Capítulo 1: Chapter 1
Andrea Sachs stood at the center of Miranda Priestly's bedroom, bathed in the soft glow of dim lighting. The air around her was familiar—Miranda's scent clung to every surface, a blend of crisp bergamot and the faintest hint of jasmine that Andrea had long since come to associate with her. It was a fragrance as meticulous as the woman herself—cool, elusive, but undeniably powerful, much like Miranda's presence. Andrea closed her eyes briefly, inhaling the comforting scent that always stirred something deep inside her, a visceral reaction to the woman who owned her in ways she'd never spoken aloud.
Miranda's bedroom was a sanctuary of clean lines and muted luxury—sleek gray silks, elegant furniture with sharp edges, not a single item out of place. It was a reflection of Miranda's control, of her relentless need for perfection in everything she touched. Andrea felt it now, that same precision in the stillness of the room, as if the air itself waited for Miranda's next command.
Her heartbeat quickened at the thought, knowing that she was, in this moment, the focus of Miranda's exacting attention. Andrea's hands flexed at her sides, the urge to touch, to be touched, thrumming beneath her skin. But she waited—because here, with Miranda, waiting was everything.
The sound of the door closing behind her was soft, but the weight of it echoed in the quiet room, sending a shiver down Andrea's spine. Miranda had spoken only moments earlier, telling her to go upstairs, her voice tinged with that cool detachment that masked so much. They were totally alone for the weekend, the girls with their fathers. They had waited for so long for this, weeks constantly filled with events, work emergencies, recitals and practices for the girls, and just the need to get some sleep.
Sleep was the last thing on their minds now.
Miranda moved across the room with the grace of someone who commanded every inch of space around her, and Andrea didn't need to look to know where she was. She could sense her. Always.
The rustle of fabric—a smooth, elegant sound—told Andrea that Miranda had settled into the chair near the edge of the bed. Her gaze, Andrea knew without needing to see, was already on her. That gaze could strip her bare, even before Miranda uttered a single word.
"Undress," came Miranda's soft but unyielding command.
Andrea's breath caught for a moment. She'd expected it, craved it even, but the quiet authority in Miranda's voice never failed to send a pulse of heat through her. It was the way Miranda spoke, her commands effortless, as though it was Andrea's natural state to obey. And maybe it was.
Her hands moved with purpose, despite the slight tremble in her fingers—a tremble born not of nervousness, but of raw anticipation. She slid her hands to the delicate neckline of her ivory silk blouse. Dolce & Gabbana. Miranda had chosen it for her personally, the soft sheen of the fabric perfectly tailored to skim her body without clinging. She remembered the way Miranda had brushed her fingers against the sleeve when she handed it to Andrea that morning, a small gesture, but one that had set the tone for the evening to come.
She unfastened the first button, the subtle click of the clasp filling the quiet room. Miranda's gaze remained steady, never once leaving her, and Andrea could feel the intensity of it, like a physical touch. With each button undone, more of her skin was exposed to the cool air, and with it came a sharper awareness of Miranda's eyes tracing the path of her fingers.
She peeled the blouse open slowly, the fine silk slipping over her shoulders like water, cool and weightless as it fell away. Her breath was shallow, each movement unraveling her in more ways than one, the anticipation coiling tighter with every inch of skin she exposed. When the fabric finally slid free of her arms, Andrea let it drop to the floor, the sound barely audible as it landed in a heap at her feet.
Andrea didn't dare look down. She knew better than to glance at the careless pile of expensive clothing she'd let fall. She could practically feel the sharpness of Miranda's gaze, though the older woman was just out of her line of sight now, standing slightly behind her, close enough for Andrea to sense her presence. It was a familiar, deliberate tension between them, one they both thrived on. The knowledge that Miranda was watching every movement, analyzing, controlling without even touching her, sent a fresh wave of heat through Andrea's body.
She bit the inside of her lip, her pulse quickening with the delicious thought of what was coming. Miranda would not be pleased that she'd let the Dolce & Gabbana blouse crumple on the floor like some careless afterthought. Andrea knew her well enough to understand that punishment would follow, swift and precise—another form of Miranda's control. The thought of it—of Miranda's firm hand correcting her later—made Andrea's skin flush even hotter, the thrill of anticipation simmering low in her belly.
Her focus snapped back to the present, to the task at hand. Andrea could feel the weight of Miranda's eyes on her, even from the shadows, watching with an intensity that made her feel both exposed and exalted. Her fingers moved to the zipper of the skirt—Alexander McQueen, of course, hand-picked by Miranda herself with that cool, calculating gaze that had lingered on Andrea's waist for just a second too long as she'd handed it over. Andrea's breath hitched at the memory, the electric awareness that had passed between them.
