Secret Flame

POV: Natalie

Last time, I swore it would be the last time. This’ll never happen again. I even drove my heel down into the concrete to try and prove a fucking point. Like my stiletto was the signature. 

But now I’m here again, standing in front of this red wooden door. And I know it won’t be locked. My heart’s pounding, sweat pearling on my upper lip.

I should walk away. I should fucking walk away.

But the ache inside won’t let me.

I reach for the knob. It turns too easily, like it’s been waiting for me. I’m probably the hundredth — no, thousandth — woman to touch this thing. There’s a little splinter missing beneath the bronze orb. My finger finds it without thinking. Like a good luck charm.

Because I know that I’m about to enter a place where I’d give up my soul and be grateful for it.

A ride into oblivion.

I hear a chuckle to my right. I call him Bobby, because nobody has any names here. He’s massive, a bodyguard who makes sure things go accordingly. He’s seen me in this same spot, contemplating my life choices.

How many times now? I’ve lost count.

My bank account hasn’t. But I have.

“Clock’s ticking.”

Thanks for the reminder, Bobby.

I give the door a push. My eyes quickly adjust. The room is bathed in dim red light, the air thick with the scent of leather and something musky, primal. Shadows cling to the corners like secrets, heightening the anticipation. A low hum, almost subsonic, thrums through the floor.

And he’s there. Of course, he’s there.

Silhouetted against the far wall, a dark god enthroned in shadows. Light catches the sharp lines of his mask; a sleek black leather affair, molded to his features yet hiding his identity. Thin slits reveal eyes that glint like molten gold, catching me in their heated gaze.

He never gave me a name to call him. Only Master. Or Sir. Sometimes Daddy. But in my dreams, when the red light fades and I’m alone with the memory of his touch, I call him Deon.

My eyes drift to the golden brown skin of his chest, that faint gleam of sweat at his collarbone. My tongue aches to taste him.

Beneath the mask, I catch the edge of his hair. Dark, a hint longer than before, softened with waves that catch the low light.

He’s dressed in a dark button-down, the top two buttons undone. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms, exposing a tattoo that winds around one wrist like a serpent, its scales inked in black.

His pants are black leather, supple and worn, sculpted perfectly to his powerful thighs. Heavy boots, scuffed at the toes, anchor him to the floor.

His gloved fingers are long, elegant, and drum idly on the armrest of his throne.

He’s a predator at rest, the kind that toys with its prey before devouring it whole. I can barely make out the smirk hidden by the lower half of his mask; a curved leather design that suggests a perpetual, knowing smile.

Caramel eyes lock onto me. I want to drown in them.

A low chuckle rumbles in the shadowed space, vibrating through my chest like a caress.

“So, my little bird…” His voice is silk draped over steel, that smooth South African lilt wrapping around me like a noose. That voice was the first thing that hooked me, back when Lia shoved me through that door and told me to stop being such a nun.

“You finally flew back.”

He shifts slightly, like a panther waking up. “You know the rules, sweetheart. This time, the cage is a little tighter.”

He drags a finger along the mask’s seam. “Tell me, what song will you sing for me tonight?”

The first time he asked me that, I stood right here, trembling, drunk out of my mind. Liquid courage barely held me together. The second, third, and fourth time, I’d been tipsy, all nerves and liquid sin. But now? Now I’m stone cold sober.

I want to remember every mark he leaves on me. Every touch.

“A song of submission,” I whisper. “Of obedience.”

The predator’s smile curls. “Remember how shy you were?” he asks, amusement curling around the words. “Could barely form a sentence.”

He chuckles, low and warm, the sound vibrating straight through my ribcage. “Now look at you,” he says. “Pliant. Desperate.”

Need coils inside me, low and tight. He rises, leather creaking like a whip crack.

“I love that outfit,” he drawls. “So short. So willing.”

He closes the distance, heat rolling off him in waves. I melt against him, body yielding instinctively. Hunger blooms with every breath.

“Open your mouth.”

I obey. He slides a black leather gag between my lips, buckling it tight. My jaw forced open, I can only moan—soft, eager whimpers.

