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You adjust the diamond bracelet on your wrist, feeling its weight; substantial, like everything Makarov purchases. Nothing cheap. Nothing that doesn’t serve a purpose.
“You will smile more tonight,” he says without looking at you, buttoning his suit jacket in the mirror. His Russian accent is clipped, businesslike. “Last week, you looked bored. This is reflecting poorly.”
“I was bored,” you reply, checking your lipstick. “Volkov spent forty minutes talking about his yacht.”
“Then you are pretending better.” He turns, adjusting his cufflinks. “This is what I fill your bank account for, da?”
He’s not wrong. The monthly deposit into your account is more than most people see in a year. The penthouse, the clothes, the jewelry- all yours to enjoy as long as you show up when required, look perfect, and ask no questions about the men in dark suits who meet him at odd hours.
“Who’s tonight?” you ask, selecting your earrings.
“Armenian investors. They are traditional men. Conservative.” His eyes sweep over your dress: black, elegant, and expensive. “Is good. You look like proper wife. Not like…” he waves his hand vaguely, “…whatever it is American women are looking like these days.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Demure and decorative. Got it.”
“This is exactly correct.” He actually sounds pleased. “You are learning.”
The restaurant is exclusive, the kind where there are no prices on the menu and everyone speaks in hushed tones. Makarov’s hand rests on your lower back as you enter, proprietary but not affectionate. A claim of ownership, nothing more.
The Armenians are already seated. Three men, older, watching as you approach. You see their eyes catalog everything: the dress, the jewelry, the way you move. Assessing Makarov’s taste, his wealth, his status.
“Gentlemen,” Makarov greets them in Russian, then switches to English. “My wife.”
You smile, perfectly pleasant, as he pulls out your chair. The younger of the three- though still twenty years your senior- nods approvingly.
“You are very fortunate man, Makarov,” he says.
“Yes,” Makarov agrees simply, settling beside you. “I am.”
The dinner progresses as these things always do. The men talk business or what passes for business in their world. Shipping routes. “Security concerns.” Personnel changes. You’ve learned not to listen too closely. Plausible deniability is part of the arrangement.
Instead, you sip your wine, laugh softly at appropriate moments, and rest your hand on Makarov’s arm when one of the Armenians makes what he clearly thinks is a persuasive point. Small touches, subtle support. The visual of a united front.
“Your wife is very quiet,” the eldest Armenian observes. “This is good. Too many women these days, they talk too much about things they do not understand.”
You feel Makarov’s slight tension- not offense, just calculation. Is this an insult or approval? He decides on the latter.
“She is knowing when to speak and when to listen,” he says. “Is rare quality.”
You smile blandly and take another sip of wine. Let them think whatever they want. Your account balance doesn’t care about their opinions.
Later, in the car back to the penthouse, Makarov is on his phone, speaking rapid Russian. You gaze out the window at the city lights, already mentally spending tomorrow. Maybe that gallery opening. Maybe the spa.
He ends the call and pockets the phone. “You did well tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“Tarasov was commenting that you seemed very… devoted.” There’s something almost amused in his tone. “I think he is believing we have love match.”
You glance at him. “Should I have corrected him?”
“Nyet. Let him think this.” He studies you for a moment. “Does not bother you? What they think?”
“Why would it?” You turn back to the window. “They’re not the ones signing the checks.”
He actually laughs at that; a short, sharp sound. “This is why arrangement works, da? We are both understanding what this is.”
“Exactly.”
The car pulls up to the building. The doorman rushes to open your door, and you step out, Makarov following. His hand finds your back again as you enter the lobby- still performing, even here where neighbors might see.
In the elevator, he drops the touch. The doors close and you’re alone, two people who happen to live in the same expensive cage.
“There is event on Friday,” he says. “You will need new dress. Something red, I am thinking. I’ll have something sent over.”
“Good.” The elevator chimes for the penthouse floor. “Guest room or master tonight?”
It’s always his choice when you share space for appearances and when you don’t. “Guest room,” he decides. “I have calls to make. Will be late.”
“Fine with me.”
You step out into the penthouse. Another performance complete. Another deposit secured.
Makarov heads to his office without another word, already pulling out his phone. You hear him begin speaking in Russian, his voice hard and commanding- the real him, not the one that plays husband at dinners.
You kick off your heels, and pour yourself a real drink. Not the wine you nursed for show, but the good scotch he keeps stocked.
