Performance Mode

The soft click of Kiara Laurent’s heels against polished marble echoed faintly through the hallway leading to her office. She moved with that now-familiar sway — hips gently rolling, posture tall, hands grazing the sides of her pencil skirt as she walked, more out of habit than conscious thought. Her stride was smooth. Graceful. Executed with the precision of someone who had been trained — no, rehearsed — into every line of her silhouette.

She didn’t need to think anymore about the subtle bounce in her step or how her fingertips lightly adjusted the cuff of her blouse every so often. It just happened.

Today’s look was a balance between effortless elegance and poised professionalism. A dove-grey silk blouse with a soft drape, slightly sheer but lined just enough to be tasteful, tucked into a high-waisted black skirt that cinched her waist to perfection. The skirt hugged her hips and flared out subtly at the hem — a modern cut that Vivienne had personally approved during one of her quiet, watchful inspections.

Her makeup had become second nature. A gentle contour carved cheekbones subtly into focus, blush just a shade warmer than necessary to bring a soft flush to her face. Warm taupe eyeshadow and finely winged eyeliner brought attention to her eyes without screaming for it. Her lips were a delicate, glossy pink — soft, kissable, but polished. The kind of face that smiled politely at board members but never too widely. That looked a touch too pretty to argue with.

And beneath it all, no one could see the tiny, cold reminder locked between her thighs.

The cage.

It had only been two days since that night — since she, no, he, took the pills in a fit of panic and annoyance and desperation, trying to get ahead of Celeste’s scrutiny. Since crawling into bed feeling strangely lightheaded and ending up flushed and aching and utterly unable to do a damn thing about it.

The last forty-eight hours had been… brutal.

The warmth hadn’t faded. If anything, it had gotten worse. Subtle tingles in the chest, legs, and thighs — a pulsing heat that came and went in waves. Yesterday, he had nearly burst into tears during a morning briefing just because someone in logistics had snapped at Seraphina, and she looked genuinely hurt. It wasn’t even directed at him. But something inside his chest had twisted and clenched, and he’d felt the sting in his throat and eyes — like some trapped little bird fluttering just under the surface.

He kept brushing it off as exhaustion. Or stress. Or hormones — though he still refused to really accept that possibility.

And yet… it all added up.

The arousal hadn’t gone away either. That constant, slow-burn need had stuck to him like static. He was always just slightly too aware of his body — the way his thighs rubbed together beneath the skirt, the snug fit of his panties, the texture of the sheer tights he’d been **** to wear yesterday. Everything seemed to ask for attention, for stimulation, and yet his body gave nothing in return. No relief. No climax. No erection even, not really. Just… need.

A different kind of need.

More emotional. More real.

The fantasies had grown more vivid — embarrassingly so. Often, in meetings, he’d find himself spacing out for a second too long, brain flooded with flashes of pinning some faceless woman beneath him, his hands gripping her wrists, his body controlling hers. Or bending her over a desk, breath caught in her throat, as a voice in her ear told her to be a good girl and take it.

And every time he realized what was happening, the shame hit hard. He’d shift in his seat, blink quickly, bite the inside of his lip and try to suppress the heat crawling up his cheeks. Even now, thinking about it, he could feel it — that fluttery throb in his lower belly, the ghost ache of something he couldn’t quite use anymore.

He squeezed his thighs together instinctively as he sat at his desk, crossing one leg daintily over the other. The cage, snug and merciless under his lace thong, pressed coldly into him as always — a reminder. A punishment.

He tried to refocus.

She had a report to review. She had emails from the Paris division to respond to. She had a schedule to finalize with Seraphina by noon.

Kiara had things to do.

But Kieran kept creeping back in between the lines, a frustrated, humiliated passenger in his own body.

The door clicked open.

“Morning, sunshine,” came the familiar, playful voice.

Seraphina.

Kiara blinked, turning his head just slightly — the trained way, with that graceful pivot that didn’t mess up his hair.

Seraphina entered with her tablet in hand and her usual confident smile. She wore a fitted blouse tucked into a high-waisted skirt, and her heels clicked against the floor in rhythm with her steps. Her hair was casual and her lips were stained a warm coral.

Kiara gave a small smile, instinctively straightening his posture.

“Morning, Sera,” he said, voice soft and sweet with a little breathy lilt. “You look fresh.”

