The Chase

“Don’t make me remind you again.”

Her eyes widened, and the pulse at the base of her neck picked up speed. But she didn’t balk. “Of course not, Sir.”

Seth said nothing more until she’d stripped down to her birthday suit. Then he waited, watching her fight the urge to wrap her arms around herself and cover the essentials.

“What now, Sir?” Her glance was somewhere between reverential and nervous.

He clenched his fists at his sides to stop himself from swallowing her whole and cast a critical stare to her clothes strewn on the floor. “Do any of those garments belong there? Did I tell you to litter?”

“No, Sir.” She bent to pick them up.

He grabbed her wrist to stay her. “Did I tell you to pick them up?”

“No, Sir. I just assumed—”

“I didn’t ask you to do that, either.” He pressed his lips together in a straight, reproving line. “Pick them up one at a time, fold them, and place them on the coffee table. I suggest you do it swiftly and neatly. Or there will be consequences.”

She shivered. Her nipples turned hard. “Y-yes, Sir.”

With a scrutinizing stare, he watched her retrieve everything she’d worn to the grocery store and attempt to arrange them with careful tucks and creases. It was a good effort, but…

“Not good enough.” He scowled—and repressed a smile when her breathing roughened.

“What did I do wrong, Sir?”

He cast a dismissive glance at the pile of garments. “Your shirt should be folded so that the buttons down the front are arranged in a straight row. You only fastened your shorts before you folded them. They should be zipped as well.”

“I can fix that, Sir.”

“It’s too late.” He shook his head, tsking at her. “Such simple instructions. Such colossal failure. Is discipline in order?”

“No, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.” She sounded properly chastened…but fought a smile.

Be still my kinky heart…

“Apologies are pointless. I make demands; I expect perfection. Is that clear?”

“Y-yes, Sir.”

Seth bent to pluck her bra off the table. He curled one finger under a shoulder strap and held it in front of her face. “What is this?”

“My bra, Sir.”

“I never said you could wear that to work.”

“But—”

“Are you going to argue with me?”

She cast her gaze to the floor, biting her lip. “No, Sir.”

He’d bet she was already wet.

“When you step foot in my house, you wear precisely what I demand—no more, no less.”

“O-of course, Sir.”

He wadded her bra into a ball and shoved it into his pocket. “I’m keeping this. Along with these.” He bent to retrieve her panties. “These are never allowed. Ever.”