The city glitters below, full of people with normal relationships, normal problems. You raise your glass to them, alone in your gilded cage.
You’d planned on a bath. Steam, salts, a mask you never have time for. The diamonds are halfway off when you hear his voice from the office: too flat, too cold. Russian, clipped. The kind of tone that means he’ll get angrier and angrier unless someone drags him out.
You sigh, annoyed for one heartbeat- there goes the tub- then you set the bracelet down and do what you’re paid to do: be a loyal body for him to take his anger out on.
Silk slip. No panties and the collar- black stiff leather with the diamond studded tag made just for moments like this. V.M. catches the light when you hook it to the D ring.
You check your lipstick in the hall mirror, tie your hair back so he can see your neck, and watch your face relax into the expression that calms him: open, obedient, shamelessly his.
He’s still on the phone when you ease the office door with your hip. Coat on the chair. Holster on the desk. Sleeves rolled, throat bare at the collar.
You don’t speak. You go to hands and knees and crawl.
Carpet on your palms, warm floor under your knees; the tag taps your sternum with every breath- his, his, his. You stop two paces from him and sit pretty: knees wide, back straight, chin tipped. Mouth a little open so he can see your tongue.
He sees you; something in his shoulders unlocks. The call ends mid sentence. He doesn’t say goodbye.
Two fingers crook. “Heel.”
You cross the last space on your hands and knees and press your cheek to his thigh. He loosens his tie with one hand, threads it through the collar’s ring, fingers testing the lead. A small tug and your pulse answers. The corner of his mouth lifts.
“Good dog,” he says, voice lower.
You lick the bulge of his cock through his pants, slow and obscene. He watches then tips your chin up with two knuckles so the tag flashes. The temper in his eyes turns into something hungrier, easier to hold.
“Up,” he says, and backs toward the desk, bringing you with him on the makeshift leash. You go on all fours, keeping the lead loose, the way he likes- trained, not dragged. At the edge of the desk, he sits. You kneel between his thighs and rest your hands on your knees until he nods.
“Open,” he orders, and your mouth does. He tastes like smoke and expensive scotch when he pushes his thumb past your lips, pressing your tongue down to make you concentrate on his hand, his pace. You drool obediently around the knuckle. He hums like that’s exactly what he needed.
“Hands behind,” he says. You lace your fingers at the small of your back; he slips the end of the tie down, loops it once, twice and tests the slack with a tug. Your tag chimes. His eyes darken.
He opens his belt with a controlled impatience that makes your belly flutter. You watch his hands. The zipper. The way he exhales when his cock is free and heavy in his fist. No theatrics. Just hunger. He taps your bottom lip with the head, smearing wet. “Taste.”
You lean forward and take him in slowly, eyes on his, the leash line taut in his hand. The first slide is always the one that clears his head; you feel it in the way his jaw unclenches, in the low curse that slips out when you flatten your tongue and sink until he hits the back of your throat. He guides. One hand on the tie, the other on your jaw, angling, praising in Russian when you swallow around him without gagging.
“Pretty tongue,” he murmurs. “Show me again.”
You do. Long, wet pulls; tight seal; the sloppy sounds he likes that drown out the phantom noise in his skull. He holds you on the stretch for a beat- calibration- then lets you set the pace. Your tag clicks against the base of him. He smiles, mean and fond. “Look at me.”
You look up and feel it, the tension in him melting like winter off a roof. He threads the loose end of your slip over your shoulder so he can watch your throat work, tugging the tie while you hollow your cheeks and take his cock deeper. When his breath stutters, you ease up, kiss the head, stroke what your mouth can’t reach with a wet hand. You’re not trying to finish him. You’re hunting that exact moment where his focus returns.
Found it. His eyes sharpen. Temper: gone. Hunger: present.
“Turn,” he says, voice gravel soft.
He guides you down to the floor and you present- hands and knees on the thick rug, knees nudged wide with the blunt pressure of his boot. The collar sits snug and perfect at your throat; the diamond tag with his initials flashes when you breathe.
He slips his tie free, smooth and sure, and threads the silk through the D ring like he’s rigging a line. The loose ends fall down your back. He wraps both around his fist and anchors his knuckles at the small of your spine thumb sliding the slip higher until cool air kisses your ass. He moves closer and you feel the blunt nudge of his cock drag through your slick. You go molten with relief.
“Greedy,” he says. You nod. He laughs once, low, and lines up.