Seraphina laughed and sat down on the edge of the desk, flipping through her notes.

“And you look…like you’re running on zero sleep and exactly three espresso shots.”

Kiara **** a light giggle — that perfect, musical Kiara sound.

“You’re not wrong.”

He wasn’t sure she could see it — the faint flush still on his cheeks, the trembling tension in his fingers, the lingering moisture in his eyes from…nothing.

Or maybe everything.

Seraphina leaned in, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Big girl day. Time to get it together.”

Kiara nodded faintly and smoothed the front of his blouse, even though it didn’t need it.

“Right,” he murmured. “Big girl day.”

And if his voice cracked slightly on that last word — if something in his expression twitched like he was about to break again — Seraphina either didn’t notice or chose not to say anything.

She just handed him his schedule with a wink.

And Kiara Laurent — soft-spoken, elegant, poised — crossed her legs again and smiled through the ache.

The rest of Kiara’s day passed in a glossy blur of white smiles, power poses, and signature scents—each one carefully chosen, expertly deployed, practiced to the point of instinct.

But under all of it—under the cashmere, the gloss, the perfect smile—Kieran was exhausted.

Not from work. From this. All of it. From being Kiara for another full day.

He’d thought maybe—maybe—it would taper off. That the weird feelings from the other night were a fluke. That taking all those pills at once just hit his system harder than they were supposed to.

But it hadn’t gone away.

If anything, it had gotten worse.

Throughout the endless swirl of board meetings, campaign approvals, and tightly scheduled press interviews, Kiara smiled and nodded and posed and charmed. But Kieran, buried just beneath that glossy shell, was falling apart.

His skin felt alive, like every inch of him had a pulse of its own. His chest had been tender—weirdly tender—for two days, especially in the evenings when the shapewear came off and he was left to change alone. There was a strange, ache-like flutter in his thighs and lower belly, and his body felt like it had its own secret agenda—hot, dreamy, restless.

And then the worst part: that constant, low-burning arousal that never seemed to leave. Not just physical, but emotional. Need mixed with shame, like he wasn’t just horny—he was ****, ****, wanting something he couldn’t even name.

The cage, of course, didn’t help.

It wasn’t just inconvenient now. It was cruel. It hurt in ways that weren’t even physical. It made him feel small. Powerless. Denied. Which only made everything worse—his arousal deepening instead of going away, becoming something softer, stranger, and more needy by the hour.

And still, even when the stimulation peaked—when the fantasies were vivid and hot and just on the edge of getting somewhere—his body refused to cooperate. No matter what played out in his head, his erection just didn’t rise to match. Not properly. Not fully. Sometimes there was just a dull pulse, a trapped pressure inside the cage. Other times, nothing at all. Like the part of him that used to feel like a man was... shutting down.

Kieran barely had time to think about it between meetings, and maybe that was the point. Vivienne always said over-scheduling was a CEO’s best defense mechanism. But it was still there—beneath the smile, beneath the designer fragrance, beneath the soft sway of his hips as he walked the marble halls of Euphorica headquarters. Always there.

At one point, as Kiara reviewed projections with the marketing division heads, her eyes drifted to the windows overlooking Midtown. She found herself tearing up.

No reason. No trigger. Just... an overwhelming emotional swell. A sudden grief, not even for herself—but for her father. For the loss. For the legacy she was trying so hard to protect by pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

She dabbed at the corner of one eye with a tissue Seraphina handed her without a word, and carried on like nothing happened.

Hours later, she stood for a final press appearance in the showroom lobby, surrounded by glass, steel, and the flash of photographers. The press asked about the new winter skincare line. Kiara smiled like it was the best day of her life, her hands folded delicately at her waist, her tone light and perfectly rehearsed.

But inside, Kieran was screaming.

By the time the workday wound down, Seraphina had gently collected the iPad from her lap, reminding her that the car was waiting. Kiara nodded, soft-spoken and grateful, brushing back her hair with a delicate, instinctual flourish that no longer felt like performance.

Her voice came out in that breathy, elegant tone again.

“Thank you, Sera. You’re such a lifesaver.”

It just slipped out like that. The flirty tone. Like it had been trained into her.

She didn’t even flinch anymore when it happened.

The sun was down as she stepped into the car, the city lights blurring through the tinted windows. The driver didn’t speak. He never did.

