Chapter 55: Confession No. 37– The Dinner Obedience Test
Amaya stood in front of her full length mirror, breath shallow.
Roman’s instructions were clear.
“Dinner. 8 PM. Black dress. No bra. No panties. Hair up. Heels. Wear the plug.”
She obeyed. Not because she had to but because she craved to.
Every time he touched her, she unravelled. Every command he gave? It wasn’t control. It was freedom. The freedom to stop pretending she didn’t want to be owned.
She arrived at the private rooftop club at 7:59 PM, escorted by a man who only said, “He’s waiting.”
The place shimmered with luxury: candlelight, sharp suited men, pearls and diamonds, and waiters in black. An exclusive members only restaurant where the glass walls revealed Chicago glowing like a galaxy.
Roman sat in the farthest booth, half-shadowed, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at sin beneath silk.
She approached slowly. His eyes lifted. Slow sweep. Heat.
“You’re on time,” he said, voice low.
“I always will be,” she replied.
He rose, kissed her cheek almost gentlemanly, then whispered in her ear:
“You’re dripping through your thighs already, aren’t you?”
She shivered.
He guided her into the booth and sat beside her instead of across. His hand casually draped over the curve of her thigh. The menu arrived, but neither of them looked at it.
He handed her a small black box under the table. She opened it with shaking fingers.
A remote.
Her lips parted.
Roman’s smile was all wolf.
“You will sit beside me. Smile when spoken to. Order dinner. And not come until I press the blue button. If you fail.”
He trailed a finger under her chin.
“You’ll be taken to the restroom, bent over the marble counter, and spanked until you remember who you belong to.”
She swallowed.
“I understand.”
“Good girl.”
The first vibration was subtle.
It started as she lifted her water glass.
Her hand shook. Roman’s knuckles brushed hers, steadying her. He was calm, collected, while the butterfly fluttered between her legs made her grind discreetly against the leather seat.
He leaned in.
“Keep your legs spread wider.”
She obeyed, heart thudding.
A waiter approached. “Evening. Would you like the pairing menu or à la carte?”
Amaya opened her mouth to speak and gasped.
Roman increased the intensity.
“I. We’ll go with the pairing,” she managed, her voice breathless.
The waiter’s eyes flickered. Roman didn’t look up.
As the courses arrived, Roman fed her.
Truffle risotto. Champagne-glazed scallops. Chocolate souffle.
Each bite was heaven. But nothing compared to the torture below the table. Roman played her like an instrument, dialling it higher, then off, then back teasing the edge of climax before yanking her back.
By the third course, her thighs were trembling.
Her hands clutched her napkin like it might save her from drowning in desire.
“Spread your legs more,” he whispered. “Let it work deeper.”
She bit her lip hard enough to leave a mark.
Then disaster.
A man approached.
Tall. Smiling. Confident.
“Roman Vale? Damn. It’s been years.”
Roman stood, polite. “Ethan Marks. It has.”
Ethan turned to Amaya.
“And who is this vision?”
Roman opened his mouth.
Amaya extended a hand. “Amaya. Mr. Vale’s assistant.”
Ethan took her hand and brushed it with a kiss.
Roman’s grip on her thigh tightened.
“She’s off-limits,” he said flatly.
“Oh?” Ethan smiled wider. “Didn’t realize you finally let someone in. Must be special.”
The tension simmered.
As Ethan walked away, Roman leaned in.
“Button.”
He pressed it.
Amaya nearly screamed.
The orgasm tore through her like an earthquake, quiet and violent, hidden in a smile as her nails dug into Roman’s arm.
The toy pulsed inside her, relentless.
She breathed raggedly.
Roman’s hand moved to the back of her neck, holding her steady.
“I want you wet through the ride home. Don’t touch yourself.”
“Y-yes, Mr. Vale.”
The car ride was silent. Tense. Heated.
In the elevator of his penthouse, Roman pinned her against the mirrored wall.
“You disobeyed. You liked that man’s attention.”
“I didn’t”
He kissed her, brutal and deep.
His fingers slid beneath her coat and dress, finding the plug. He pulled it out slowly, watching her squirm.
“Strip. Now.”
She did right there in the elevator.
By the time the doors opened, she wore nothing but heels and flushed skin.
He guided her into his apartment by the throat.
In the living room, he tossed her onto the velvet couch.
“Ass up. Head down.”
She obeyed.
He ran his hand over her curves like she was art.
Then, the first smack landed.
She gasped.
Again. Then again. Each one sharper. Then he knelt, spread her open, and spanked her clit light but cruel.
“Tell me who you belong to.”
“You, Mr. Vale!”
“Louder.”
“You!”
He reached down and pushed two fingers inside her dripping heat.
“Beg for it.”
“Please, please fuck me. I need you, I need to come for you”
He thrust in, hard and deep.
No mercy. Just pure dominance. He rode her like a man unhinged, his grip bruising her hips.
“You’ll never flirt again.”
“I won’t oh god please don’t stop.”
He came with a roar, pulling her back into him one last time.
And when it was over, he gathered her in his arms, carried her to the bed.
Then kissed her like he owned her soul.