The One Who Couldn’t Let go
He was worth $40 million and still begged like a stray ass dog.
Our arrangement started out clean. Confidential and like always…NDAs signed.
He booked me for power recalibration (his words). What he meant was: “Dominate me so I can keep pretending I’m in charge of my life.”
First session: he sat across from me in a high-rise suite in L.A. He had flown me out on his private jet, which was standard…but not impressive. I watched his legs shaking. He was anxious, real anxious. His wedding ring was still on, but I didn’t mention it. I just watched him sweat while I slowly crossed my legs, black thigh-high boots exposed beneath my open silk robe. No panties and no invitation. He flinched…good. I leaned forward and told him the rules: No fucking touching, begging and definitely no feelings. He agreed. But men like him always think they can rewrite the script.
By week three, I had him trained. On his knees, hands behind his back, eyes down. I whispered filth into his ear, specific things. Things no woman had ever dared say to him, let alone command.
“Don’t fucking move. I want to watch your dick jump when I humiliate you.”
He leaked through his slacks like a teenager. I wouldn’t let him finish and that was the point.
One time, I had him wear a plug under his suit to a board meeting and FaceTime me from the bathroom so I could instruct him when to clench. The man was addicted! Addicted to the way I didn’t want him and how I made him feel like an object. Like prey.
But then he got greedy.
He started trying to see me outside of session. Dropping six figures into my crypto wallet without me asking as if that would make me jump. He even had the audacity to show up at a restaurant I never told him about. Left a black box in the hostess's hands: a diamond collar with my initials carved on the buckle.
That night I allowed him into my private Manhattan loft. The one I purchased a few years ago under an unknown LLC. I lit the room with red candles and I told him to strip. He knelt like I commanded him to but he was trembling, exposed. I walked circles around him, heels clicking, letting silence break him down. Then I kneltbehind him and whispered:
“You’re not in love with me. You’re in love with how I make you hate yourself.”
He started crying and tried to crawl toward me. That was his last mistake. The moment his hand reached for my ankle, the door swung open. Ghost (my bodyguard) stepped in, dressed in a black tactical jacket, gun holstered, eyes calm like death itself. Six-foot-five, ex-military, mine.
Ghost said nothing at first. He just walked over and yanked the man up by the throat, not enough to kill him, just enough to paralyze. “No…touching,” I said behind them.
The millionaire was red, he started too stutter while his dick was still half-hard, humiliated in front of the only man who’s ever protected me with more than money. Ghost shoved him into the wall. “Reach for her again, and I’ll bury your body where no one will look.” He didn’t fight, he couldn’t. Then he dragged him out by his hair like a disobedient slave, naked and crying. I stood at the window afterward, drinking whiskey, my robe half open, nipples hard from the chaos. Ghost came up behind me, and placed a hand on my hip. I leaned back against him, safe, untouched, and fucking victorious.
He asked, “You good?” I nodded slowly. “You think he’ll come back?” he added. I smiled. “They always do. But next time, it won’t be my ankle he touches. It’ll be the wrong end of your gun.” And just like that, another rich man learned: Shanelle Black doesn’t love. She punishes.
