I thought I was going to die beneath that dark red tie.

The sensation—a stifling, throbbing pressure with no outlet—felt like a dull, rusted blade sawing back and forth across my nerves. My vision blurred completely; involuntary tears mingled with the fine beads of sweat on my forehead, stinging my eyes.

"Schroeder... please..." My voice was shattered, little more than the final, dying whimper of a small, wounded creature.

I knelt before his dress trousers like a dog, my hands clawing desperately at the edge of the carpet—my fingernails nearly splitting. Every shred of my reason and dignity had been ground to dust under this exquisite torment. Only one thought remained in my mind: *release*. Even if the price was to become his slave forever, I just needed him to loosen that damned tie.

Schroeder looked down at me from above. His deep black suit seemed to swallow the dim light, lending him an air of cold, absolute, ascetic detachment. His gaze was profound and dangerous—as if he were admiring a work of art he was about to utterly destroy.

I don’t know how much time passed—perhaps a century, perhaps only a few fleeting seconds.

Finally, he moved.

The tie wrapped around his hand slackened, and with a deft flick of his long, slender fingers, he undid the knot cinched tight against my most vulnerable part.

"Ah—!"

The moment the restraint was lifted, a long-pent-up tide of desire surged forth like a dam bursting. I let out a sharp, piercing cry, my body arching violently as a blinding flash of white light exploded before my eyes.

Without a single touch of comfort—simply because the constraint had been removed—I reached a climax, collapsing in a wretched, exposed state under his cold, unblinking stare.

Thick, milky fluid stained my own abdomen and splattered onto the edges of his expensive leather shoes. I collapsed onto the carpet, completely drained, gasping for air as my chest heaved violently. My head was buzzing, and the lingering electric sensations still coursed wildly through every inch of my body.

How humiliating.

I squeezed my eyes shut, desperate to escape this mortifying reality. But the air was thick with a musky scent—intermingled with the cold, woody fragrance that clung to Schroeder—which seeped into my nostrils, a relentless reminder of everything that had just transpired.

How did it come to this?

Amidst the chaos and exhaustion, my thoughts drifted back three days—to that absurd night when it all began.

It was supposed to be an entirely ordinary Tuesday. That evening, I went to meet a man I’d connected with on a dating app. His profile read: "Top, financial executive, enjoys being in control." I had held a flicker of hope—expecting a mature, charismatic dominant who might offer a different kind of thrill.

But the reality was an unmitigated disaster.

The man wore a cheap, ill-fitting suit and reeked of pungent, low-quality cologne; his every word and gesture oozed smarmy, self-important arrogance. At the restaurant, he even reached under the table to grope my thigh—completely disregarding my wishes—while spouting crude, lewd remarks he clearly imagined to be "commanding."

Fighting back a wave of nausea, I made a flimsy excuse and fled.

When I arrived back at my apartment, Schroeder had just returned from get off work. He was in the living room, pouring himself a whiskey, dressed in a deep-blue three-piece suit. Seeing me in such a disheveled, furious state, he raised an eyebrow and handed me a glass.

I took the glass and downed a large gulp; the sharp, fiery bite of the alcohol exploded in my chest. Emboldened by the drink, I began to vent—pouring out a frantic, bitter tirade about the absolute nightmare of a date I’d just endured. "You know, Schroeder, there aren't any real 'tops' in this scene—not a single one!" I yanked at my collar in frustration and collapsed onto the sofa. "These guys who call themselves 'tops'—they think that just by throwing on a suit and playing the 'ruthless CEO' archetype, they can exert control over others. In reality, they’re nothing more than crude, low-class trash!"

Schroeder sat quietly in an armchair, legs crossed, gently swirling the ice in his crystal glass. In the dim light, his expression was unreadable.

"What kind of control are you looking for?" he asked, his tone perfectly flat, devoid of any emotion.

I was already quite drunk, completely oblivious to the danger lurking beneath his calm exterior. Emboldened by the alcohol, I turned toward him and let my gaze roam over him, uninhibited.

From the perfectly tied Windsor knot at his throat to his crisp white shirt, down to his long, slender legs encased in tailored trousers—every detail about him exuded a sense of extreme restraint and an expensive, refined kind of sex appeal.

"The kind of control I want..." I let out a scoff, pointing at him, "would have to be like yours. The clothes must fit perfectly, the demeanor must be cool and composed—you have to know exactly when to be elegant, and when to be ruthless."

I paused. With my mental defenses completely dismantled by the alcohol, I blurted out something I should never, ever have said:

"Honestly, Schroeder—if you weren't a 'bottom,' if you were actually a 'top'... well, just looking at you in that suit—if you tied me up with your necktie or whipped me with your belt, I’d probably drop to my knees and beg you to ruin me."

It was just a drunken joke—an absurd, hypothetical remark meant to vent my frustrations with reality.

But the moment the words left my lips, the air in the entire living room seemed to freeze solid.