He pushes into you slow enough to be cruel, vein by vein, letting stretch turn to burn, burn to sweet. You moan helplessly and he catches it with a hand at your jaw, thumb in your cheek so he can feel every sound you make in the meat of your face.
When he seats fully, hips snug to your ass, cock heavy and deep, his fist tightens on the tie, pinning his knuckles to your spine so you can’t melt forward. You feel how he uses it: to keep your angle perfect while he starts to move.
He pulls back a third, drives in again, unhurried, measured; his weight lined through the fist braced on your back and the other palm spread low on your belly.
The silk stays low, a taut plumb line sharpening every stroke. With each thrust, the fist against your spine says hold, and you do, hands flat, elbows soft, knees aching, mouth open, obedient as a trained thing.
“Pretty,” he praises, voice gone quiet and dangerous. “Hold it.”
You hold, and he gets mean with his thrusts. The angle is obscene: the brace lets him fuck straight to the spot that short circuits thought.
He uses the tie to pull your hips back to meet him, a steady, rhythmic drag that makes you take him, not merely receive. Your breath breaks; your fingers curl into the rug; your tag clicks at your throat.
He tests your control, loosens the tie a fraction, lets you sway forward, then shortens it again so you’re pinned on the line and every millimeter of give becomes sensation.
His free hand travels: skimming up your ribs to cup your breast under the slip, pinching lightly until you gasp, then back down, knuckles pressing above your clit so you feel him everywhere. When your hips start to chase, the silk tightens, guiding you back to stillness even as your cunt clutches helplessly around him.
“Good dog,” he croons, Russian slipping warm into the words, and the praise makes you tremble. He feels it and smiles. “Greedy little thing.”
He keeps the cadence and adds his thumb, slow circles, cruelly exact. You bite your lip; he hears it and taps two fingers at your jaw for open. You let the moan out, wet and shameless, while he works you. The rug burns your knees, the collar hums against your pulse, the fist on your spine is a brand that says don’t fall apart unless I say.
“Want?” he asks, voice sanded down to velvet.
“Yes,” you pant. “Please, Sir.”
“Hands stay. Back stays.” A firmer brace. “Come on me.”
He grinds deep and keeps the tie taut as you break hard, bright, and loud. The leverage turns your orgasm brutal and clean: no scrambling forward, no collapsing; just your body clenching around him while he holds you exactly where he wants you. You cry out his name; he answers with a rough sound you’ve been chasing since the office door clicked shut as your walls flutter around him, milking him.
He doesn’t let you fold when it crests, rides you through, angle unwavering, thumb easing to soft strokes that make your eyes glassy. When the tremor becomes shake, he loosens the silk a breath and groans, pace stuttering as he finally goes, cock pushed deep, fist still braced as he empties his balls into your warm cunt.
After, he keeps his cock buried, hand covering your belly, the tie slackening until it’s just warm silk along your back. He kisses the collar where it rests on your pulse, thumb rubbing the faint mark it left. You purr, boneless, cheek to rug, and feel him smile against your skin.
He eases out, palm following to keep you full as long as possible, then catches the drip on his fingers and pushes it back lazily. You shiver. He hums and finally lets the tie slip loose from your collar, thumb rubbing the faint mark it left on your throat.
“Bath,” he decides, voice normal again. “I will run it.”
“You’re running me a bath?” You glance back, eyebrow up.
“You were looking forward.” Matter-of-fact. A concession and a thank you, dressed as orders. He tucks himself away, zips, then lifts you, arms under your thighs, your ass in his palms, and carries you to the bathroom.
The tub thunders. He tests the water on his wrist, adjusts, adds the eucalyptus salts you like while pretending he doesn’t remember their name. You sit on the counter, collar on, tag glittering, a pretty trophy for him while watching his temper finish draining away with the steam.
He undresses you the rest of the way like unwrapping a present. He helps you into the bath and sinks behind you, big hands heavy over your ribs. You lean back into him and sigh content.
“Tomorrow,” he says into your hair, already planning, already quiet, “they atone.”
“Mm.”
“And you get the spa.” A beat. “Red dress.”
You smile, eyes closed, water licking the diamond tag at your throat. “Yes, Sir.”
His palm glides from your collar to your sternum, pressing you down, holding you there. The city burns below the glass; the office lights are off; the bath finally happens.
Some prisons, you think, have excellent benefits packages.