The Gift

The pearls feel like a collar around my throat. I stare at myself in the hotel mirror—black evening gown, hair swept up, V's necklace gleaming against my skin like a brand of ownership—and try to remember how to breathe. The other gift sits on the bed behind me, sleek and pink and terrifying in its implications. A remotely controlled vibrator. It had arrived three days ago in unmarked packaging, nestled in black velvet beside the pearl necklace. No note. No explanation. Just V's message lighting up my phone: Do you like your gifts? I'd held the vibrator in shaking hands, feeling its weight, its promise. What are these for? Patience, he'd replied. You'll know soon enough. Now I know. Or I'm about to. The business trip had been announced yesterday—Victor, me, and two senior analysts, flying to Paris to finalize the Blackstone merger. Twenty-four hours' notice. No time to prepare. No time to think. V's response had been immediate: Bring both gifts. You'll need them. So here I stand in a five-star Parisian hotel, wearing a dead man's pearls and contemplating whether I'm brave enough—or broken enough—to follow through. My phone buzzes. V: You look exquisite. The necklace suits you. My heart stops. How does he— I spin toward the window, searching the buildings across the street, but there are hundreds of lit windows, thousands of possibilities. He could be anywhere. Could be no one. Me: How do you know what I look like right now? V: I told you to send me a picture, remember? Check your messages. I scroll back. He's right. Ten minutes ago, caught up in my panic, I'd sent him a photo without thinking. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop the phone. V: Now for your third task. Are you ready? Me: I don't know. V: Honesty. I appreciate that. But you'll do it anyway, won't you? Because you need this. Need me. He's right. God help me, he's right. Me: What do you want? V: Insert the vibrator. Wear it to dinner. Let it remind you with every step, every movement, every polite smile you give to clients, that you belong to me. My core clenches at the thought. The dinner is in thirty minutes. Victor will be there. The French clients. My colleagues. And I'll be sitting among them, filled and claimed and desperately trying not to come apart. Me: What if someone notices? V: No one will notice unless you let them. Can you be a good girl for me, Amelia? Can you stay composed while I own you from the inside out? Me: Will you... will you turn it on? V: No. I promise you, I will not activate it during dinner. This task is about control—yours and mine. About knowing you're wearing my gift, carrying my claim inside you, while you smile and nod and pretend to be perfectly professional. V: About wondering if I'll break my promise. A knock at my door makes me jump. "Amelia?" Victor's voice, muffled through wood. "The car is here. Are you ready?" "Two minutes!" I call back, my voice surprisingly steady. I grab the vibrator with trembling hands. It's smaller than I expected, discreet, designed to be worn internally and remain in place. I slip into the bathroom, hike up my gown, and press it against my entrance. The first push makes me gasp. I'm already wet—have been since I opened the package—and it slides in easily, settling deep inside me with a fullness that makes my knees weak. I adjust my dress, check my reflection. Nothing visible. Nothing obvious. Just me in an evening gown and pearls, looking perfectly professional. Except I'm not. I'm claimed. Filled. His. I open the door to find Victor waiting in the hallway, devastating in a tailored tuxedo, and his eyes sweep over me with an intensity that steals my breath. "You look..." He pauses, searching for words. "Striking." "Thank you, Mr. Ashford." His gaze drops to the necklace, and something flickers across his face. "That's beautiful. I don't think I've seen you wear it before." "It's new." My voice is barely a whisper. "A gift." "From?" The question is casual, but there's an edge to it. "Someone special." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Then he offers his arm, the gesture formal and old-fashioned. "Shall we?" I take it, and the movement shifts the vibrator inside me, sending a jolt of sensation through my core. I stumble slightly, and Victor's hand steadies me at my elbow. "Are you alright?" "Fine. Just—new heels." We walk to the elevator, and every step is exquisite torture. The vibrator presses against sensitive nerves, creating constant friction, constant awareness. By the time we reach the lobby, I'm flushed and breathless. The dinner is in the hotel's private dining room—crystal chandeliers, French wine, clients in expensive suits. I take my seat beside Victor, hyperaware of the fullness inside me, of how crossing my legs sends pleasure spiraling through my core. V's message arrives as the first course is served: V: Remember—I promised not to activate it. But that doesn't mean you're not still mine. Every moment. Every breath. You're thinking of me, aren't you? I am. God, I am. V: Good girl. Now enjoy your dinner. And try not to squirm too obviously when your boss looks at you. I glance up to find Victor watching me, his grey eyes dark and unreadable in the candlelight. And the vibrator, silent and still inside me, feels like a loaded gun.