The zipper slid down easily, the soft hum of the fabric parting barely registering over the pounding in Andrea's ears. She took her time, easing the material over her hips, feeling the way it grazed her skin before falling to the floor in a heap beside the blouse. Andrea's pulse quickened at the thought of what awaited her for that small defiance, and she reveled in it. The inevitable punishment only added to her excitement. She wanted to be punished. She craved it.
Standing now in only her black lace lingerie—La Perla, chosen just for tonight—Andrea's breath came quicker. The air was cooler against her bare skin, but it was Miranda's gaze that made her feel exposed, not the absence of clothing. She stood still, waiting for something, anything, a word or a gesture from Miranda to guide her next move. But nothing came. Miranda's silence stretched, filling the room with a tension so thick Andrea could almost touch it.
Her fingers moved behind her back, finding the clasp of her bra. As she undid it, she could feel the heat of Miranda's gaze intensifying, even though the woman hadn't made a sound. The lace slid from her skin, and she let the bra fall to the floor as well, the delicate fabric landing atop the pile of her clothes without a second thought. She knew Miranda would notice, knew she would mark every little infraction, every tiny failure to uphold the perfection she demanded. And Andrea loved knowing that she would pay for it.
Finally, her hands slid down to the waistband of her panties, her breath uneven as she pushed them past her hips and down her legs. Another count to her punishment.
Miranda's quiet disapproval was palpable in the stillness of the room. She didn't need to see the flash of Miranda's eyes to know they were glinting with that cold, measured focus. Andrea's lips parted slightly, her pulse quickening with every second Miranda let the silence stretch between them.
Finally, there was movement. A shift in the air as Miranda stepped forward, and the subtle sound of something soft being drawn from a nearby drawer—a deliberate, controlled motion, as though each movement was carefully designed to increase the tension. Andrea swallowed hard, her heart pounding as she fought the urge to turn her head and look.
She didn't need to. She knew what was coming.
Miranda stepped into her line of sight, her expression composed, yet her eyes were dark with intent. In her hands, Miranda held a length of crimson rope—silk, no doubt, because only the finest material would touch Andrea's skin tonight. Miranda let the rope slide through her fingers with meticulous precision, testing its softness, its weight, as though evaluating every inch before it would touch Andrea's body.
Andrea's breath caught in her throat at the sight. She had expected punishment, had known the moment she let the clothes fall that she'd be disciplined for her insolence. But this—this was something more. Something deeper. Miranda wasn't just displeased. She was making this a lesson.
Miranda's eyes flicked up, meeting Andrea's, and the unspoken command was clear. Without a word, Andrea moved, stepping toward the bed and positioning herself exactly where Miranda wanted her. Kneeling, her bare knees sinking into the soft sheets, she lowered her head slightly, exposing her neck in silent submission. Every fiber of her being was tuned to Miranda's next move.
Miranda remained standing, still fully dressed in her immaculately tailored black suit, every line of it sharp and perfect, an embodiment of her authority. The contrast between them was striking—Miranda, untouched and commanding, and Andrea, naked and vulnerable, waiting for the inevitable shift in power.
Miranda's heels clicked softly against the polished floor as she moved closer, her presence looming over Andrea, who knelt beneath her gaze. The tension was thick, the silence deliberate, and it made Andrea's heart pound in her chest. She could feel Miranda's eyes on her—those icy blue eyes that missed nothing, that consumed everything in their path. There was a sharpness in the air, an edge that mirrored the precision with which Miranda controlled every inch of the space, every second of their interaction.
And then, without warning, Miranda's fingers slid beneath Andrea's chin, firm but not unkind. She tilted Andrea's face upward, forcing her to meet her gaze. Andrea's breath hitched as she looked up, her pulse quickening under the intensity of Miranda's stare.
"You look at me when I want you to," Miranda said, her voice low and steady, but laced with that undeniable firmness. She held Andrea's gaze, her thumb brushing the underside of Andrea's chin with the lightest of touches before releasing her. The moment of softness was fleeting, just enough to make Andrea's skin prickle with the desire for more, but Miranda pulled back, as she always did, maintaining the unbridgeable distance that defined their dynamic.
Miranda circled the bed, her heels clicking softly again as she moved behind Andrea. The soft rustle of fabric was the only clue to Miranda's next movement—the unmistakable sound of silk rope being drawn out with deliberate care. Andrea's breath caught, her body tensing with anticipation as she waited, knowing what was coming, and yet desperate for the feel of Miranda's hands on her again.