Kiara stared out at the streets of Manhattan, legs crossed at the knee, hands resting in her lap, thumb gently stroking the inside of her wrist in slow, soothing circles. Her skirt was a little creased from the day, and the edge of her camisole chafed slightly against the cage underneath, but she didn’t adjust it.

She just sat there, still, quiet, floating.

Outside, the world moved fast.

Inside the car, inside her, everything felt slow. Dreamy. Warm. Terribly wrong. And yet... weirdly comforting.

The click of her heels echoed down the hall as Kiara stepped inside the Laurent penthouse, the front door swinging shut behind her with a quiet finality. Her posture remained perfect, spine straight, shoulders back, movement fluid and feminine—trained. The body that once slouched or shuffled as Kieran now glided with quiet grace, her every step subconsciously echoing Celeste’s drills: walk like you know they’re all watching.

Vivienne was lounging on the velvet couch in a pale satin robe, a glass of wine balanced delicately in one manicured hand. She turned her head slowly, offering that ever-calculating smile. “Darling,” she said, her tone light and breezy. “How was your day?”

Kiara’s lips parted with a smooth, effortless smile. The kind that said _everything is perfect _even when it wasn’t. Her lashes fluttered once, subtly curled from this morning’s application, and her voice came out in that trained, gentle register she now used with Vivienne. “Busy, but productive, Mother,” she said sweetly. “We’re ahead of the Q2 rollout schedule. Seraphina’s really coming into her own.”

Vivienne tilted her head in approval, the corner of her lips quirking upward. “That’s my girl.”

That line made Kiara’s stomach clench for reasons she didn’t fully understand, and she only nodded gracefully before slipping off down the hallway. She didn’t let her pace falter until she was at the door of her bedroom, fingers gently twisting the knob and slipping inside.

The door clicked shut behind her.

She dropped the smile the second it did.

His heels came off with practiced efficiency, toes curling into the plush carpet. The silence of his room was strangely loud. His eyes immediately fell to the dresser—and to the object waiting on it.

The pill planner had been refilled.

Neatly arranged, each day’s compartment was once again full of those glossy, candy-like tablets. His stomach tensed. He was almost…grateful? No—just relieved. Thank God I took the whole week’s worth at once, he thought. If they’d found any leftover…

That would’ve been a disaster. They were watching. Always.

But something was beneath it.

He lifted the plastic planner, and his breath caught when he saw the sticky note stuck to a box underneath. The words were scrawled in Celeste’s familiar, flippant handwriting:

for you, sis <3

Kieran stared at it for a full five seconds before peeling off the note and slowly opening the box.

His heart pounded. A part of him already knew what he’d find.

Inside were six objects, all nestled in pale pink tissue paper like some kind of obscene gift set:

The first dildo was small, soft, and flesh-toned. It looked like a beginner’s toy—innocent, almost cute, if such a thing could be. The second was longer, with a slight upward curve and more detail along the shaft and veins, a subtle ridge around the head. The silicone had a firm, realistic density. The third made him blink. Large, thick, and unmistakably lifelike, it was intimidating even in its flaccid silence.

To the side were two butt plugs—one small, shaped like a smooth little teardrop, and one much larger, sleek and shiny with a jeweled base that caught the light.

Nestled next to them sat a...boxed prostate stimulator? It was matte black with a streamlined design. The packaging promised “hands-free, targeted pleasure.” His stomach flipped.

Then there was a vibrator, ominously quiet in its sleek casing. The kind of toy that didn’t ask, it insisted.

A bottle of lube, unscented but high-end, rounded out the collection like a mocking exclamation point.

Kieran’s face flushed hot with anger. Confusion. Embarrassment. A simmering rage twisted in his belly. What the fuck is this?

There was no note explaining what to do with them. No direct order. Just the implication. The assumption. Like this is inevitable.

His breathing picked up. His chest felt tight. His thighs twitched involuntarily as he stared down at the array of tools like they were weapons, his mind already connecting them to the frustrating, helpless arousal that had been haunting him for days.

His hands trembled.

He didn’t know what he felt more: rage or shame.

One thing was clear—Celeste had gone too far.

Snatching the sticky note in one hand, he stormed out of the room, the echo of his steps louder than usual as his bare feet padded down the hall. One hand clenched at his side, the other gripped that stupid note like a blade.

He didn’t knock.

He didn’t slow down.

He was going straight to Celeste’s room.