The final dice clattered across the table. Silence followed.

Cass leaned back in her chair, tapping a nail against her DM screen. “And with that final failed save,” she looked up, smiling sweetly, “the entire party is unconscious.”

Groans erupted. A chorus of expletives and mock outrage filled the living room. Cass waited, calm, enjoying the chaos.

“But,” she continued, voice smooth and cool as steel, “instead of killing you, Queen Aerathe commands her guards to drag your broken, bleeding bodies to her private dungeon.”

Cass smiled from behind the screen, eyes gleaming. “The guards drag you through dark stone corridors, chains rattling against your broken armour. Blood streaks the floor behind you, the throne room gleams, gold-veined marble and velvet cushions untouched by your failure.”

“Days pass, you lay in the dungeon, your wounds barely healed. Until the queen decides to visit you, she stands on the other side of the bars looking down at the manacled party with a look of disdain.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, voice soft and cruel. “She watches you. Eyes cold. Lips curved.”

Liam adjusted in his seat.

Cass met his eyes directly. “She stands. Her heels click across the floor. ‘You failed ,’ she says. ‘You came to kill me, and now look at you, slumped in a corner, collars tight around those foolish necks.’”

Liam licked his lips. “Anvar keeps his gaze low. Submissive.”

Cass didn’t break eye contact. “‘Speak, worm,’ the queen hisses. ‘Tell me who sent you. Who sent you here to die by my hand?’”

Liam cleared his throat. “You’ll have to beat it out of us. None of us will talk!”

The laughter died down. A beat passed. A small, knowing smirk touched Cass’s lips.

She turned a page in her notes, slowly, deliberately, turning to a page that looked like some very detailed notes on torture.

“Guards,” she said, voice like silk and poison, “bring the whip.” Cass didn't look at the others around the table. Not yet. She wanted to see Liam’s face.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. His jaw tightened. His breathing slowed, just slightly.

Interesting.

She glanced back at her notes, hiding her smile. “Two guards step forward, silent and expressionless. One holds a barbed whip. The other unlocks your shackles, only to rebind your arms above your head, chains tight, body stretched.”

Liam exhaled through his nose. “Anvar growls and tries to spit at the Queen’s feet.”

Cass smiled, gesturing for him to roll a die. A three. “He misses.”

“Queen Aerathe steps closer,” she purred. “One gloved hand traces your jaw. ‘Still so defiant,’ she says. ‘Let’s see if I can fix that.’”

She picked up a d6. Rolling to see where each strike landed on Liam’s character.

“The first strike lashes across your chest. Sharp, stinging. The second hits lower, hips twisting in the chains. The third, ” She glanced up. “lands across your inner thigh. Now just to be clear how torture works in this game: it can result in long term injuries, the worse the torture, the worse those injuries. So far it’s been nothing too serious, but the longer it goes, the worse it gets.”

The room had gone quieter. Not silent, but the laughter had faded to amused smiles, hushed whispers. Cass kept her focus razor-sharp.

“Queen Aerathe leans in close,” she said, voice like honey over a blade. “‘You’ll learn obedience. I always break my toys eventually.’”

Liam didn’t respond right away before making a decision “Andvar spits again.”

Cass let out a low chuckle. “Then the queen slaps him. Hard.” She rolls some dice, “ 3 points of damage, damn that means you fall unconscious again.”

She closed her notes. “Lets end there for the night, it’s getting late.”

Dice were packed. Drinks drained. People were starting to stand. But Cass decided to take a risk. She looked directly at Liam, cool, imperious, the same demeanor she had used for the Queen. “Clean this up, worm.” She said gesturing to the empty cans, “You’re the one that came up with the idea of assaulting the witch queen.” She half-expected Liam to laugh too. Make a joke. Wave it off.

The room paused.

Someone laughed. “Oof, harsh! I thought he was just being punished in the game!”

Liam blinked, then straightened. “Yes, my Queen.”

A ripple of laughter.

“Commitment to the bit,” someone said, shaking their head.

But Liam started cleaning. Quietly. Cups, cans, snack wrappers. No complaints. No ironic bow. Just silently obeying.

The others were still chuckling as they filtered out.

“Have fun punishing him until next week,” someone called.

Liam kept cleaning.

Cass didn’t speak. Not at first. Just moved to lean in the doorway, arms folded, watching.

He’s still doing it. Is this real? Is he just playing along? Alright then, let’s see how far he will go. Cass loved being in charge. If he was going to let her boss him around then she was going to take full advantage of it. 

“I like my churls shirtless,” she said. A test. Casual. Easy to laugh off.

But he didn’t. He hesitated, just for a breath, then peeled off his shirt and tossed it onto the couch. Flexed, half-joking.

Time passed. Ten minutes. Then fifteen.

He hadn’t asked if he could stop.

Cass felt the shift as she watched him move, not just obedience. Submission. She decided to press.

Cass’s smirk was instinctive. “Pitiful.” She lifted one bare foot to the ottoman. “You’ve earned the honour of cleaning your Queen’s feets” she said gesturing to the water he’d just collected to mop the floors.

He hesitated only to slide a cushion closer to kneel on, then took her foot in both hands, reverent, like it was a holy object.

His fingers moved slowly, palms smoothing over her arch, thumb tracing the curve of her heel. He dipped the cloth into the warm water and wrung it out carefully, like he didn’t dare let a single drop fall out of line.

Cass arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. The heat in her chest was spreading now, down her arms, her stomach. Her breath slower. He wasn’t just doing it.

He was into it.

The cloth moved again, circling over her toes with deliberate care. Not perfunctory. Not joking. Focused.

“You do take your duties seriously,” she murmured.

He didn’t respond with words, just looked up, eyes glassy with adrenaline, and kissed the top of her foot.

Cass’s breath caught.

He’s not pretending. He’s offering himself. He wants me in charge. She let the moment linger. Let herself feel it, power humming under her skin.

Then she made the decision.

“You’re still pausing before obeying my commands.” she said softly. “Not nearly submissive enough. That will have to be corrected.” She stood. “Follow me.”

Cass led him up the stairs with slow, measured steps, the rhythm of her heartbeat louder than it should’ve been.

He followed in silence.

She didn’t turn to look at him. Didn’t want him to see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She was afraid she’d misread this. What if he’s just playing along? What if this is still a joke to him?

Her room was dim, soft lamplight spilling across the floor. She stepped inside first, heard the quiet thud of his bare feet behind her.

She crossed to the dresser. Her hand hovered over the top drawer. This was it. She opened it.

The ropes were folded neatly. Silk. Crimson. Her crop was there, too. Her collar. A gag. Wrist cuffs. She laid bare her secrets. Something very few know about her. She was a Dungeon Mistress in more than one way.

Cass didn’t look at Liam. Her nerves wouldn’t let her. What if he was horrified? She just reached in and pulled out the silk rope. She turned.

He was standing still, watching. His eyes were wide. Not in fear. Not in revulsion. In awe. Shock. Excitement.

Cass exhaled, slow. Okay. It’s real. She pushed her nerves back. She was in control. She was going to have some fun. 

“Hands,” she said. He held them out.

She stepped close and bound his wrists. She took her time, watching his breath quicken as the silk slid over his skin. She adjusted, tested the knot. She was well practised at this. 

Then she led him, gently, to the loop in the ceiling, installed just for this purpose. 

She clipped the rope in, lifted his arms above his head, let the tension settle in the line. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. His skin flushed.

Cass stood before him.

Finally, he looked into her eyes.

“I didn’t know you were this into it,” he said, voice just above a whisper.

Cass smiled, slow and wicked.

“You’ve seen nothing yet.”

She turned. Reached for the crop.

Cass ran her fingers along the leather shaft of the crop. Familiar. Balanced. Just the right weight.

She heard Liam shift, his arms stretching slightly as the tension in the rope pulled his posture upright. Exposed. Vulnerable. Perfect.

She turned slowly, letting him see it in her hand.

His eyes tracked the crop. His throat bobbed.

Cass stepped closer, the sound of her boots soft against the wooden floor. She circled him once. Letting the air between them grow heavy. Then she stopped behind him.

The first strike wasn’t hard. A light tap across the back of his thigh. Testing. Liam twitched, more from surprise than pain.

Cass smiled. Gave him a beat to stop her before she struck again. Slightly harder. Just enough to sting.

He inhaled sharply but still said nothing. “Good,” she said, low and measured. “you're quiet now. I like that.”

Another strike. His back tensed, beautifully.

Cass stepped around to face him. He kept his gaze down, lips parted. She raised the crop, ran the leather gently along his jaw, tilting his chin up.

“Look at me.” He did. His pupils were wide. Breath unsteady. 

She traced the crop down his chest, pausing just below his sternum.

“You’ve obeyed me so far.” Her voice was calm, cold. “But now you’re going to learn what real obedience feels like.”

Another strike, low, sharp, across the other thigh.

He hissed through his teeth, but his hips tipped forward slightly. Not away.

Toward.

She stepped in close, one hand gripping his chin. “Tell me,” she said. “Was this what you wanted when you submitted to me in front of our friends?”

Liam’s breath caught. His lips parted, “Y-yes.”

“Say it properly.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

She smiled.

Then she struck again.

Harder.

Cass stepped in close, so close her breath tickled his ear. She let the crop rest against his stomach as she leaned in, her lips brushing skin as she whispered.

“If you want me to stop,” she murmured, soft as silk, “say: stop, my queen.”

Her hand slid up his torso, fingertips barely grazing skin.

“Not no. Not wait. Not I'm not sure. Say the words.” Her voice dropped an octave. “Otherwise, whatever you say, beg, or scream, I won’t stop.”

Liam’s breath hitched. A full-body shiver rolled through him.

Cass kissed his cheek.

Just a little peck. Sweet. Almost affectionate.

Then she stepped back.

Her fingers went to the top button of his trousers. She worked it open slowly, deliberately, watching his face as she did.

He didn’t look away.

She unzipped him next. The sound sharp in the quiet room. Then she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and tugged the trousers down, slowly, until they pooled around his ankles.

Boxers remained.

She tilted her head, studying the outline of his cock beneath the fabric. “Hmm,” she said, almost to herself, “maybe I’ll let you keep these a little longer.”

She dragged the crop lightly across the bulge. Just to make him flinch.

“I like watching you try not to move,” she whispered.

Then she circled again like a predator tasting the first ripple of fear. She flicked the crop lightly at first, thigh, side, shoulder, each strike placed with cruel precision. Just enough to sting. To warm the skin. To let him know what was coming.

Liam flinched, breath catching with every snap. But he didn’t pull away. He didn’t speak.

She moved behind him. Another strike, sharper, lower, just under his ribs. A pink welt bloomed on pale skin.

She smiled.

Beautiful.

Another, across his back. He gasped.

Another. The back of his thigh this time. His knees buckled slightly. The rope held him upright.

Cass stepped in, fingers to the knot. She gave the line a firm, steady tug. ”Stay standing!” she commanded.

Liam’s body stretched, arms above his head, chest pulled taut, vulnerable. His muscles trembled, breath ragged.

Cass moved to face him again.

She raised the crop, pressed the flat side just above his nipple, letting the leather warm there for a beat.

Then she snapped it down. Sharp. Direct. Liam cried out, a short, raw sound.

Cass grinned. “There it is.” That sound sent a thrill through her. Not just a cry of pain but of excitement and desire all rolled into one. 

His head dropped. Eyes squeezed shut. Chest rising in fast, shallow pulls.

She traced the line of the welt across his chest with her finger, soft, cool in contrast to the sting.

Then she raised the crop again.

The next strike came fast, across his lower ribs, sharp, cruel. Liam cried out again, voice cracking.

Cass stepped in, calm and unhurried, and pressed her lips to the welt. A gentle kiss. Soft, reverent.

He shuddered.

“Such noise,” she murmured. “And we’ve barely begun.”

Another strike, higher this time, across his shoulder. He flinched, muscles twitching under her control. She kissed that one too. 

She moved with rhythm now, snap of the crop, a cry from Liam, then the cool balm of her lips drawing a ragged moan from him. The contrast broke him down, bit by bit, until his sounds blurred into whimpers and moans, pain melting into pleasure.

Cass stepped back to admire her work.

His chest and stomach were flushed, a canvas of red stripes and deep breaths. His head hung low, arms stretched above him, fingers flexing uselessly in the bindings.

She knelt slightly.

Hooking her fingers into the waistband of his boxers, she looked up, met his eyes, and she pulled them down. They fell to his ankles.

His cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, twitching with every beat of his trembling body.

Cass rose slowly, let her eyes rake over him, all of him now.

“Now,” she said, voice velvet and steel, “we can begin.”