The task

[ch****]

The bedroom was quiet, save for the faint ticking of a clock on the wall—a sound Clara hadn’t noticed until now, when every second seemed to stretch into eternity. She knelt on the plush rug at the foot of the bed, naked except for the thin silver collar around her neck, a gift from him that marked her as his. Her hands rested on her thighs, palms up, waiting. The air felt heavy with expectation.

Daniel stood before her, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. He was impeccable as always—black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, trousers that hinted at the lean power of his legs. His dark eyes studied her, calm but piercing, and when he spoke, his voice was a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine.

“I have a task for you tonight, pet,” he said, pacing slowly in front of her, his boots silent against the rug. “Something to test your obedience. Your control.”

Clara’s breath caught, her fingers twitching slightly. “Yes, Sir,” she replied, her voice soft but steady. She kept her gaze lowered, as he preferred, though she could feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch.

He stopped pacing, towering over her. “For the next 48 minutes, you’re going to touch yourself. Specifically, you’ll rub your clit—five minutes at a time, followed by a one-minute break. You’ll repeat that cycle until I say you’re done. But here’s the rule: you’re not allowed to come. Not once. Do you understand?”

Her stomach tightened, a mix of arousal and apprehension swirling within her. Forty-eight minutes. Eight cycles of ***, each one a battle against her own body. She nodded, then remembered to speak. “Yes, Sir. I understand.”

“Good.” He reached down, tipping her chin up with two fingers so she met his gaze. His eyes gleamed with something dark and possessive. “Start now. And don’t stop until I tell you.”

Clara exhaled shakily, shifting to sit back on her heels. Her hand slid between her thighs, fingers brushing her already-sensitive clit. She began to rub, slow and deliberate, the way he liked to watch her—small, tight circles that sent sparks of heat through her core. The clock’s ticking became her anchor, a rhythm to match her movements.

“Tell me how it feels,” Daniel said, his tone firm as he stepped back to lean against the wall, arms crossed, observing her like a king surveying his domain.

“It’s… warm,” she murmured, her voice trembling as the sensation built. “Sensitive. It’s starting to ache a little.” Her cheeks flushed at the admission, but the way his lips twitched upward, barely a smile, spurred her on.

The first five minutes passed in a haze of rising pleasure, her breath growing shallow, her hips shifting despite her efforts to stay still. When the time was up—she knew it by the subtle nod he gave—she pulled her hand away, gasping softly. The one-minute break felt both too short and agonizingly long, her body humming with unspent need.

“Again,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the silence.

She obeyed, resuming the slow, torturous circles. By the third cycle, her thighs trembled, and a fine sheen of sweat coated her skin. The ache had deepened, a pulsing insistence that begged for release. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to s***d up, to push herself over the edge. “Sir,” she whimpered, “it’s intense. I’m trying so hard.”

“I know you are,” he said, his tone softening just enough to carry a hint of pride. He stepped closer, crouching to her level, his hand brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. “You’re beautiful like this. Struggling for me. Keep going.”

The fourth cycle nearly broke her. Her fingers slipped slightly, slick with her arousal, and a desperate moan escaped her lips. She froze, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “I—I almost—”

“But you didn’t,” he interrupted, his voice steady. “You’re stronger than you think, pet. One minute break. Breathe.”

She nodded, panting, her hand resting on her thigh as she willed her body to calm. The cycles blurred together after that—five minutes of exquisite ***, one minute of fragile reprieve. By the seventh round, her entire body shook, her clit throbbing under her touch, every nerve screaming for release she couldn’t have. Tears pricked her eyes, not from *** but from the sheer effort of pleasing him.

“Last one,” Daniel said finally, his voice low and rich with approval as the 42-minute mark approached. He knelt in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, smell the faint cedar of his cologne. “Five more minutes. Show me how good you can be.”

Clara sobbed softly, her hand moving again, slower now, each touch a razor’s edge between control and collapse. She chanted his name in her mind—Sir, Sir, Sir—a mantra to keep her grounded. When the final second ticked past, she stopped, her chest heaving, her body a live wire of unfulfilled desire.

Daniel cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had slipped free. “Perfect,” he murmured, his lips grazing her forehead. “You did so well for me.” He pulled her into his arms, cradling her trembling form against his chest, his strength a balm to her frayed edges.

She clung to him, exhausted but glowing with the pride of his praise. “Thank you, Sir,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but content.

He smirked, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. “Rest now, pet. You’ve earned it. But don’t think I’m done with you yet.” The promise in his eyes sent a fresh shiver through her, and she knew—whatever came next, she’d give him everything.