English Be a good girl

Revelation

L awoke, disoriented, and even before opening her eyes, she sensed an overwhelming presence above her. A firm hand pressed onto her shoulder, forcing her upright with a sudden, almost brutal movement. The man was there, and his imposing stature loomed over her entirely. A mask hid his face, yet his body exuded an unyielding strength, a crushing authority that stole her breath. The pressure of his hand on her was like a silent promise of control and submission.

Her heart pounded violently, her body caught between raw terror and a desire she dared not acknowledge. The black dress clinging to her curves seemed to become a prison around her body, each fiber of the fabric accentuating the oppression on her ample chest, the swell of her hips, and the full curve of her buttocks, compressed, offered to this man's mercy. She could barely breathe in the garment, yet the thought of casting it off, of reaching a rank where she could wear something else, intrigued her in strange ways.

Without a word, he guided her, his iron grip encircling her neck, directing her steps toward a door she'd never noticed before. The air was thick with dark promises, with a sensual, menacing tension that slid over her skin and coiled around her stomach like a burning knot. She was vulnerable, in his hands; every step she took was dictated by his hold, by that unshakable force that left no doubt about who controlled the scene.

Inside the secret room, the air grew heavier still. A low, massive wooden table sat in the center, and atop it, a parchment that immediately caught her eye. Her neckline, half-constricted by the tightness of her dress, leaned forward as she drew closer, feeling his presence right behind her. Her chest, crushed beneath the oppressive dress, her body taut, she fought against the shiver of fear and excitement overwhelming her, every fiber of her being acutely aware of his breathing behind her, of the suffocating heat of his proximity.

On the parchment were drawings of dresses in every color, each adorned with strange symbols. And at the very bottom of the scale: black—the one she wore. Her insides twisted with humiliation, with shame; she was nothing here, a recruit at the lowest level, an insignificant shadow, bare and weak under the gaze of a man who saw in her only an interchangeable piece. A malleable object, nameless and unimportant.

But something was stirring within this shame: a burning desire, a secret hunger for power and control, a need to climb the ranks of this shadowed system, to earn another dress. This black dress was consuming her, a vise of submission and humiliation she wanted to shatter, to claim another, higher, worthier one. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily, a diffuse heat seizing her belly, a forbidden desire to rise, to attain privileges beyond the reach of others.

The man leaned over her, his breath brushing her neck in an almost cruel whisper: "If you think simply wearing another color will make you different, you're mistaken." His voice was like an icy bite, a harsh reminder of her insignificance. His fingers sank into her hip, a possessive, unyielding touch that tolerated no deviation, no resistance.

She shuddered, unable to fight the wave of heat rising within her. Her chest constricted, her back arched under the weight of his hand, her body betraying her will, a mixture of shame and burning desire in every pulse of her blood. The possibility of advancing in this hierarchy, of climbing the ranks, of obtaining those secret, inaccessible advantages...