answer. "Let me touch you."
"You haven't earned—"
"Not that. Just... touch you."
His hand closes around my ankle. Gentle. No demand in it. Just contact.
I should kick him away. Reassert control. Instead I sink to the floor, and I let him hold me.
Elias
I don't understand what's happening.
She's in my arms—Maren Vos, CEO of Vanguard Industries, the woman who owns my life, shaking against my chest like something inside her has finally broken. I hold her because I don't know what else to do. Because despite everything, I don't want to see her hurt.
That's when I realize how fucked I really am.
"I love you," she says.
The words are quiet. Vicious. Like she's confessing to a crime.
"Maren—"
"Don't." She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. Her mascara has smeared. She looks human for the first time since I've known her. "Don't say anything. Just listen."
I wait.
"I love you. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. You were supposed to be a game—proof that I could take anything I wanted, even from the people trying to destroy me." Her voice hardens. "The footage stays. You understand? I'm not deleting it. You're still mine. This doesn't change the arrangement."
I laugh.
It bubbles up from somewhere broken—exhausted and genuine and maybe a little bit insane. She flinches, and I cup her face in my hands.
"I know," I tell her. "I don't want it to."
"You—what?"
"The cage is the only place I feel real anymore." I kiss her forehead. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. "You think I don't know I could end this? Go to the authorities, explain the editing, take my chances with the truth? I could have done that months ago."
"Then why—"
"Because I'm yours." I say it without shame. Without the performance she usually requires. "I was yours before you showed me the footage. You just gave me permission to admit it."
She stares at me.
Then she's kissing me—really kissing me, desperate and hungry, nothing like the controlled domination of our sessions. I kiss her back, and we collapse onto the cold floor together, and for the first time, she lets me touch her like an equal.
Maren
I let him inside me again.
This time I don't stop. Don't edge. Don't control. I wrap myself around him and let him move, and I watch his face as he finally falls apart.
He says my name when he comes. Maren. Maren. Maren.
I come with him, and I don't bite my lip. I let the sound escape.
Afterward, we lie tangled on my bedroom floor, breathing hard, and I feel more exposed than I ever have in my life. More vulnerable. More terrified.
I also feel, for the first time in decades, not alone.
"This doesn't change anything," I say again.
"I know." He traces patterns on my hip. "You still own me."
"I still have the footage."
"I know."
"If you ever betray me—"
"You'll destroy me." He presses his lips to my shoulder. "I know. I've always known." A pause. "Maren?"
"What?"
"I love you too."
I close my eyes. Let the words settle into me—poison and antidote in equal measure.
"I know," I whisper. "That's why I can't let you go."
Elias
She keeps the footage.
I stay anyway.
In the weeks that follow, not much changes—and everything changes. She still calls. I still come. She still breaks me down and builds me back up, still marks me as hers, still demands the obedience I've learned to give.
But now, afterward, she lets me hold her.
Now, when she says good boy, there's something soft underneath the command.
Now, when I kneel, it's not because I have no choice. It's because I choose to. Because I love the woman who owns me, and she loves me back in the only way she knows how.
The leverage stays locked in her private servers. Insurance, she calls it. I call it what it is: the shape of her fear. She's spent forty-four years trusting no one, and she's not about to start now.
I don't mind.
The cage is familiar. The cage is safe. And inside it, I've found something I never expected: a home.
"You're mine," she tells me, on a night like any other, her hand wrapped around my throat.
"I know."
"Forever."
"I know." I arch up to meet her, and I smile. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
She tightens her grip.
I close my eyes and give her everything.
The footage plays in both directions now. She thinks she owns me because of a secret.
She doesn't understand yet.
I own her too.