Cyril
The morning light was particularly sharp, reflecting off the pristine glass panes of the Vance Manor with a clarity that felt almost judgmental.
I stood before my full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of a sheer silk blouse that clung to my skin like a second thought.
I had traded the heavy leather of yesterday for something more sophisticated but no less provocative, a high-waisted pencil skirt in charcoal grey that hit just above the knee, paired with stockings that had a subtle, shimmering seam running down the back.
I felt revitalized.
The residual ache in my muscles from the previous night was a constant, hum of pleasure, a physical tether to the man who owned my whole being.
Every movement I made reaching for my earrings, stepping into my stilettos was a reminder o
