Naomi's gaze dropped to the floor, unable to bear the sight of that smirk. She contemplated sitting at the farthest end of the table, as far away from him as the room would allow. It was a desperate, childish wish, a small act of rebellion that might give her a few inches of space, a few seconds of relief from his oppressive presence.
But she knew better. She knew there would be consequences for that. He would call her back, or worse, he would come and get her, and the punishment for such a small act of defiance would be swift and severe. She had learned that lesson too well.
So she walked. All the way down the length of that impossibly long table, her limp echoing in the silent room, her eyes fixed on the floor, her body a canvas of pain that she was forced to display for his viewing pleasure. She reached the chair beside him, the one he always expected her to occupy, and she sat down.
The movement sent a fresh wave of agony through her hips and thighs, and she couldn't quite suppress a small, sharp gasp as she settled into the chair. But she sat. She was there, beside him, where he wanted her, where he could see her and touch her and control her. And she hated herself for it, hated her own weakness, hated the way she had surrendered without a fight.
But most of all, she hated him. Hated the way he sat there eating his breakfast like nothing had happened, like he hadn't spent the yesterday afternoon turning her into a broken, bruised mess. Hated the way he smirked at her pain, like it was a private joke between them. Hated the way he owned every part of her, even her suffering.
She sat there, her hands in her lap, her eyes downcast, and waited for whatever came next.
The instruction he gave was simple, delivered without even a glance in her direction. "Eat." Xavier's voice cut through the silence of the dining room, a sharp command that expected immediate obedience.
Naomi reached for the food, her movements slow and careful. She took a croissant from the silver rack, placing it on her plate alongside some scrambled eggs and a small scoop of fruit salad. Each reach, each stretch of her arm, pulled at the bruises on her sides, a constant, throbbing reminder of yesterday's ordeal.
She brought a piece of croissant to her lips, the flaky pastry tasting like cardboard in her dry mouth, and began to eat. She forced herself to chew, to swallow, to take another bite, trying to ignore the pain that radiated through her body with every breath, every shift of her weight against the hard chair.
Xavier ate with his usual unhurried precision, his gaze fixed on his phone, scrolling through messages and reports as if she weren't even there. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, broken only by the soft clink of cutlery against porcelain and the occasional hum of the refrigerator in the distance.
When he finished, he set his napkin down and stood up, buttoning his suit jacket with that same single, practiced motion. He didn't look at her, didn't acknowledge her presence in any way. He simply turned and walked towards the door, his strides long and confident, expecting her to follow without being told.
Naomi sat there for a moment, a flicker of confusion passing through her pain-fogged mind. Was she supposed to follow? Was she supposed to stay? The uncertainty was a cold weight in her stomach. But then he reached the stairway and paused, turning his head slightly to look back at her over his shoulder.
"Come," he said, his voice flat and commanding.
She pushed herself up from the chair, biting back a gasp as the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through her hips and thighs. Her limp was more pronounced now, her body stiff from sitting, every step a small torture as she hurried to catch up with his retreating form. She followed him across the hallway and up the grand staircase, her hand gripping the banister so tightly her knuckles turned white. Each step was a climb, her injured body screaming in protest, but she didn't dare fall behind.
The second floor hallway stretched out before them, long and imposing, lined with doors that led to rooms hadn't really entered. But Xavier didn't stop at any of them.
He walked straight to the door at the very end, the one she recognised with a cold, sinking dread. His office. The room she had broken into, the room where her brief, desperate hope had been crushed for the first time.
He stopped in front of the door and reached for the keypad. His fingers moved quickly, punching in the numbers with practiced ease. 2-6-0-8. The same combination she had memorised, the same combination that had given her a fleeting taste of freedom before he had snatched it away. The lock clicked open, and he pushed the door wide, stepping inside without a backward glance.
Naomi hesitated for just a fraction of a second, a moment of resistance that was instantly crushed by the memory of what happened when she resisted. She followed him in, crossing the threshold into the room that had been the site of her first real act of defiance.
It looked exactly the same as she remembered. Clean, organised, imposing. The massive mahogany desk dominated the space, a throne of dark wood and power. The walls were lined with books and artifacts, and the floor-to-ceiling window let in a flood of natural light that seemed almost offensive in its cheerfulness. The only difference was that there was no maid cleaning, no sense of quiet industry. It was just her and him and the heavy silence of the room.
Xavier walked around the desk and settled into the high-backed leather chair behind it. He didn't invite her to sit. He didn't offer her a chair. He simply looked at her, his grey eyes cold and assessing, taking in the yellow sundress, the limp, the bruises peeking out above the neckline.
"Get on your knees," he said.
The words were simple, direct, and utterly humiliating. Naomi's stomach dropped, a sickening lurch that made her feel momentarily dizzy. She stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief, but his expression didn't change. He wasn't joking. He wasn't testing her. This was a command.
