Chapter 171 Callum #2
“On,” I ordered, and she climbed up obediently, settling down on her heels so my chest was flush with her back.
“Down.” One hard press between her shoulder blades had her folding in half, face buried in the mattress.
Her back arched, ass high and on display like she was offering herself up as a sacrifice.
Aurélie whimpered when I leaned over her, letting my breath ghost along her spine, then whispered, “Hands.” She offered them behind her, wrists crossed like the most tempting sacrifice.
I looked down at her like this, open and ready for me, those red panties a violent slash against all that perfect golden skin. My cock throbbed at the sight.
She was soaked, dripping through the lace down her thighs.
I hooked my fingers under the waistband, tugging the fabric back until it stretched taut against her swollen clit, dragging slowly just to make her squirm.
She gasped, thighs trembling, and I felt the heat and arousal soaking the crotch of her panties before I finally ripped them down, the ruined lace snapping at her thighs as it came away in my fist.
My voice broke as I growled, “So wet for me, you fucking drenched them.”
I tugged my leather belt free from my jeans in one smooth pull, the hiss of it sliding through the loop cutting through the silence like a threat. From this angle, I had the perfect view—her sweet little cunt on full display, clenching like it missed me and her ass begging me to mark it.
Setting the crop down on the bed, I bound her wrists behind her back, slow and deliberate, cinching it tight so she could feel it—feel me—with every movement.
Then I stepped back and gave the belt a sharp tug, just enough to jolt her upright.
She gasped and collapsed backward into me, her body weight slamming into my chest like it belonged there.
I caught her without hesitation, arms locking around her middle. She was breathless, pliant, head tipping to the side so her temple rested against my throat.
"Fuck," I whispered, lips brushing her hair. "Auri."
She whimpered. Not a word, just a sound, raw and soft and cracked open with need. Her hips writhed slowly, grinding back against me like she couldn’t not move, like she needed friction to keep breathing. I groaned, flexing my hips forward into her ass.
“Only let me fall if you’re the one catching me, baby,” she pleaded.
My whole body seized. “Always.”
I lifted her easily, hands gripping her waist, and placed her exactly where I wanted her—kneeling on the floor between my legs like a blessing disguised as a threat. Then I reached back for the crop, running the tip under her chin until she looked up at me.
I could’ve said anything to her, but she needed to be tamed, bent to the edge of madness and held there until she forgot who she was without me. She deserved to be seen, known, and revered by someone who wouldn’t flinch in the face of adversity.
So yes, I could’ve said anything, but it couldn’t be just kneel or submit.
It needed to scream show me you’re mine.
“Present yourself,” I ordered.
On her knees, wrists bound behind her back, hair tumbling over her shoulders like a curtain, she did exactly that. The faint tremor in her hands was the only sign of nerves; her chin stayed tilted up, eyes blazing at me even from below.
I hummed, low in my chest and approving of her display.
“A fucking vision, Aurélie. That’s what you are, even when you’re being a goddamn menace.
” My accent thickened with need, the vowels rougher, slurred at the edges, because restraint was a distant memory now.
Because she was my breaking point. Always had been, always will be.
“There’s still something we need to talk about, mon c?ur.”
The crop sat light in my hand, but the weight of the moment pressed heavy on my chest. That line she’d thrown at me in front of the cameras—the only thing you know how to be is a world champion—still echoed in my head. She’d wanted a jab that could get under my skin. And she had.
“That little performance for the cameras…” I pressed the crop against her collarbone, dragging it down between her tits.
“You took it too far.” Her lower lip wobbled.
“The only thing I know how to be is a world champion?” I sneered, voice dripping with mockery.
“No, my love. I know how to be the man who breaks you apart and puts you back together. I know how to be your Dom.”
“World champion?” I dragged the leather tip down her cheek, over her throat, stopping just above her nipple. “That’s all you think I am?”
“No, Callum—”
I snapped the crop across her thigh, just hard enough to make her flinch. “Not Callum. Not here.”
Her breath came out in a shudder. I circled her. “Here are the rules, baby. In here, I am not Callum or Callum Fraser.” I paused in front of her and used the crop to tilt her chin up. “I’m not just a world champion. I am Cal—your Cal—or your Dom. Do you understand?”
