Let The Games Begin

Scarlett circled you with a slow, deliberate pace, each click of her red stilettos echoing across the floor. You knelt, eyes fixed on her heels as they passed, helplessly captivated, your breath stilled in awe. The crimson suit pants hugged her long, sculpted legs, stopping just shy of her ankles, leaving a tantalizing sliver of skin above the heels. Her blazer sleeves were rolled back to expose wrists adorned with jewelry that jingled softly with every graceful movement—a sound that both reminded you of your original goal and reinforced just how spectacularly you'd failed. You’d come here to steal those very jewels, but instead, here you were, caught in her gaze, subjugated.

She circled tighter, her presence all-consuming, and you couldn’t deny the dread creeping up your spine, her powerful aura pressing you to stay obedient, to stay kneeling.

CLICK.

CLICK.

CLICK.

Her heels stilled, inches from your face. She towered over you, a subtle smile playing at her lips. Slowly, she reached down toward your cheek. For one breathless second, you thought she’d offer some gesture of mercy, a touch of compassion—

SMACK.

A sting blazed across your cheek, grounding you, forcing your gaze to the floor.

“Three failures,” she said coolly, “and I call the police. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you whispered, the words nearly caught in your throat.

Her eyes narrowed, the cold amusement of a cat toying with a mouse. “Yes what?”

“Yes... Scarlett?”

SMACK.

“Failure number one,” she said with calm satisfaction.

Your stomach twisted. You realized the name she wanted was not merely one of respect—it was one of complete surrender. Humiliating, but you knew what she demanded.

“Yes, Goddess.”

Her lips curved in approval. “Good boy. Now, for your first instruction: strip. Take off that hideous spandex—it’s an eyesore.”

Without hesitation, you scrambled to remove your outfit, discarding every piece until only your thong remained. You felt the heat of embarrassment flood your face as she surveyed you, a sweet yet derisive laugh spilling from her lips.

“A man in a thong? Really?”

Before she could continue, you tried to explain—maybe humor her—about its purpose, a poor attempt to reclaim some dignity.

SMACK.

You fell forward, catching yourself on all fours.

“Oh no, you don’t,” she said, voice dripping with mockery. “How dare you interrupt me. How dare you speak without permission.” Her heel pressed into your back, forcing you down, stomach flush against the floor.

“You pathetic little man... no, not even a man, not dressed like that.” She leaned in, her tone rich with sadistic amusement. “You want to dress this way in my home? Then I’ll make sure it’s an outfit you’ll never forget. Beg me for forgiveness.”

“I’m sorry!” you gasped, voice trembling with humiliation and desperation.

“Not nearly good enough.” With renewed pressure, she dug her heel into your spine, then shifted the other to press down on your cheek, pinning you firmly to the floor. Without warning, she nudged the tip against your lips, silencing your protest, forcing you to accept it.

“Mhmhm—I’m sohrry,” you mumbled around the toe of her shoe, the words barely intelligible.

She smirked, clearly amused by your garbled apology. “I like you better when you can’t talk. Maybe I’ll keep it that way,” she mused, chuckling darkly as her heel remained, a constant reminder of her control, of your submission.