Strip and Submit

POV: Lydia

The heavy office door clicked shut. Mr. Vargas quietly left the room, his footsteps fading down the carpeted hallway. His departure left me trapped in a suffocating silence. The air around me instantly thickened, pressing down on my lungs like a physical weight. I kept my eyes glued firmly to my accounting work, my hands shaking over the stark white balance sheets. The quiet hum of the air conditioning was the only sound masking my uneven breaths. The terrifying man sitting across from me barely acknowledges my existence outside of fulfilling his dark sexual desires. I am nothing but a disposable plaything to him, a temporary fixture forced into his daily life. I sit here marking the calendar in my mind, waiting for these final fifteen days to tick by so I can finally be free of this hell.

I forced my eyes to scan the columns of numbers, trying to make sense of the financial data. It is nearly impossible to focus when he sits just a few feet away. The scratch of my pen sounded far too loud in the quiet room. He does not speak to me. He rarely speaks to anyone casually, but with me, the silence operates as a blunt weapon. I never look up at his face when we share this office space. I try to pretend he is not there, shrinking myself down into the leather chair. His mere presence terrifies me. One angry look from his piercing eyes makes my skin crawl.

My grip on my pen tightened so hard my knuckles turned white when the sudden squeak of leather echoed through the room. He stood up from his desk.

*Oh God, please not now,* I prayed desperately, my heart hammering against my ribs. *I am still so sore from last night. The dull ache between my thighs is a constant reminder of his brutality. I cannot endure his rough hands right now.*

I closed my eyes tight. I swallowed the dry lump in my throat, waiting for his heavy footsteps to approach my side of the room. A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. I braced my exhausted, aching body, expecting his fingers to dig into my skin. I waited for the forceful demand, the inevitable pull toward his lap.

The touch did not come.

I cautiously fluttered my eyes open and released the breath burning in my chest. He wasn't reaching for me. He was standing silently by the large window, staring out at the city below. His broad back was turned to me. Even from a distance, his massive frame radiated a dark, imposing power. I barely reach his chest. If he wanted to, he could easily crush the life out of me without breaking a sweat.

He had discarded his suit jacket earlier. His dress shirt sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, revealing tense muscles. Thick, popping veins ran along his forearms as he kept his hands shoved deep into his tailored pockets. It was a dangerous red flag. I know his dark moods far too well now. Over the past few months, I have learned to read the subtle shifts in his posture. When his shoulders lock and his veins bulge like this, he goes hard. He makes me cry. He is merciless in bed.

Seeing his large silhouette against the glass instantly dragged my mind back to my traumatic first night. The night my circumstances forced me into this degrading arrangement to pay off a massive loan and keep my useless father alive.

Before I ever stepped foot in this monster's bedroom, Mr. Vargas had laid out the strict, terrifying rules. He personally escorted me to a sterile, bright clinic for mandatory birth control. The smell of harsh antiseptic, the bright fluorescent lights, and the doctor's indifferent face made the grim reality of my situation sink deep into my bones. I was not a person to them. I was being treated like livestock, prepped and evaluated for use.

"Do anything you want, Lydia," Vargas warned me as we left the clinic and got into his sleek car. His tone was grave and deadly serious. "But don't ever try to run."

I stared at him from the passenger seat, my stomach churning with anxiety.

"You won't succeed, and you will eventually end up dead," Vargas continued, his hands gripping the steering wheel. "You seem to be a nice girl. Don't die."

I wrapped my arms around my small frame, feeling the chill of the air conditioning blast against my skin. "Will he hurt me?" I asked shakily.

Vargas kept his gaze focused on the road, but his brief hesitation gave me all the answers I needed. "It depends on you, Lydia," he said chillingly. "Don't make him mad. Listen to him. Follow his orders blindly. Give him exactly what he wants, and you will survive."

He let out a short, cynical breath. "Anyway, he will get bored of you very soon." He turned his head at a red light, his eyes raking up and down my body. "I don't think you have anything that can smite him. He has seen better."

He casually insulted my average, small-framed appearance without a shred of pity. I knew I was nothing special. I am American, but I lack the striking blonde hair and vibrant blue eyes men in his world usually desire. I have coal-black hair and dark eyes. I possess a youthful, round face that makes me look like a high school girl rather than a twenty-five-year-old woman.

