Schroeder’s hand, which had been swirling the ice cubes, came to a halt. He slowly raised his gaze; those eyes—usually so languid and indifferent—were now burning with a chilling, dark fire I had never seen before.

It was the look of a beast that had been lying in wait, finally watching its prey walk straight into the cage.

"What did you say?" his voice was terrifyingly low, laced with a raw, gravelly edge.

Startled by his expression, the haze of alcohol in my mind began to clear. "I... I was just joking. We’re both 'bottoms'—how could that possibly..."

*Bang!*

He slammed his crystal glass down onto the coffee table. Rising to his feet, he began to stalk toward me. He hadn’t taken off his coat, nor had he undone a single button, yet the sheer, overwhelming pressure radiating from him made me instinctively recoil.

He reached me, gripped my chin, and forced me to look up at him.

"Peter," he said, his voice chillingly cold, yet tinged with a perverse, twisted excitement, "don't you know that some things shouldn't be said so lightly?"

What followed shattered my world entirely. He bound my hands with his necktie and pulled off his leather belt. With a brutality and cold-bloodedness that defied mercy, he responded to my absurd little joke.

And the most terrifying part of all? Amidst that violence and humiliation, I discovered the very sense of control I had always craved.

...

Pulled back from the memory, I remained slumped on the carpet.

"Still not back with us?"

Schroeder’s detached voice drifted down from above.

I opened my eyes slightly to see him looming over me. He held the dark red tie loosely in his hand, its end dangling right beside my cheek.

Taking a deep breath, I forced my trembling arms to support me, and slowly, I began to pull myself up from the carpet. I didn’t dare to stand up fully; I remained on my knees, looking up at him.

That was when I noticed a change in his body.

Even through the thick, impeccably tailored fabric of his deep-black dress trousers, I could clearly see a distinct bulge between his legs.

My heart skipped a beat at the discovery.

Schroeder—the man who had always treated me with the cold, detached air of a dominant, the man who insisted that what we shared was merely "mutual assistance"—was actually... reacting to me. And the reaction was intense.

The realization exploded in my mind, stirring a complex, indescribable mix of emotions: shame, fear, and—more than anything—a secret, almost pathological sense of satisfaction.

He wasn’t entirely indifferent after all; the sight of me—a "bottom" in such a wretched state—was enough to stir him.

I bit my lower lip as a daring thought took root and began to grow wildly in my mind.

Since I had already lost every shred of dignity in front of him, why not see this game through to the very end?

I inched forward, two slow steps, until my knees were nearly brushing against his leather shoes.

Schroeder didn’t pull back, nor did he stop me; he simply narrowed his eyes, watching my movements with an inscrutable gaze.

I reached out with trembling hands and rested them lightly upon his trousers. The fabric felt cold and coarse—a stark contrast to the searing heat radiating from his body beneath.

"Since this is all about 'mutual assistance'..." My voice was raw and hoarse, still laced with a tremor born of lingering desire. "You helped me earlier... now, it’s my turn."

I looked up at his face—still as cold and stern as ice—and, forcing myself to push past the shame, I slowly pressed my cheek against the bulge in his trousers.

"Are you certain you want to do this, Peter?" Schroeder’s voice came from above—low, gravelly, and carrying a faint note of warning. I didn’t answer; instead, I let my actions demonstrate my resolve.

I rubbed against him, the expensive fabric of his dress trousers acting as a thin barrier. The hard, unyielding sensation beneath the cloth sent a flush of heat to my cheeks. I could feel the muscles between his thighs tense instantly at my touch, his breathing growing noticeably heavier.

Yet, his upper body remained in a state of untouchable composure. His white shirt was as crisp and smooth as if it were brand new, not a single wrinkle in sight. He made no move to touch me, watching my every gesture with an intense, overwhelming gaze—as if scrutinizing a pet desperate to please its master.

This stark contrast—the raw desire below and the rigid restraint above—was so stimulating it was almost suffocating.

I parted my lips and, through the fabric, took the bulge into my mouth, biting down ever so lightly.

"Hiss..."

Schroeder drew a sharp, sudden breath. One of his hands plunged into my hair, his fingers tightening into a firm, forceful grip on my scalp.

It was a gesture steeped in aggression and a need for control. Rather than pushing me away, he pressed my head down harder, forcing me into an even closer, more intimate contact.

"Don't you dare soil my trousers," he growled, the words forced out through gritted teeth.

"I know..." I replied, my voice muffled.

I dared not defy his command. Abandoning the friction against the fabric, my hands moved to the metal zipper of his trousers.

*Click.* The sound of the zipper sliding down rang out, startlingly sharp in the quiet living room.

Carefully, I parted the fabric, setting free the desire that had already been strained to its absolute limit.

It was a sight entirely at odds with his usual image of cool, rational detachment—a display of raw, savage, and primal power.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and surrendered myself completely to that power.