The first touch was firm—harder than before, though it still carried that careful control. Miranda's hand landed on Andrea's shoulder, her grip unyielding as she guided Andrea to lean forward slightly.
The silk slid over her skin with a softness that belied the strength of the bindings. Miranda worked with calculated precision, wrapping the rope around Andrea's wrists and forearms, her touch a blend of firmness and finesse. The way the bindings tightened, the way the rope dug slightly into her skin, reminded Andrea that this was punishment, but the care with which Miranda tied each knot made it clear that this was also art.
The ropes constricted Andrea's arms behind her, leaving her vulnerable but held in place by Miranda's expertise. Miranda's hands, always so meticulous in everything she did, were no different now. It was tight, but not painful. Secure, but not restrictive. It was the balance that Miranda always struck—the harshness of her control softened by the tenderness that lay just beneath the surface.
"You know I don't tolerate carelessness," Miranda murmured, her voice low and controlled as she worked. The rope snaked around Andrea's torso now, crossing over her chest, binding her to the point of immobility. "Leaving your clothes on the floor like that."
Andrea's breath stuttered at the reprimand, her body reacting to both the words and the way the silk tightened against her skin. She knew what Miranda expected. She always did. Perfection. Order. Control. But there was a thrill in breaking the rules, in earning the punishment Miranda would so expertly deliver.
"I—" Andrea began, her voice shaky, trying to find something, anything, to say in the presence of Miranda's exacting gaze. But Miranda's hand moved swiftly, gripping the back of Andrea's neck with a strength that silenced her instantly. The grip was firm, almost rough, but as Andrea felt Miranda's thumb glide softly against her skin, there was that familiar, almost paradoxical tenderness. It was a reminder—Miranda held the power, but her affection ran just as deep, locked within that control.
"No, no, that wasn't a question," Miranda's voice cut through the air, sharp but never raised. A reminder of the first time they met.
Miranda pulled the ropes tighter across Andrea's chest, the silk biting into her skin, and Andrea gasped softly, her body tensing under the exquisite pressure. It wasn't pain, not really—it was the intoxicating mix of restraint and release, of being held in such a way that every breath felt more deliberate, more necessary. The sensation was all-consuming, and Miranda's presence only magnified it.
"Carelessness has consequences, Andrea," Miranda murmured, her fingers brushing against the rope as she tested the tension. She pulled the final knot tighter, securing it at the center of Andrea's chest, her touch lingering just long enough for Andrea to feel the heat of her skin through the silk. "You've earned this."
Andrea's breath came in shallow gasps, her body fully at Miranda's mercy, bound in place with no room for movement. The weight of the ropes pressed against her chest, her arms held immobile behind her, her entire being wrapped in the discipline of Miranda's command. And yet, despite the restraint—no, because of it—Andrea felt more free than ever, the edges of her world narrowing to this moment, to this woman.
Miranda's hand slid down Andrea's back now, following the lines of the rope, her touch both hard and soft, teasing but firm. Andrea arched slightly, as much as the bindings would allow, her breath hitching again as Miranda's fingers traced the intricate knots along her spine. Every touch was deliberate, controlled, as if Miranda was reminding her with each movement exactly who was in charge.
Andrea's pulse pounded in her ears, her body thrumming with the sensation of being held, of being disciplined, of being loved. The punishment was as much about Miranda's desire to teach her as it was about the unspoken bond between them—one built on trust, on knowing exactly how far each could go. And Miranda knew. She always knew.
Miranda moved with the grace and poise she always carried, perching herself elegantly on the edge of the bed. Her legs crossed with effortless authority, the black fabric of her trousers whispering against the sheets as she settled. She was close now, so close that Andrea could feel the heat of her, could sense her presence just next to her, despite the bindings that held her still.
There was a long pause, the silence stretched between them like a taut thread. Andrea's body remained kneeling, exposed, every inch of her skin alight with anticipation, waiting—aching—for Miranda to touch her again. Her arms were bound tight behind her, the silk rope biting gently into her skin, a constant reminder of her submission.
Miranda reached out, her hand moving slowly, purposefully, until her fingers brushed against Andrea's back. The touch was featherlight at first, barely grazing the surface of her skin, but it sent a ripple of sensation coursing through Andrea's body. Her breath hitched, her muscles tensing involuntarily as Miranda's fingers trailed down her spine, teasing, deliberate. Each touch was a study in control, hard yet soft, the perfect balance of restraint and indulgence.