"Kneel beside the table," he clarified, gesturing to the space beside his desk, the space where a loyal dog might sit at its master's feet.
Her legs were shaking. Her entire body was shaking. But she moved, because she had no choice, because the alternative was worse. She walked around the side of the desk, each step a small agony, and lowered herself to her knees. The hard, unyielding floor was a shock against her kneecaps, and she had to bite her lip to stop from sobbing.
"You will not rest on your feet," he said, his voice taking on a hard, instructional edge. "You will not slouch. Your back will be straight, your shoulders back, your head up. You will not move until I am done."
It was a lecture, a set of rules for her new position of degradation. She was to be a statue, a perfect, obedient ornament for his desk, visible but silent, present but powerless.
She straightened her spine, wincing at the pull on her sore muscles, and fixed her gaze on a point on the wall above his head, trying to maintain the posture he demanded.
He watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached for one of the lower cabinets on the right side of his desk. He pulled it open and reached inside, his fingers closing around something.
When his hand emerged, he was holding a riding crop.
It was a sleek, black thing, about two feet long, with a leather-wrapped handle and a flexible shaft that ended in a small, flat tip. It looked like it belonged in a sex dungeon, not an office, but somehow, in Xavier's hand, it looked perfectly natural, an extension of his power and control.
He laid it on the desk beside him, within her line of sight, a silent, menacing presence. "This," he said, his voice soft and dangerous, "is to ensure you remember the rules. You slouch, you get the crop. You sit on your feet, you get the crop. You move without permission, you get the crop." He paused, letting the words sink in. "And trust me, Naomi, with the condition you're already in, you don't want to add to it."
The threat was clear. The riding crop was not a possibility; it was a promise. And as Naomi knelt there on the hard floor, her body aching, her pride in tatters, she understood that this was her life now. She was not a wife. She was not a person. She was a thing to be positioned and displayed and punished, a kneeling ornament for a man who derived pleasure from her suffering.
Five minutes crawled by like hours. The hard floor beneath Naomi's knees was unforgiving, a constant, grinding pressure against her already bruised and battered skin. She kept her back straight, her shoulders back, her head up, just as he had demanded, her eyes fixed on that point on the wall above his head. Her jaw was clenched so tight it ached, the only way to stop herself from crying out, from making any sound that might draw his attention.
Xavier typed away on his laptop, his fingers moving across the keyboard with a steady, rhythmic precision. The soft clicking of the keys was the only sound in the room, a maddening counterpoint to the thundering of her own heartbeat. He didn't look at her. He didn't acknowledge her presence in any way. It was as if she didn't exist, as if she were just another piece of furniture in the room.
Ten minutes. The ache in her knees had deepened into a sharp, throbbing pain that radiated up her thighs and into her hips. Her bruised muscles were screaming, the strain of holding the rigid posture becoming harder and harder to maintain. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out on her forehead and the back of her neck, and she could feel her body starting to tremble, tiny involuntary shivers that she couldn't quite control.
Fifteen minutes. The trembling was more noticeable now, a subtle but persistent shaking that made her yellow sundress quiver slightly. The pain was becoming unbearable, a deep, bone-deep ache that made her want to cry, want to scream, want to collapse in a heap on the floor and just give up. Every muscle in her body was protesting, every bruise and sore spot throbbing in time with her heartbeat. She needed to move, needed to relax, needed to ease the pressure on her knees and her back and her hips before she simply passed out from the pain.
Xavier glanced at her for a split second, his grey eyes flicking in her direction like a predator checking on its prey. Then, just as quickly, he returned his attention to the laptop, his fingers resuming their steady clicking. The look had been so brief, so casual, that Naomi almost thought she had imagined it.
One minute passed. Then two. Then three.
He wasn't looking. His eyes were fixed on the screen, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration, his fingers flying across the keys. He was absorbed in whatever he was doing, whatever business empire he was running from behind that massive desk. He wouldn't notice. He couldn't notice. Just a second, just a tiny slouch, just a momentary relief from the agony of holding the position.
Naomi let her shoulders drop, just a fraction, just enough to ease the burning in her upper back. She relaxed her spine slightly, letting the rigid posture soften. The relief was immediate, a rush of easing tension that felt so good it almost made her moan. She allowed herself a moment of weakness, a single breath of rest from the torture.
Before she even realised what was happening, before she could process the movement or brace herself, something hit her. It was sharp and fast and painful, a stinging lash across her chest that caught her completely off guard. The riding crop had connected with her right breast, the flat tip biting into the soft flesh through the thin fabric of the sundress with a vicious accuracy.
She gasped, a sharp, surprised sound of pain that was torn from her lips before she could stop it. Her hands flew to her chest, cradling the injured breast, her eyes wide with shock and hurt.
The pain was intense, a hot, stinging burn that seemed to radiate outward from the point of impact, mixing with the deeper ache of the bruises already there.