Page 25 of Bound to Him

"No," I stop her. "Allow me."

I undress her methodically, as one might unwrap a valuable gift, taking my time despite the ticking clock. Each revealed inch of skin is mine, marked by my touch, my gaze, sometimes literally by my name or symbols of my ownership. The tattoos have healed beautifully—my name on her hip, the ring on her finger, both dark and permanent against her pale skin.

When she stands naked before me, I step back, gesturing toward the shower. "Proceed."

She turns away, moving with the careful dignity of someone determined not to show weakness. The shower turns on, steam beginning to rise. I watch as she washes, her movements efficient, lacking the sensuality that might be expected in such a scenario. This isn't about sexual gratification, though her body remains exquisite, a canvas I never tire of admiring. This is about ownership, about establishing that nothing is beyond my reach, my observation, my control.

"Your time is almost up," I inform her as she rinses her hair.

She hurries to finish, shutting off the water exactly as the fifteen minutes elapse. I hand her a towel, noting with approval her adherence to the schedule. Already, she's adapting to the new structure, understanding that resistance is futile.

"Very good," I tell her, helping her dry her back, an intimate gesture that reinforces my access to her body. "Get dressed. According to your schedule, you have thirty minutes of reading time before dinner."

I select her clothes. A simple dress in deep blue, underwear that matches. Nothing provocative today. That's not the point of this exercise. She dresses under my watchful eye, each movement observed, categorized, filed away in my understanding of her.

Back in the main room, I direct her to the window seat, handing her the book she was reading earlier. "Continue where you left off," I instruct, taking a seat across from her, where I can observe her fully.

She opens the book, but her eyes don't track across the page. She's aware of my gaze, my constant presence.

"You're not reading," I point out after a few minutes.

"I'm finding it difficult to concentrate," she admits, her voice soft.

"You'll adjust," I assure her. "The human mind is remarkably adaptable. In time, you won't even notice my presence. It will become as natural as breathing."

"And if I don't adjust?" The question slips out, a rare moment of direct challenge.

I smile, not unkindly. "That's not an option I'm willing to entertain, Hannah. You will adjust because you must. Because this is your reality now."

She looks down at the book again, her fingers tracing the edges of the pages. "May I ask why? Why this level of…observation?"

"Because you're mine," I reply simply. "Because everything you are, everything you do, belongs to me. Your body, your time, your activities. All of it is mine to control, to observe, to direct as I see fit. And I love nothing more, Hannah, than to watch you. I could fucking watch you all day and be completely content.”

"But what about—" She stops herself, biting her lip.

"Go on," I encourage, curious about what she still dares to question.

"What about my thoughts?" she asks, almost a whisper. "Will you control those too?"

I lean forward, taking the book from her hands, setting it aside. "In time," I tell her, my voice gentle but firm. "Your thoughts are the final frontier, Hannah. The last part of you still fighting my ownership. But they too will surrender eventually."

Fear flashes in her eyes. Not the immediate, physical fear I've seen before, but something deeper, more existential. The fear of complete obliteration of self.

"Don't look so frightened," I say, reaching out to cup her cheek. "It's a natural progression. When you finally surrender your mind as completely as your body, you'll find peace. Freedom from choice, from responsibility, from the burden of independence. You might find just how much you enjoy belong to me. Because I take care of what’s mine, Hannah. Contrary to what you might think, I don’t want to harm you. I want to spoil you, pamper you. Is that so bad?”

She doesn't respond, doesn't need to. The trembling beneath my hand tells me everything. She understands the totality of what I'm pursuing, the absolute nature of the ownership I demand.

As dinner time approaches, I stand, extending my hand to her. "Come. The chef has prepared something special tonight."

She takes my hand automatically, rising to follow me. As we walk to the door, I note with satisfaction how she matches her pace to mine, how she anticipates my movements. Her body is learning, even if her mind still resists.

In the hallway, guards fall into step behind us, maintaining a respectful distance. Hannah doesn't look back at them, doesn't acknowledge their presence. Her world has narrowed to me, to my commands, my approval, my control. Just as it should be.

This is only the beginning of the total control I intend to establish. Days and weeks of constant observation, of scheduled activities, of unrelenting presence will reshape her understanding of existence. She will come to accept that there is no Hannah separate from my possession of her, no moment of her life that isn't mine to monitor and direct.

And in that acceptance, she will finally, truly belong to me—body, behavior, and eventually, inevitably, mind.

CHAPTER 12

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