My client's wife is a very bad girl

The key turned in the massive oak door with a satisfyingly heavy thunk. “And this, Mrs. Delaney, is the main entry. Note the reclaimed beams, the imported Italian marble flooring. It sets a tone, doesn’t it?” I gave her my best smile, the one that usually gets a blush or a nervous laugh. She just nodded, her eyes wide, taking in the sheer scale of the foyer.

She was a vision. A fucking pre-Raphaelite painting come to life. Hair like spun copper, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. She couldn’t have been a day over twenty-eight, a stark contrast to her husband, a silver-haired shark in a Brioni suit who’d introduced himself as Robert. He had that old-money, impatient energy, already checking his Patek Philippe before we’d even finished the driveway.

I led them through the sprawling estate, doing my thing. I talk a good game. It’s not just pointing out square footage and appliance brands; it’s about selling a lifestyle. “Imagine your charity galas spilling out onto this veranda,” or “This library isn’t for books; it’s for serious conversations over aged scotch.” Robert seemed bored, nodding along, but Mrs. Delaney—Chloe, she’d whispered when I asked—was drinking it all in. Her eyes were everywhere, and I caught them lingering on me more than once. A guy develops a sense for these things.

We were in the media room, a cavernous space with a screen that could double as a drive-in theater, when Robert’s phone buzzed for the tenth time. He grimaced. “Darling, I have to take this. It’s Singapore. Ian, you don’t mind showing my wife the rest? The master suite, the grounds. The final decision is hers anyway.” He clapped me on the shoulder like we were old fraternity brothers. “Whatever she wants, you accommodate her. Understood?” He gave me a look that was all business, but the words hung in the air, thick and heavy with unintended meaning. Then he was gone, his voice echoing about mergers and acquisitions as he strode back down the hall.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. It was just me and her in this multi-million dollar silence. “Well, Chloe,” I said, my voice a little softer, a little more personal now that the boss was gone. “Shall we continue the tour?”

She just smiled, a shy, curious thing. “Lead the way, Ian.”

We saw the gym, the wine cellar, the infinity pool that seemed to spill into the Pacific. The tension was a live wire. It wasn’t just sexual; it was this shared, unspoken understanding that we were playing a part, and the main actor had just left the stage. We ended up in the west wing, down a corridor I’d saved for last. “This is a… unique space the previous owner was particularly fond of,” I said, unlocking a heavy, soundproofed door. “It can, of course, be completely remodeled.”

I pushed the door open and hit the lights. And fuck me.

It wasn’t a bedroom. It was a fucking dungeon. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany, but that’s where any semblance of normality ended. One wall was a meticulous display: paddles, floggers, crops, things I didn’t even have names for. A St. Andrew’s cross stood in one corner, and in the center of the room was a low, padded bench—a “spanking horse,” I believe it’s called. The bed was massive, with a blood-red satin comforter and heavy restraints dangling from the four posters. The air even smelled different; rich leather and a faint hint of ozone.

Chloe’s breath hitched. She didn’t gasp or turn away. She stepped inside, her heels silent on the plush rug. She ran a finger over the sleek, cold leather of a riding crop. “The previous owner had… specific tastes,” I stammered, my professional facade cracking for the first time all day. My mouth had gone dry. My dick, which had been semi-interested all afternoon, was now a rigid, aching presence in my tailored slacks. I was painfully hard, and there was no hiding it.

She turned to face me, her cheeks flushed, her green eyes dark with something that looked a lot like hunger. The shyness was gone, burned away by the raw, provocative energy of the room. She glanced down at the obvious bulge in my pants, then back up to my eyes, a slow, deliberate smile playing on her lips.

“You heard what my husband said, Ian,” she said, her voice a low, husky tremor that went straight to my core. “The decision is mine. Whatever I want, you accommodate me.”

I just nodded, my brain short-circuiting, all my smooth-talking property manager charm evaporating. “Of course. Anything. A home theater, a putting green…?”

She took a step closer, closing the distance between us. The scent of her perfume, something expensive and floral, mixed with the smell of leather. It was an intoxicating combination.

“I want you to take that,” she said, pointing a slender finger at a set of supple leather cuffs hanging from the cross. “I want you to cuff my wrists to that ring above my head.” Her voice was steady, but I could see the pulse hammering in her throat. “I want you to use that flogger on my ass. Not too hard. I’m new to this.” She took another step, her breast brushing against my arm. A jolt of electricity shot through me. “And then I want you to take me, right here, on this cold floor. I’ve been a very, very bad girl, and I need to be punished.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command. And fuck, was it the hottest thing I’d ever heard.

My professional persona shattered completely. “As you wish,” I growled, the words coming out rough and foreign.

My hands weren’t steady as I took the cuffs. She turned her back to me, presenting her wrists without a word. The leather was soft, but the buckles clicked with a terrifying, final authority. I secured them to the wrought-iron ring, pulling them taut so her arms were stretched above her head, the position arching her back and pushing her perfect, round ass out toward me. She was completely vulnerable, completely at my mercy.

I selected a flogger from the wall—one with soft, wide falls of black leather. I ran the tails over her skirt-clad ass, feeling her shiver. “Is this what you wanted, Chloe?” I whispered.

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice muffled against the wood of the cross.

I drew my arm back and brought the flogger down. It landed with a soft, thudding crack. She gasped. I did it again, and again, a rhythmic spanking that made her body jolt with each impact. A low moan escaped her lips. It wasn’t a moan of pain. It was a moan of pure, unadulterated need. I dropped the flogger. My palms were on her ass then, kneading the warmth I’d created through the fabric of her skirt. I yanked the hem up, revealing a pair of delicate lace panties. I hooked my thumbs in them and pulled them down to her knees in one swift, brutal motion.

I unbuckled my belt, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. I freed my cock, so hard it was almost painful. I didn’t guide myself into her. I positioned myself behind her, placed the head against her soaked, waiting heat, and drove into her in one deep, punishing thrust.

She cried out, a sharp, beautiful sound that was part shock, part ecstasy. The cold floor was beneath our knees, the opulent dungeon surrounding us. I fucked her like I was punishing her, my hips slamming against her tenderized ass, my hands gripping her hips for leverage. Every time I bottomed out inside her, a sharp, delicious smack of my palm would land on her reddening cheek.

“You are a bad girl, aren’t you?” I grunted, my rhythm becoming frantic, animalistic.

“So bad,” she moaned, pushing back against me, meeting every thrust. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

I could feel her climax building, her inner muscles fluttering around me, tightening like a fist. The sight of her, bound and taking everything I gave her, the sound of our bodies meeting, her desperate pleas—it was too much. I lost all control, pounding into her with a final, ragged groan as my own release ripped through me, so intense I saw stars behind my eyelids. I collapsed against her, my body spent, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. The only sound was our ragged breathing, echoing in the silent, perverse room. The property had never felt more like a home.