The elevator doors sealed us in, the air thick with the scent of her perfume and the unspoken weight of our history. She stood against the far wall, trembling slightly in her black dress, a presence reignited by that glance across the gala months ago. I leaned against the opposite side, my presence filling the space in my crisp suit, a quiet authority guiding the moment. The numbers ticked upward, and I decided to test her—her obedience, her desire. “Count backward from ten,” I murmured, my voice a velvet-wrapped command, laced with whisky and intent. It was a ritual from our past, a way to center her, to make her voice her surrender like a prayer, each number a step deeper into my world.
By floor eight, her thighs were trembling, her breath a prayer she didn’t know she was reciting. I hadn’t even touched her yet. The elevator’s hum pulsed like a heartbeat, steady against her faltering count. “Keep going,” I said, my tone low and firm, and she obeyed—seven, six, five—each number a surrender to the tension building between us. Her dress clung to her skin, hinting at the heat beneath, and I could feel her anticipation like a current. At three, her voice cracked, a soft gasp escaping as my fingers brushed her wrist, not to take, but to guide. The ding of floor one loomed, and I stepped back, leaving her pressed against the wall, her eyes pleading for the release I’d make her earn.
The doors slid open, revealing the shadowed hallway of my building, but she didn’t move. Her lips parted, a silent question hanging in the air, and I could see the war within her—desire battling the hesitation I’d planted with my command. I tilted my head, my gaze softening just enough to show I saw her struggle. “Step out,” I said, my tone firm yet laced with a care that promised safety amid the storm. She hesitated, then obeyed, her steps unsteady as she crossed the threshold, the click of her heels echoing like a confession.
I followed, closing the distance with deliberate steps, my presence in my suit casting a shadow that enveloped her. My hand found the small of her back, steady but not possessive, guiding her toward my door. She shivered under my touch, and I knew it was the weight of my being. Inside, I turned her to face me, leaning close. “You did well,” I whispered, my voice a rumble of approval, rewarding her obedience with the kindness she craved.
But the game wasn’t over. I stepped back, untying my crisp blue tie with slow precision, letting the silk slide through my fingers. Her eyes widened, anticipation mounting as I held it before her, a symbol of the moment. “Beg for it,” I commanded, my presence a subtle promise, not yet claiming but hinting at ecstasy. Her breath hitched, and she whispered my name—Alex—her voice breaking with need. I smiled, rugged and tender, knowing the power I held, and the empathy that would lift her to the edge and beyond.
The hallway light dimmed as I led her inside, the door clicking shut behind us, sealing us in a world where her surrender was my triumph, and her pleasure, my victory.
The Charm of a Gentleman 