You stand in the center of the rug, hands at your sides, eyes fixed on the floorboards just as the Protocol demands. You are wearing your street clothes—your armor of masculinity—but we both know how heavy it feels. How badly you want to shed it. How you wish for the power exchange.

I do not speak immediately. I let the silence stretch until it becomes a physical weight, pressing down on your shoulders. I circle you, slow and predatory. The sound of my heels on the hardwood is a rhythmic countdown.