Then, slowly, she squared her shoulders, licked her lips, and gave me what I wanted.
“This is your show,” she whispered. “I’m at your mercy. I shall obey and bask in the torture… my Dom.”
Heat shot through me so fast it made my vision swim. I stepped in, fisting her hair at the base of her skull until her mouth parted in a soft gasp. Her head fell back, body arching at my will.
I owned her in every goddamn sense of the word.
“That’s right,” I murmured against her ear. “Not world champion. Your Dom. And you, ma petite—” I struck again, on her other thigh this time, making her whimper— “you’re my submissive. You count. You obey. You take every stroke until you remember exactly who you’re on your knees for.”
Her eyes fluttered shut. “Yes, my Dom.”
I smiled darkly. “Good girl. Now count, submissive.”
She flinched as the crop struck her thigh, but didn’t make a sound. Not yet.
I stepped back just enough to take her in. The trembling muscles in her arms. The arch of her back. The way her chest rose and fell with each breath, nipples hard and flushed, thighs slick and parted just enough to tempt me toward madness.
This was what submission looked like. Not weakness. Not fragility. But power, handed over with intention.
“I’m going to make you feel it,” I told her, brushing the crop along her hipbone. “Not just the sting. Not just the pleasure. I want you to feel me in your bones tomorrow. I want you to ache where only I’ve touched you.”
“Ouais, my Dom,” she whispered, voice thick with arousal.
I gave her a moment of silence. Not mercy, just space to need it more. One clean, precise blow between her legs. The flat leather of the crop landed against her inner thigh and kissed against her slit, just enough to graze the arousal dripping out of her.
Her body jerked violently, knees shifting against the carpet, arms straining against the binds behind her back. A shocked little gasp tore from her lips, followed by a tremor that rippled across her entire body. It was like watching electricity light her up from the inside out.
Chills scattered across her skin, pebbling over her shoulders, her back, the tops of her thighs. I watched them rise. That one hit—gentle, but precise—had done something to her. Something intimate and powerful.
She blinked, breathless.
Then I struck again, the soft snap of leather against her skin echoing in the room. “Aurélie,” I snarled. “Count.”
She shivered, hair falling into her face and clinging to her cheeks. “One,” she gasped.
I smiled, pleased with her reaction. “Good girl.”
I positioned myself behind her. Another lash, this time across the swell of her ass. A perfect line already rising, red and hot and fucking beautiful. She moaned, louder now, hips jerking as she struggled to keep still.
Not from fear. Not from pain.
From need.
From devotion.
From the knowledge that I was the only one allowed to do this to her. The only one she’d ever beg for like this.
“Two…” She was damp with sweat, and I couldn’t stop watching the way her muscles flexed with every blow, how her breath became harsh and desperate.
I knelt behind her, one hand steadying her hip as I murmured against the back of her neck.
My other hand grabbed her shoulder and urged her forward until her face was pressed into the carpet.
She turned it to the side, harshly sucking in air, and the selfish bastard in me loved it because I could still see her every reaction.
“You don’t move unless I tell you. If you do, I’ll start over. ”
She nodded quickly. “Yes, my Dom.”
Christ. I could get used to hearing that.
But it wasn’t just the words. It was her—the way she said them, breathless and reverent, her voice dripping with devotion and desperation.
I paused for a beat, letting my hand settle over the curve of her ass.
Her skin was hot to the touch, vibrating beneath my palm like she was barely holding herself together.
Sweat clung to her spine in a single gleaming trail.
Her thighs trembled beneath her. She was trying so hard to be good. For me.
I’d never felt anything like this. Not even close.
I wasn’t just hard. I wasn’t just aroused. I was… consumed.
I watched the way her back bowed when I touched her. The subtle way her toes curled against the carpet. The twitch in her stomach when I breathed across her skin. Every fucking reaction became a trigger.
She didn’t even realize how much she gave away. Every breath, every shudder, every twitch—little tells written across her body like a language only I was allowed to read.
And fuck, I read it. I devoured it.
Three. Four. Five.
Each strike landed with more purpose than the last. Measured, intentional, designed to tease her just past the edge without tipping her over. And every time the crop kissed her skin, her voice came back more ragged.
