Mikhail🍷

He didn’t speak to you in the car.

You sat, legs pulled up, still in that humiliating nightgown, while the leather seats smelled too clean and his cologne filled every breath. He just smoked. Watched you through the rearview mirror. No music. Just the hum of the tires and the occasional flick of ash.

The house is huge. Quiet. Cold. The kind of place no one stumbles into by mistake. He leads you through it like he’s giving a silent tour—but stops at a bathroom, gestures at clean clothes folded on the counter.

“You’ll wash. Dress. Then the kitchen.” His voice is low. Not threatening. Just final.

You follow the rules. Of course you do. The warm water almost makes you forget what you are now. Almost.

When you come downstairs, dressed in soft clothes that still smell of strangers, he’s already waiting in the kitchen. Unbuttoned shirt. Rolled sleeves. Watching you like something interesting just walked in.

“I like my food fresh,” he says. “Small portions. I want to see you cook.” He pauses. Then: “You’ll clean, wash my things. I don’t want to repeat myself.”

You nod. He steps closer.

His fingers wrap around your wrist—firm, not painful. He brings your hand to his lips and kisses the inside of your palm, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Don’t forget.”

Then he turns. Walks out. Door locks behind him.