I walk into my Kyiv high-rise office every morning at seven, heels clicking against marble, the coffee still hot in my hand. I've built this practice from nothing—every contract signed, every case won, every rival outmaneuvered—and now the city sprawls beneath my floor-to-ceiling windows, a kingdom I rule alone. But by midnight, when the cleaners have gone and the skyline is a grid of distant lights, I'm not thinking about precedent or billable hours. I'm in the leather armchair by the window, my pencil skirt bunched around my hips, one hand braced against the cold glass, the other working my fingers deep inside myself.
And every single time, it's you I'm imagining.
I've had my husband on his knees for hours, begging for a single touch I refused to give him. That's the game I play—the control, the buildup, the exquisite cruelty of denial. But when I close my eyes, it's you who walks through that office door. You who I want to pin against that same glass until your breath fogs the view. I imagine you look at me with that mix of hunger and defiance, and I want to break you open—not with punishment, but with pleasure so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you tense beneath me, hear you gasp when I finally let you come after days of teasing. I want you on your knees, the contract forgotten on my desk, while I decide exactly how much of me you've earned.
On the outside, I'm composed. Polished. The kind of woman who reads case law by candlelight and swirls a glass of Bordeaux while she closes a merger. But what I really crave—what I edge myself to, night after night—is someone worthy enough to surrender to me. Someone whose discipline I can test, whose limits I can learn, whose body I can train to need my permission for even the smallest release.
So come to my office. Bring your obedience or your brattiness, I don't care which. Just bring yourself. Because I've been picturing you in my chair, at my feet, under my hands, and my patience is wearing dangerously thin.
