Enjoy a reading of The Key to His Submission: Chapter 6. Audio Narration is available to my Patrons, or you can purchase a gift from my Throne Wishlist for your own audio copy to indulge whenever you like.
Marked by Submission
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow over the polished floors of Edward’s office, the cold white light reflecting off the metallic edges of his desk. I lean against it, my curvy frame pressing into the sleek surface, my red hair framing my face as I tilt my head just enough to let the light catch the piercings in my nose and bottom lip. The labret glints as I smirk, my blue eyes locking onto Edward’s like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. He stands there, stiff as a board, his hands clenched at his sides, his breath shallow. The pink bloomers I forced him into are barely visible beneath his slacks, but I know they’re there—damp, clinging to him, a constant reminder of who owns him now.
“Go to the restroom, Edward,” I purr, my voice a velvet blade sliding between his ribs. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his gaze flickering toward the glass walls of his office—where his coworkers mill about, oblivious. The threat of exposure hangs between us, thick as the tension in his shoulders. “Remove those bloomers and suck the crotch clean of any cum droppings.” My lips curl as his face pales, the command sinking in. “Fold them neatly, then bring them back here and place them on my desk.” I pause, letting the weight of it crush him. “Let this be your final act of surrender.”
His chest rises and falls too fast, his fingers twitching like he’s fighting the urge to cover himself.
The chastity cage beneath his pants must be a constant, aching reminder of his helplessness. Good. I want him to feel it—every second, every breath. “And remember,” I add, my tone sharpening, “keep your eyes averted from now on. One mistake, and the next round will be far worse.” His throat works again, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t dare. With a jerky nod, he turns on his heel, his shoulders hunched like a man already broken.
I watch him go, the sway of his hips just a little too stiff, the way his fingers dig into his palms. The restroom door clicks shut behind him, and I exhale slowly, savoring the anticipation. The office is quiet except for the distant murmur of voices beyond the glass, the hum of the lights, the faint rustle of my skirt against my thighs as I shift my weight. I can almost taste his shame from here, thick and bitter on my tongue.
Minutes tick by.
Then the door creaks open, and Edward emerges, his face a mask of carefully controlled misery. His hands are clenched around a small, neat square of fabric—his bloomers, now folded with trembling precision. The walk back to his desk is a death march, each step heavy with the weight of what he’s just done. What he’s become. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t dare. The bloomers hit the desk with a soft thud, the fabric still damp in places, the scent of his humiliation rising between us.
I pick them up, letting the material drag between my fingers. “Good gurl,” I murmur, my voice dripping with approval, with ownership. His breath hitches, his whole body flinching like I’ve struck him. I bring the fabric to my nose, inhaling deeply—the musk of his arousal, the faint tang of cum, the desperate, clinging scent of a man who’s been thoroughly broken. My lips stretch into a smirk. “This ends here, Edward.” His shoulders tense, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. “You’ve learned your place.”
The words hang in the air, final as a guillotine’s blade. I straighten, smoothing my skirt over my hips, the fabric clinging to my curves. My heels click against the polished floor as I turn toward the door, the sound sharp, deliberate. A dismissal. A judgment. I don’t look back. I don’t need to. The weight of his surrender presses against my skin like a second layer of clothing, warm and suffocating.
Behind me, Edward remains frozen, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows beneath his eyes. His fingers twitch at his sides, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven bursts. The office is too bright, too exposed, the glass walls a constant threat. He’s alone now, but not really. Not when the ghost of my commands still lingers in the air, not when the dampness of those bloomers is still fresh on his tongue. His cock strains uselessly against the chastity cage, a trapped, throbbing reminder of how thoroughly I’ve claimed him.
A shudder runs through him, his knees nearly buckling. He grips the edge of his desk, knuckles white, the metal cool beneath his palms. The taste of the fabric is still in his mouth—salty, bitter, his. His stomach twists. He should feel relieved. Should feel free. But all he feels is the hollow ache of defeat, the knowledge that this isn’t over. It’ll never be over. Not when I’ve carved my name into his skin, not when every glance from a coworker, every rustle of his slacks, every breath will remind him of what he’s done. What he’s allowed.
Outside, the office hums with the mundane rhythm of work—keyboards clacking, phones ringing, laughter drifting from the break room. None of them knows. None of them suspects. And that’s the worst part. The secrecy. The isolation. The knowledge that he’s mine, now and forever, and no one will ever save him.
I step into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a quiet ding. The reflection in the polished metal shows me as I am—tall, regal, untouchable. My lips curl as I tuck the bloomers into my purse, a trophy—a promise. Edward will wear the memory of this like a second skin, just like he’ll wear the next pair of panties I give him. And the next. And the next.
The elevator descends, the numbers counting down. My mind is already racing ahead—planning, scheming, savoring the ways I’ll break him further. Because this? This was only the beginning. Edward may think this is the end, but I know better. A man like him, once tasted, is never truly free.
Back in the office, Edward finally exhales, his body sagging against the desk. His fingers tremble as he adjusts his slacks, the fabric rough against his thighs. The chastity cage is a constant, maddening presence, a physical manifestation of his defeat. He licks his lips, the taste of himself still clinging to his tongue. His phone buzzes—an email notification. His hands shake as he reaches for it, half-expecting another command, another humiliation.
But the screen is blank. No new messages. No new orders.
Yet.
He swallows hard, his pulse still hammering in his throat. The office is too bright. Too loud. He can feel the weight of unseen eyes on him, even though no one is watching. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps, his body caught between relief and terror. He’s survived this round. But survival isn’t freedom. Not when he knows, deep in his gut, that I’m not done with him.
Not by a long shot.
And when I return—and oh, I will—he’ll be ready. He’ll be waiting, because that’s what good gurls do. They obey. They endure. They crave the next lesson, the next punishment, the next moment of sweet, shameful surrender.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting long, accusatory shadows across the floor. Edward stares at his desk, at the spot where the bloomers had lain, and realizes with a sinking, sickening clarity: