6. Julian
6
JULIAN
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, as Ivy takes in the array of lingerie spread across the bed. Her amber eyes widen, darting from one delicate piece to another. She swallows, a subtle movement in her slender neck, just below that small crescent moon birthmark. I can almost taste her nervousness, and it's intoxicating.
"Julian, what...?" She starts, then pauses, her voice barely above a whisper.
I push off the doorframe, stepping into the room. "Pick one."
She looks at me, then back at the lingerie. Her small hands hover over the fabrics, hesitating. She picks up a black silk nightie, then drops it, her fingers moving to a deep purple corset. She holds it up, looking at me for approval.
I shake my head. "Not that one."
She puts it back, her fingers lingering on the fabrics. She finally settles on a red lace teddy. I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips. She clutches it to her chest, her knuckles pale.
"Now," I say, my voice low, "Model it for me."
She bites her lower lip, a gesture that sends a jolt of heat through me. She disappears into the bathroom, the click of the door echoing in the silent room.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my heart pounding in my chest. The rustle of fabric comes from behind the door, and I can picture her, slipping out of the casual clothes I got for her, wanting to ease her transition, and into something that we both will like more, something that reveals smooth skin and gentle curves.
The door creaks open, and she steps out. The red lace clings to her body, highlighting every dip and curve. Her legs, accentuated by the new high heels I bought her, seem to go on forever.
She fidgets with the hem, trying to cover more of her thighs with the little flare of red fabric that makes the tiniest skirt. With the white fur trip along the top and the velvet patches over her breasts, it is like her little Mrs. Claus outfit - but even better.
"Don't," I say, my voice barely recognizable.
Her hands still, her eyes meeting mine. I stand, circling her like a predator. Her scent, vanilla mixed with a hint of nervous sweat, fills my nostrils. I want to touch her, to trace the lines of her body, but I hold back. This is about her, about her discomfort, her excitement.
"Turn around," I instruct.
She hesitates, then complies, her back to me. The lace dips low, revealing the curve of her spine. I can see her breath hitch, her ribcage expanding and contracting rapidly.
"Beautiful," I murmur, more to myself than to her.
She turns back around, her eyes searching mine. I can see the tension in her body, the way she's fighting to stay still under my gaze. I enjoy it, enjoy the power I have over her in this moment.
"Wear this one," I say, stepping back.
Her eyes widen slightly, but she nods, her hands smoothing down the lace, accepting my command. I've pushed her to her limits, and she's still standing, still complying. It's more than I could have hoped for. And now, the night awaits.
"Now come on." My eyes track down her body. "We have other plans."
"What plans?" Her voice trembles.
"I want you to decorate my Christmas tree with me." I keep my words clipped, holding out my hand which she takes. Ever the obedient girl.
In the living room, boxes of ornaments wait beside a towering evergreen. White lights are already arranged on it, but the rest has been left. It's one of the final touches I have to put on the apartment.
I position her in front of the tree, my hands on her shoulders. "Start with the white ones."
She reaches for the box of white ornaments. I press against her back, my breath on her neck. "Good girl." I trace a hand up her side. "I do love red and white this time of year."
Her fingers fumble with the ball in her hand. I step back, watching her stretch to reach higher branches. The lace tightens around her body, and I watch the way she moves. My cock twitches.
"Careful," I warn as she wobbles. "Don't want to break anything precious."
She steadies herself, continuing to perfectly place the little baubles. I circle her, adjusting her positions with small touches - a hand at her waist, fingers trailing down her arm.
"The red balls next," I direct, handing her a delicate glass ornament. "You're doing well."
Her breath catches, just like it always does. Ivy might be an event planner - I looked her up while she slept and learned everything I needed to know - but she loves giving up that control. She hangs another ornament, her movements precise, but I know she's waiting for my approval with each movement.
"Look at you," I murmur, stepping close again. "Decorating my tree in lingerie like the perfect little doll."
She shivers but doesn't stop working. I trace the lace covering her spine.
"Higher," I command when she places an ornament too low. "You can do better than that."
I smack her ass as she shifts up on her heels. The lace rises up her body, teasing me with more skin. I watch a flush crawl up her body, revealing how much she loves that treatment.
"That's it." I praise as she follows my instruction. "You're learning to take direction so nicely."
Her hands shake slightly as she reaches for another decoration. I steady her wrist, my grip firm.
"Keep going." My voice drops lower. "Show me how well you can follow orders."
She continues decorating, her movements growing more fluid under my alternating touches and commands. The tree slowly transforms, and so does she - becoming more pliant, more responsive with each passing moment.
Eventually I join in, putting little touches here and there to fill out areas. My need for control never lessens, even in this aspect.
I catch her eyes on me again - the third time in as many minutes. Her gaze lingers on my chest before dropping to the floor, her fingers toying with a crystal snowflake ornament.
"See something you like?" I step closer, invading her space.
"I-" She fumbles the ornament, and I catch it before it hits the ground. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, the red lace stretching with each breath. "I was just thinking about my favorite ornaments from home."
"Tell me." I place the snowflake higher on the tree, using my height to reach where she couldn't.
"There's this set of glass birds my grandmother gave me." Her voice steadies as she talks, even as her body remains tense. "They catch the light just right, making rainbow patterns on the walls."
I run a finger down her bare arm. "And?"
"A ceramic angel." She shivers under my touch. "Hand-painted. My mother helped me make it when I was seven."
"Hmm." My hand settles on her hip, thumb stroking the lace. "Very different from what I have."
Her eyes dart to mine again, desire warring with apprehension. I can feel her pulse racing under my fingers where they press against her skin through the delicate fabric.
"Everything here is carefully selected." I grip her hip tighter. "Just like you."
She swallows hard, her hands clutching another ornament like a lifeline. The fear in her eyes only heightens my need to claim her, to mark her as mine. Each trembling breath, each nervous glance feeds the possessive hunger growing inside me.
Taking a few steps back, I settle into the armchair near the tree. Her eyes follow the movement, transfixed. When I pat my knee, she takes a hesitant step forward, then another. The red lace catches the glow from the Christmas lights, casting crimson shadows across her skin.
"Come here," I command, my voice low.
She moves closer, until she's standing between my knees. I catch her wrist, tugging her down to sit across my lap. She's light, delicate - like a bird that might take flight at any moment. But she doesn't. Instead, she leans into me, her body softening against mine.
My lips brush her ear, feeling her shiver. "You're mine now." The words come out in a whisper, but they carry the weight of a promise.
She swallows hard - I can see the movement in her throat, watch that little crescent moon birthmark dance with the motion. But she doesn't pull away. Doesn't fight.
Her hand rests on my chest, fingers splayed across my shirt. The vanilla scent of her skin mingles with the pine from the Christmas tree. She turns her face toward mine, those amber eyes wide but steady. The fear is still there, but something else too - acceptance, maybe. Or surrender.
I tighten my grip on her waist, anchoring her to me. "Say it," I demand softly.
"I'm yours," she whispers, the words barely audible over the hum of the heating system.
My other hand finds her chin, tilting her face up. "Again."
"I'm yours," she repeats, stronger this time.
I swipe my thumb along her jaw. "And you're going to be very good for me, aren't you?" She nods emphatically, and a smile pulls at my lips. "That's right."
I pull her mouth to mine, kissing her deeply, and when I pull away, she's grinning wide. Happiness is written all over her features, glad that I have approved.
Fuck, she is so perfect for me.