The pads of Miranda's fingers danced across Andrea's skin, tracing the lines of the ropes with such precision that Andrea's breath faltered. Miranda knew exactly where to touch, where to linger, drawing out the anticipation, making Andrea's body burn with the slow, aching desire to be completely undone.
"You wanted this, Andrea," Miranda murmured, her voice low, intimate. She let her fingers wander lower, grazing over the curve of Andrea's hips, the heat of her touch barely there but enough to make Andrea's breath come quicker. "You wanted me to punish you for your carelessness."
Andrea's lips parted, a soft, involuntary moan escaping her as Miranda's fingers trailed over the sensitive skin of her lower back, teasing the edge of where the ropes bound her. Miranda's hand lingered, hovering just above Andrea's waist, as if to remind her that control still lay firmly in her hands. Miranda was taking her time, making Andrea feel every second of it, making her wait for more.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Miranda's fingers moved lower, brushing over the curve of Andrea's buttocks with a teasing touch that sent shivers racing down her spine. The way Miranda touched her, with such deliberate control, made Andrea's body feel like it was on fire. The ropes tightened against her skin as she instinctively shifted, desperate for more, for anything that would ease the unbearable ache building inside her.
"Shh," Miranda whispered, her voice barely a breath as her hand moved lower still, slipping between Andrea's legs with excruciating slowness. The touch was soft, a gentle graze of her fingers over Andrea's most intimate places, but the effect was immediate. Andrea's whole body tensed, her breath catching in her throat as a surge of pleasure shot through her. She fought to keep still, to stay silent, but it was impossible—her body craved more, craved Miranda's control, her touch, her discipline.
"You've been very disobedient," Miranda said, her voice still that soft, unyielding murmur as her fingers continued their slow exploration, tracing the edges of Andrea's heat but never giving her the full satisfaction she craved. "Leaving your clothes like that, knowing what it would cost you."
Andrea's breath came in ragged bursts, her chest rising and falling with each shallow gasp as Miranda's fingers hovered just out of reach of where she needed them most. The silk ropes tightened around her torso, her body trembling with the effort of holding herself in check. The pressure of the bindings, the constant reminder of her submission, only heightened the sensation, making every touch, every breath, feel more intense.
"Do you understand now?" Miranda's fingers brushed over Andrea's folds, light and teasing, sending another wave of heat coursing through her. Andrea couldn't answer, couldn't form words, her entire being focused on the feel of Miranda's hand, the soft, maddening way she stroked her, the tension building to unbearable levels. Miranda's touch was deliberate, firm but never giving too much, always keeping Andrea on the edge, always reminding her that she was the one in control.
Andrea's breath hitched again, her body arching as much as the bindings allowed, her hips instinctively shifting toward Miranda's hand, seeking more of her touch. But Miranda was unyielding, her fingers slipping away just as quickly as they had come, leaving Andrea panting, trembling, desperate.
"You'll remember this next time, won't you?" Miranda asked, her voice soft but with an edge of steel as her hand returned to Andrea's back, stroking the length of her spine with almost affectionate care.
Miranda let out a soft hum of approval, though there was a faint trace of amusement in it. "Good," she murmured. Her hand stilled for a moment before, without warning, she raised it and brought it down sharply against Andrea's bare buttocks.
The sound of the slap filled the room, a sharp crack of skin meeting skin, followed immediately by the sting that radiated through Andrea's body. Her breath hitched, a gasp escaping her lips as she absorbed the sensation. The pain wasn't unbearable—it was the kind that left a delicious burn, a reminder of Miranda's control, of the consequences for her disobedience.
Miranda's hand rested on Andrea's skin for a moment, her palm warm against the freshly reddened flesh, before she struck again. This time, the impact was harder, the sting sharper, and Andrea's body jerked involuntarily. She bit down on her lip, her breath coming faster now, her mind spinning from the mix of pleasure and pain. Every strike seemed to echo through her, the ropes tightening slightly against her chest as her muscles tensed in response.
"I won't tolerate carelessness," Miranda said, her voice calm, almost clinical, as her hand delivered another sharp smack. "Especially not from you."
Andrea's body burned with each impact, the heat spreading through her, mixing with the deep, simmering ache that had been building since Miranda first touched her. The punishment was precise, controlled, and yet it left Andrea trembling, each strike sending a shockwave of sensation through her that was both painful and intoxicating. She could feel the weight of Miranda's authority in every blow, the way it reverberated through her, settling deep in her core.