"I am actually worried," Vargas muttered, shaking his head in disappointment. "I think he might reject you. You are too small for him. I wouldn't have chosen you if it wasn't for the loan."

He paused, letting the heavy threat hang in the tense air of the car. "Make sure he chooses you, Lydia. This is your only way to pay back this loan. I am sorry if I am making you feel bad, but this is the reality."

"I know," I nodded, gulping back the hot tears threatening to spill over my lashes.

I did not care about impressing a mafia boss. I had only agreed to this nightmare to see my father stay alive, despite his cowardly failures. That was the only thing keeping me going. I forced myself to swallow my pride, pushing aside my dignity to accept my fate.

Later that horrible night, Vargas personally dropped me off at the grand, echoing mansion. Stepping through those massive iron front doors felt exactly like walking into my own cold tomb.

"Please follow the rules, Lydia," Vargas said in a final, warning tone before walking back to his car. "I don't want to collect your dead body in the morning."

His words gnawed at my frayed nerves as a silent, armed guard guided me through the empty hallways. The sound of my cheap shoes clicking against the pristine marble floors echoed loudly. The mansion rivaled a luxury five-star hotel, boasting large classical paintings and a massive crystal chandelier that sparkled above. Under different circumstances, I would have marveled at the stunning architecture. Now, I just felt like a lamb being led to the slaughterhouse.

We stopped in front of a heavy mahogany door. Vargas had mentioned earlier that no one was allowed in his actual bedroom, so I was taken to a different room to wait for him.

"You can go inside," the guard grunted, stepping aside and resting his hand on his holstered weapon. "Chief is already inside."

I swallowed hard, closing my eyes to gather whatever scraps of empty courage I had left in my trembling body. I pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.

The main lights were off. The only source of illumination was a crackling fire in a massive stone hearth. The flames cast dancing shadows across the walls, providing a medieval, warm glow to the dimly lit, luxurious space. The scent of burning wood mixed with expensive cologne.

I found him standing exactly as he is right now in the office—by the tall window. His massive, muscular frame radiated an intimidating, dark power. He held a crystal liquor glass in one hand, staring out into the pitch-black night.

"Strip!"

His thick, commanding Italian accent sliced through the quiet room like a sharp knife. The single word hit my chest like a physical blow.

Trembling with profound shame and a heavily beating heart, I reached around to my back. My cold fingers fumbled with the metal zipper of the cheap black dress Vargas had provided. I unzipped it slowly, letting the fabric slide down my shoulders and pool at my feet. The cool air of the room hit my bare skin, raising goosebumps across my arms. I stood exposed before a total stranger, wearing nothing but a flimsy black thong.

I never thought I would sell my body for money. The weight of the moment crushed my chest. Overthinking clouded my brain, but I knew I could not turn back. Turning back meant immediate death for my father and me.

He finally turned around. I kept my chin tucked down, staring at the floorboards, my face burning red with deep humiliation. I heard the solid clink of his crystal glass being set aside on a table.

I forced my eyes up. My breath hitched in my throat, trapped in my lungs.

He was breathtakingly beautiful. He possessed sharp, chiseled features, a pointed nose, and perfectly shaped lips. His piercing grey eyes were framed by thick, dark lashes. Genetics had crafted a masterpiece. Yet, an overpowering, fundamentally evil aura eclipsed his good looks. His dangerous presence swallowed the room. Those cold grey eyes held nothing but raw, predatory lust as they locked onto my shivering form.

He took a slow, deliberate step toward me.

Out of sheer, terrified instinct, I stepped back.

It was my first, gravest mistake.

His dark glare instantly turned lethal. The shift in his demeanor was sudden and sharp. He looked visibly offended and furiously angry. His grey eyes threw invisible daggers, forcing me to immediately look back down at the floor in pure, unadulterated fear. I could not maintain eye contact with that level of evil. My heart hammered wildly against my ribcage as his massive frame closed the distance between us in a single, sudden movement.

A small scream escaped my mouth as he suddenly lunged forward, grabbed my frail arm with a bruising grip, and roughly pushed me onto the massive bed.