Date night

I see her now, that platinum blonde pinned perfectly, the latex catching the dim restaurant light like liquid armor. She's wearing the dress I picked—strappy black leather, cut just above the knee, a slit riding high enough to show the top of her stocking.

And in her hand, the phone. The clear case with bold letters across the back: BLACK OWNED.

She catches Me watching from across the table, and instead of rolling her eyes or crossing her arms in defiance, she turns the phone slightly. Angles it so the words catch the candlelight. A silent offering.

Her CEO composure is there—shoulders back, chin lifted, the practiced elegance of boardrooms and quarterly reports—but underneath it, there's a softness. A flush creeping up her neck. Her thighs press together under the table, the latex creaking softly with the movement.

"You like it?" Her voice is quieter than you've heard it all week. Subdued.

She holds her gaze, waiting. No demands. Just acknowledgment.

This is the woman who signs million-dollar contracts, who fires people without blinking, who once made an entire marketing team cry with a single raised eyebrow. And now she's sitting across from Me, in a dress, with bnwo label displayed proudly, waiting for My approval.

Her fingers trace the edge of her wine glass, nerves flickering in the way she taps the stem. "I wasn't sure if I should bring it out during dinner, but..." She swallows, glances down at the case. "When I give her instruction she follows it."

The words hang between us, heavier than anything on the menu.

She leans forward just slightly, giving you a view down the neckline of the dress, the curve of her breasts pressing against the leather. "I've thought about what you said every night this week. It pissed me off at first." A bitter little laugh escapes her. "The arrogance. The audacity. Sitting in my office, telling me I needed to know my place."

Her voice drops, almost a whisper now. "But I couldn't stop thinking about it. About the way you looked at me. Like you already owned me."

She reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours—hesitant, seeking permission.

"I'm ready for my place."