“Five, my Dom.”
My Dom.
By the sixth, she was shaking. And then I ran my fingers down to her cunt—fuck—she was soaked. Flooded. Dripping so much it made a mess of my hand.
I pressed my fingers in to spread her open, enough to feel her clench, just to show her I could, and she let out the most ruined, keening sound I’d ever heard. It was guttural, feminine, and filthy.
Aurélie rocked back toward my hand. I clamped down on her hip to stop her.
“You feel that?” I rasped. My fingers slid up and circled her clit, gentle and cruelly taunting. “Your body fucking loves this.”
“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yes, yes, please, mon amour—”
I stilled. The sound of that—mon amour—was fucking bliss. But it wasn’t what we’d agreed on. And as much as I wanted to indulge her, let her fall into sweetness and affection, I needed her anchored, present, and aware of her obedience.
So I slid my hand off her clit and picked the crop back up.
I let her feel the shift in energy, let the silence crawl over her skin like a threat. Then I pulled back, measured the distance, and let the leather snap across the roundest part of her ass. It was enough to sting, to startle, to remind.
Her whole body stiffened at the impact. A choked cry escaped her lips.
“What did I say?”
She corrected it instantly. “Seven, mon dominant.”
I froze for a second. Something shifted, but not in her. In me.
She trusted me with her body. With her pain. With her surrender. And I… I trusted her with this. With the part of me I didn’t show anyone, not even myself.
Because this wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just play.
It was… catharsis. A fucking reckoning.
I suddenly understood how she broke apart as those parts freed themselves. When all her walls crumbled and we picked them back up together. That’s what she was doing to me, little by little as each day passed.
I used to think control was something I had to earn.
That it came with podiums, contracts, keeping my head down and grinding myself to dust to make other people proud.
My father had taught me that control meant perfection.
That my job was to perform. That being a man meant never needing anyone, and if I wasn’t the best, I wasn’t anything.
He’d called it discipline, but it had always been about power.
I inherited that from him.
My mother, sweet as she was, couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle watching me disappear into the machine he built me to be. Racing scared her, not just because it was dangerous, but because it reminded her who was steering the wheel. And it wasn’t me. Not back then.
So she pulled away, disappearing at times, quietly and indefinitely. Letting me go because she didn’t know how to stop him.
I’d spent my whole fucking life being the product of someone else’s obsession with legacy. Being molded into something sharp, something fast, something consumable. And over the years I’d convinced myself that was my dream, too. To only want the title and the fame and the fortune.
A complete one-eighty from the life I grew up with. I wanted nothing to do with that life, but took the cold, ruthless calculation with me. The side of me that learned to compartmentalize, conceal the anxiety and feelings of being burdensome, that wielded that focus into a weapon on the grid.
Yet here I was, holding a woman who asked to be unraveled by me.
Not for performance. Not for legacy or power or trust. For intimacy.
Because she saw me. The jagged edges. The fractured boy underneath the medals. The man who didn’t want to dominate to be feared—only to feel.
Now she knelt for me, and I got to choose how to hold that.
Gentle. Rough. Worshipful. Feral. Mine.
I touched her like a man discovering fire for the first time. With awe. With greed. With devotion. And this time, when I stroked her clit, she cried out again—not just from the sensation, but from the connection.
I was no longer holding back. Not from her, from this, or from me. I gave the last of myself over to her at that moment.
I let myself feel it all. The gravity of this moment with her, how deep my feelings for her ran, how in tune our souls were with each other.
How much I fucking adored her laugh when she tried to hide it behind her hand.
The way she interrupted me mid-spiral just to kiss me quiet.
The brilliance of her mind, the audacity in her courage, the softness she kept tucked under armor but still offered to me anyway.
The way she tore through a track like she was born to be faster than God, and then got flustered over the smell of warm baguettes.
And then there was her body. The slope of her waist. The freckles scattered across her shoulders like a map leading straight to her heart.
That old scar across her ribs from an old karting accident.
The way her pupils blew wide when I said her name with reverence.
The little moan she gave when I sucked on her neck just hard enough to leave proof.
She was all sharp teeth and soft submission. A cathedral and a battlefield.
I needed to worship every inch of her.
So I did.