16
Amanda proved she held sway over Brandon even when she wasn't in the room. He’d clocked in early at the club that day, and before he could even finish stowing his things in his locker in the staff dressing room, his phone buzzed with an incoming notification.
Good morning, sub.
That was the first text he’d ever received from Amanda.
His pulse spiked. He started to type a reply, but before he could hit send, another message popped up.
Your first order of business today is keeping your phone on you for your entire shift.
The next time I summon you, if you don't answer within ten minutes, you will be punished. Understood?
Heat rushed straight to Brandon’s face. How could she just boss him around like that?
Sure, that was their arrangement. And deep down, he wasn't mad about it in the slightest—not even offended.
What he felt was something entirely different: a dark, electric curiosity about how far she could push him.
A grin crept across his face, imagining what Amanda looked like right now. Filthy rich, without a single obligation, probably still tangled in her sheets and totally focused on messing with him. Yes, Mistress, Brandon replied, slipping the phone into his pocket.
Club staff were strictly forbidden from carrying cell phones on shift.
Any real emergency had to go through the front desk.
It was an explicit rule, and breaking it was basically an express ticket to getting fired—especially for someone on the absolute lowest rung of the ladder like him.
Brandon wondered if Amanda knew that. He was willing to bet she did.
He didn't hesitate for more than a second over whether to obey.
If anything, he spent more time figuring out how to keep the phone hidden than deciding if he'd actually do it.
He realized right then that he was completely willing to lose this job for Amanda.
A dead-end gig like this—underpaid, groveling to the ultra-rich—was easy enough to find again.
Amanda, on the other hand, was once-in-a-lifetime.
Meeting her was like hitting the jackpot.
Brandon tucked the phone securely into his waistband and headed out to start his shift.
Today, his rotation took him down by the courts and open fields. Following the stone pathway past the tennis courts, the view instantly triggered memories of sneaking into the equipment shed with Isabella. She was another winning lottery ticket all her own.
How the hell had he gotten this lucky? Two breathtaking, dominant women using him as their personal plaything. Life didn't seem nearly as miserable as it had just a few weeks ago.
He reached the outdoor kiosk flanked by the running track and the sports courts.
Johnny, the barista working the station, had started on the exact same day as Brandon; he still remembered the guy standing beside him in Laura’s office during orientation, getting briefed and touring the Sterling Grove Club.
“Thank God it's Monday,” Johnny greeted Brandon with a lazy grin. “At least the place won't be a madhouse. Who the hell actually comes out to play sports on a Monday?”
Brandon agreed, and their conversation settled into an easy rhythm, peppered with the usual casual venting about the job and the obscenely rich crowd that frequented the club.
Only a few interruptions broke up the morning.
First, an elderly couple ordered fresh juices, pulling Johnny away to make them.
Then Sally, the wealthy widow who spent half her life at the club, waved Brandon over from a distance so he could bring her a bottle of water.
Right after, he had to jog over to the spa to book her an afternoon massage.
Brandon was just stepping out of the spa pavilion when he felt his phone buzz against his thigh.
He ducked into an alcove, barely able to contain his curiosity as he pulled up Amanda's message.
How's your shift going without your Owner there? I want a photo to see just how HARD you're working. You have 10 minutes.
Flushing crimson, Brandon reread the screen, wondering if Amanda was actually asking for what he thought she was. He started typing a message to confirm, then stopped himself. Should he just take the shot and send it? Where the hell was he supposed to do that?
Then the typing indicator popped up on screen. He froze, waiting. A whole minute had already ticked by.
He couldn't just stand here glued to his phone. Someone was going to catch him.
He locked the screen and glanced around.
Monica drifted past in the distance on the other side of the spa.
He definitely didn't want her spotting him—that whole awkward mess was something to untangle another time.
He couldn't duck into the spa restroom either; it was right next to where she was working.
He needed to find another one. The closest option was up near the front desk.
He hurried along the stone path toward the main clubhouse.
He considered breaking into a sprint, but settled on a brisk walk; nobody would look twice at a staffer hustling across the grounds—that was pretty much the baseline expectation when catering to the members.
Come to think of it, that was exactly what Brandon was doing, too.
He slipped inside, offering Jeanine a quick nod at the front desk, and ducked into the staff restroom.
Why was his chest pounding like this? It was just Amanda asking for a photo.
And yet, racing against the countdown, sneaking around with a banned phone, knowing he was about to snap a picture of his own…
His phone screen lit up. Another text from Amanda.
To get you nice and hard for my picture.
Amanda had sent a photo wearing nothing but a sheer nightgown.
Brandon could clearly trace the outline of her nipples through the gossamer, semi-translucent lace.
The stark white fabric only accentuated her pale, milky skin, cut through by faint, tantalizing tan lines tracing up past her collarbones.
Her blonde hair fell in a tousled, messy spill over her bare shoulders.
She’d look like an angel if she weren't so utterly filthy—wearing that wicked smirk, her breasts practically spilling out for him.
Five minutes left on the clock, but that didn't matter anymore. Brandon already had a throbbing erection straining against his trousers, feverish from everything his imagination conjured the second he saw her photo.
He unzipped his pants, yanked down his briefs, and framed the best shot he could manage in a rush, hiding out in a club stall while adrenaline made his hands tremble. Not that it mattered. His mind was completely consumed by the vision of Amanda in that nightgown.
He hit send. Amanda read the message instantly, but didn't reply.
Three agonizing minutes crawled by. Brandon started second-guessing himself, wondering if he’d messed up.
He’d beaten the timer; he’d done exactly what she asked.
But what if she hated the angle, or the lighting, or simply opening up a dick pic?
That didn't make any sense—she was the one who demanded it. So why…
Brandon stopped himself. His own head was weaponizing his insecurities against him.
Another five minutes dragged on, and he was still holed up in the stall, holding his breath for a reply from Amanda.
Then another photo arrived.
Amanda was sprawled across her bed, the camera angled from her waist down. Her legs were parted wide, one hand resting just above her mound, a slender finger glistening wet, a thick string of slick arousal trailing down to her exposed slit.
Good boy. You just made your Mistress come.
Brandon caught himself grinning, puffed up with genuine pride.
The praise, the photo, the illicit rush of fulfilling Amanda’s command—it all coalesced into an intoxicating, almost physical high.
He opened the image again, admiring the curve of her pale thighs, the glistening trail of slick her delicate fingers had drawn down her skin…
Brandon stood up, finally bracing himself to leave the restroom—he’d been holed up inside way too long and worried Jeanine would come looking for him—when his phone buzzed again. He unlocked the screen, only to realize the incoming text wasn't from Amanda, but Isabella.
That's not fair…
I want a picture, too.
Brandon’s grin stretched even wider. Finishing out his shift was going to be an absolute torture test.