Miranda paused after the next strike, her fingers grazing the reddened skin, stroking it almost tenderly. Andrea's body tensed beneath her touch, anticipating the next move, but Miranda kept her waiting, letting the silence stretch, her hand a steady, comforting presence on Andrea's burning skin.
"Such a shame," Miranda murmured, her voice low, almost purring, as her hand traced slow, deliberate circles over the sore flesh. "You looked so beautiful in that blouse, and now you've ruined it."
Andrea's chest heaved with shallow breaths, her head spinning from the mix of pain and arousal. The ropes binding her were unforgiving, but it was Miranda's control, the way she wielded it with such precision, that left Andrea trembling. She wanted to beg, to plead for release, but she knew better. She had learned long ago that Miranda's punishments were to be endured, not avoided.
"Perhaps," Miranda continued, her fingers now teasing the delicate line of Andrea's spine, moving slowly, deliberately, "you'll think twice before disrespecting what I give you."
Another sharp smack landed, harder this time, and Andrea cried out softly, the sound escaping her lips before she could stop it. The sting was fierce, the burn spreading through her body like fire, but with it came the familiar, undeniable rush of pleasure that only Miranda could draw from her. Andrea's skin was alive under Miranda's touch, her whole body strung tight, every inch of her aching for more.
Miranda's hand lingered again, tracing the curves of Andrea's body, her fingers teasingly close to where Andrea wanted her most. But she didn't rush. She never did. Miranda's control was absolute, her ability to keep Andrea teetering on the edge of pleasure and pain a skill she wielded with expert precision.
"I think," Miranda said softly, almost contemplatively, "you've had enough of the spanking."
Andrea's breath came in shallow bursts, her mind spinning, her skin still burning from the blows. She wanted to respond, but she knew better than to interrupt Miranda's assessment of her. Miranda would decide when she'd had enough, just as she decided everything.
Miranda's fingers drifted lower now, slipping between Andrea's legs once again, teasing the sensitive skin there, brushing just lightly enough to send a shiver through her. The contrast between the sharpness of the spanks and the gentle caress of Miranda's touch made Andrea's head spin, her body trembling under the weight of the pleasure building inside her.
"You've been very patient, Andrea," Miranda murmured, her voice like silk as her fingers slid just a little further, teasing Andrea's folds with a soft, delicate touch. "And you know how much I value patience."
Andrea's lips parted, a soft moan escaping her as Miranda's fingers stroked her with maddening slowness, the pleasure blooming inside her, so close yet still just out of reach. The silk ropes tightened against her chest, her arms immobile behind her, and yet the way Miranda touched her made her feel like she was coming undone, like every knot, every tie, was unravelling in her mind.
Miranda's fingers dipped lower, grazing over Andrea's swollen heat, teasing her with the lightest of touches. "You want me to reward you, don't you?"
Andrea's breath hitched, her body trembling, the need for release nearly unbearable. She nodded, unable to find her voice, her mind consumed by the sensation of Miranda's fingers against her most intimate places.
Miranda's hand stilled, hovering just above Andrea's center, a cruel reminder of the control she held.
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Preview of next chapter:
A soft sound, like the faint snap of a buckle, reached Andrea's ears, confirming her suspicions. Miranda had retrieved one of the strap-ons, but which one? The question flickered through Andrea's mind, sharp and tantalizing. Her body trembled with anticipation, her breath catching as her mind raced through the possibilities.
Would it be the painfully large one—the one Miranda only used when she wanted to stretch Andrea to her limits, filling her to the point of exquisite agony? That particular toy had always left Andrea gasping, her body teetering between pleasure and pain, her release delayed until she was completely undone. Miranda knew how to wield that one well, pushing Andrea just far enough to keep her wanting, the sheer size of it forcing her to take each thrust slowly, painfully, until the pleasure broke through like a dam.
Or would it be the smaller one, the one that Miranda sometimes chose when she wanted to prolong Andrea's suffering, to tease her mercilessly without giving her the satisfaction she craved? That toy was smaller, almost frustrating in its ability to leave Andrea wanting more, the shallow thrusts keeping her on the edge but never quite tipping her over. It left her writhing, desperate, begging for more, only to be denied until Miranda was ready to give her release.
Andrea's thighs clenched involuntarily at the thought of either, the anticipation tightening her chest. Her body hummed with need, her mind spinning with the endless possibilities of what Miranda would choose tonight. Would she stretch her until she couldn't bear it? Or would she torment her, keep her trembling and needy without letting her fall into the release she so desperately craved?
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