Chapter 1: The First Command
The air in the dungeon was always the same—a cool, conditioned stillness that smelled of lemon polish and old leather. Scott knelt on the plush crimson carpet, the fibers pressing a familiar pattern into his bare knees. His wrists were bound behind his back with a single, efficient strip of black leather. It wasn't tight enough to hurt, just tight enough to remind him.
He kept his gaze lowered, watching Madame Evangeline’s shadow move across the floor. The click of her heels on the polished hardwood was a metronome counting down the seconds.
“You trimmed your cuticles,” her voice cut through the silence, smooth and low. “I noticed. Good.”
A flush of something—pride, maybe, or shame—warmed the back of his neck. He’d spent twenty minutes with a pumice stone and moisturizer last night. It was absurd, this meticulous care he took of his feet. They were just feet. But they were also his primary qualification for this job.
“Thank you, Madame,” he murmured to the floor.
Her legs came into his line of sight, sheathed in sheer black stockings. She stopped before a wall that wasn’t a wall but a display, a curated collection of her instruments. His eyes tracked the slow, deliberate sweep of her hand as it passed over a riding crop, a coiled snake of black vinyl, before settling on a pair of shoes.
He knew the ones. Patent leather, blood-red soles, heels so thin and high they looked like weapons. Which, he supposed, they were.
She picked them up. The click of the heels against the floor changed as she walked back toward him, slower now, more deliberate.
“Posture,” she said, her tone conversational, almost bored.
Scott immediately straightened his spine, rolling his shoulders back. The movement pulled at the leather around his wrists. He focused on his breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth. The carpet was so soft. He sometimes wondered what brand it was.
She stopped in front of him. He could see the fine weave of her tailored black trousers, the sharp line of her crease. The scent of her perfume, something cold and floral like frozen gardenias, cut through the room’s sterile smell.
“You are having thoughts today, little footstool,” she observed. She didn’t sound angry, just factual. “I can hear them buzzing. You’re wondering what your friends would say. You’re calculating the rent this session will pay. You are everywhere but here.”
He said nothing. There was no point in denying it.
“We will fix that.”
He heard the soft rustle of fabric as she stepped into the first shoe, then the second. The sound of her weight settling into them was different. Final.
She took a single step forward, placing the sharp, red sole of her stiletto directly in front of his face. The leather was flawless, gleaming under the low lights.
“Breathe deep, little footstool,” she whispered, her voice dropping into an intimate register that was for him alone. She pressed the sole gently against his lips, then his cheek, the cool, smooth surface a stark contrast to the heat flooding his face. “This is your purpose now.”
He closed his eyes. Inhaled. The scent was complex—clean leather, the faint, metallic dust of the city street, a whisper of her own unique scent. It was the smell of his rent, his grocery bill, his student loan payment. It was the smell of submission. And for a moment, the buzzing in his head stopped. There was only the pressure against his skin and the quiet authority in her voice.
It was almost peaceful.
Then, a soft, melodic chime echoed through the room, cutting the silence.
Madame Evangeline didn’t startle. She simply lifted her foot from his face and took a graceful step back.
“The first client arrives,” she said, her voice shifting back to its business-like tone. “Places.”
Scott adjusted his position, settling his weight more evenly, presenting the flat of his back. The moment was over. The performance was about to begin. He took one last, deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean, conditioned air, and waited for the door to open.
The heavy oak door swung inward without a sound. A man stood silhouetted against the brighter light of the hallway, his form shifting from a blurry outline to a sharp reality as he stepped inside. He was around forty, dressed in a good but off-the-rack suit, his hair thinning at the crown. He smelled of cheap cologne and the stale coffee breath of a long day.
“Mr. Henderson,” Madame Evangeline said, her voice a warm, welcoming instrument that was entirely separate from the one she used with Scott. “Right on time.”
“Evan, please,” the man—Evan—said, his eyes darting past her and landing on Scott. A wide, boyish grin split his face. “Wow. Okay. This is… this is really happening.”
He rubbed his hands together, a dry, whisking sound. “You have no idea what a week I’ve had. Three of my junior analysts almost blew a million-dollar deal because they can’t read a spreadsheet. My boss micromanages every single keystroke I make. I haven’t felt in control of anything since Tuesday.” He let out a shaky, excited laugh. “But this… this is better than therapy.”
Madame Evangeline gave a practiced, sympathetic nod. “The boardroom’s loss is our gain, Evan. Your session is all about control. You dictate the pressure. You dictate the duration. He is here for your comfort.” She gestured gracefully toward Scott, who kept his eyes fixed on a single crimson thread in the carpet.
Evan approached, his cheap leather shoes whispering on the hardwood before sinking into the plush pile near Scott’s knees. “So I can just…?”
“Whatever you need,” Evangeline affirmed softly. “He is remarkably stable.”
Evan’s grin turned wicked. He placed a hand on Scott’s back, not to steady himself, but to feel the muscle tense under his palm. “Perfect,” he breathed. Then he leaned down, his coffee-laden breath hot in Scott’s ear, and whispered, “Don’t move a muscle, footstool. This is for the Henderson-Higgins report.”