A gloved finger presses to my gagged lips. “I want to hear every sweet, muffled note.”

His touch trails lower—fingers skating down my throat, brushing over my chest. Down. Down. He lifts my skirt inch by torturous inch.

“And what’s this?” His tone is mockery laced with dark delight. “Soaking wet already—and I haven’t even touched you.”

Heat blooms low in my belly, a tremor of excitement that I can’t contain. There’s no hiding from him. The thrill of that — being so completely seen, so utterly exposed — burns through me like wildfire.

One finger slips beneath the fabric of my panties. He parts me easily, like he owns the right.

A sound escapes me—raw, muffled, involuntary.

“Mmm.” He purrs, indulgent. “That’s it, little bird. Sing for me.”

His finger circles my clit, teasing, building an ache that swallows all reason. I can’t help the muffled cries that slip past the leather. They’re small, desperate, half-sob, half-song.

He leans in close, his masked face brushing mine. The scent of leather fills my lungs.

A gloved finger traces my jaw—tender, but laced with threat. “Such a beautiful song,” he breathes. “But not quite loud enough yet.”

The leather gag tightens slightly. A low groan escapes my lips. His other hand finds my hip, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against him, every inch of him a wall of heat and strength.

“Let’s make it a duet, shall we?”

His finger goes back to my clit. It circles harder, faster, sending waves of pleasure crashing through me. He plunges two thick fingers inside me, the sensation so intense I nearly collapse from the stretch of him.

His hips begin to move, slow at first, then harder, grinding that thick, unmistakable hardness against my hip, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside me. Each thrust, each grind, sends a fresh jolt of heat coursing through me.

It’s almost painful how he grinds against me, the pressure building, the heat radiating from him sinking deep into my core. My thighs tremble, hips tilting instinctively to meet every deliberate, possessive shift of his body.

A muffled, desperate cry escapes my gagged mouth.

He chuckles low, the sound a molten promise against my ear. “That’s it. Grind that cunt on me. Show me just how desperate you really are.”

He leans in closer, the mask brushing my cheek. “Almost there, my sweet songbird… almost…”

The culmination is explosive, a release that leaves me trembling and breathless against him, the world reduced to the ragged beat of my heart.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes dark with satisfaction. His thumb brushes my cheek.

“Now… let’s see what happens without this little… accessory.”

He unbuckles the gag, his fingers lingering on my lips as the leather falls away. Air rushes back into my lungs, a shaky gasp escaping my lips.

“Tell me how much you need me, sweetheart,” he says, and the command in his tone slices straight through me.

His voice, so low and deep, makes my pussy throb, hot and wet and so empty for him. Just hearing him — just hearing him — makes me ache like I’ve never ached for anyone else.

My lips part, but the words tangle in my throat. One heartbeat. Two. A painful, shimmering pause.

Then—crack. His hand slaps hard against my thigh, the sting immediate, searing.

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

My breath splinters. A whimper breaks loose, and at last, the words spill free.

“Please,” I gasp. “I want you to take me. Hard. Make me yours. Leave marks where no one else can touch. Use me, Deon. Fuck me until I can’t stand.”

The name slips out, raw and trembling—Deon. The name I crafted for him in the quiet, in the hunger, that I’ve only dared whisper in solitude.

He stills. “Deon,” he repeats, tasting it like a sin offered up on trembling lips.

“Did you really think you get to name me, little bird?” His tone is velvet over steel, dripping slow and dangerous. “Did you think you could name the thing that owns you?”

Heat scorches my cheeks — shame and arousal, twin flames licking through me.

“You know the rules,” he says. His voice sharpens, a lash across my chest. “I decide what you call me.”

He leans in, every syllable laced with promise and punishment. “Tonight, you will call me Sir. Unless… you prove yourself. You obey every filthy, desperate command I give you. And then, maybe, I’ll let you call me Deon.”

A sound escapes me, broken and hungry.

His fingers tighten on my thigh — possessive, claiming, utterly inescapable.

“Do you understand, little bird?”

“Yes, Sir,” I whisper. The words tremble, soaked in need. “Anything you want.”

His chuckle is like dark honey dripping down my spine. “Good girl.”