The Queen’s Throne Part 1

This story is part of The Queen’s Throne series.

The city skyline glittered through the penthouse window, a constellation of lights bowing to the night. Inside, the air was thick with anticipation, the faint scent of leather and jasmine curling around the room like a whispered promise. Evelyn stood by the glass, her silhouette framed against the urban sprawl, a queen surveying her dominion. She wore a tailored black blazer over a crimson corset, her thigh-high boots gleaming like polished obsidian. Her auburn hair cascaded in loose waves, catching the dim glow of the chandelier. At thirty-four, she was a woman who commanded attention — not through volume, but through the quiet, unyielding force of her presence.

On his knees before her was Marcus, a man who, in daylight, ran boardrooms and bent markets to his will. Here, though, he was stripped of his suits and titles, clad only in a pair of black briefs that clung to his muscular frame. His head was bowed, dark hair damp with sweat, hands clasped behind his back. The silver collar around his neck glinted faintly, a subtle chain dangling from it, its other end resting loosely in Evelyn’s manicured hand.

“Do you know why you’re here, Marcus?” Her voice was velvet over steel, each word deliberate, sinking into the silence.

“Yes, Mistress,” he replied, his baritone hushed but steady. “To serve you.”

She tilted her head, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Good. But serving isn’t enough tonight. I want surrender.”

Marcus swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the collar. Evelyn stepped closer, the click of her heels on the hardwood floor a metronome to his racing pulse. She tugged the chain lightly, forcing his chin up. His hazel eyes met hers—nervous, eager, and utterly enthralled.

“Stand,” she commanded.

He obeyed instantly, rising to his full six-foot height, though his posture remained deferential, shoulders slightly hunched. She circled him like a predator sizing up prey, her fingers brushing his bare shoulders, trailing down his spine. His skin prickled under her touch, a shiver betraying his composure.

“You’ve been good this week,” she mused, stopping in front of him. “Reports filed on time, meetings handled with precision. A perfect little soldier in that corporate battlefield of yours.” Her tone dipped, teasing. “But perfection bores me, Marcus. I want to see you unravel.”

His breath hitched, but he said nothing. He knew better than to speak without permission.

Evelyn stepped back and gestured to a sleek, cushioned chair in the corner—a throne of sorts, upholstered in deep burgundy velvet. “Sit.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then complied, settling into the chair. She approached, the chain still in hand, and straddled his lap with a grace that belied the power she wielded. Her corset pressed against his chest, the boning digging into his skin as she leaned in, her lips hovering just above his.

“Hands on the armrests,” she instructed. “Don’t move them unless I tell you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he murmured, gripping the wood tightly.

She reached behind her, retrieving a small riding crop from the table nearby. Its leather tip gleamed as she traced it along his jaw, down his throat, pausing at the collar. “You wear this so well,” she said, almost to herself. “A king in chains. My king.”

The crop slid lower, teasing the edge of his briefs. Marcus tensed, his knuckles whitening on the armrests. Evelyn’s smirk widened. “Already struggling? We’ve barely begun.”

She shifted her weight, grinding against him deliberately, the friction igniting a low groan from his throat. The sound pleased her—she could tell by the way her eyes darkened, pupils dilating with intent. She raised the crop and brought it down lightly on his thigh, a sharp sting that made him flinch.

“Quiet,” she warned. “You’ll make noise when I allow it.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he gasped, biting his lip to stifle himself.

Evelyn leaned back, studying him. His chest heaved, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. She loved this—the control, the way he bent to her will without breaking. It wasn’t about pain, though she wielded it like an artist with a brush. It was about trust, about him giving her everything he hid from the world.

She set the crop aside and unhooked the chain from his collar, letting it clatter to the floor. “Stand again,” she said, rising from his lap. He followed, legs trembling slightly, and she pointed to the floor. “Back on your knees.”

Marcus sank down, his gaze fixed on her boots. She stepped forward, lifting one foot and resting it lightly on his shoulder. The heel pressed into his flesh, not cruelly, but firmly—a reminder of where he belonged.

“Look at me,” she said.

He did, and the intensity in her green eyes pinned him more effectively than any chain. “You’re mine tonight,” she continued. “Every thought, every breath. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered, voice thick with devotion.

She removed her foot and turned, walking toward a low table adorned with an array of items—silk ties, a blindfold, a candle flickering in its holder. She picked up the blindfold, a strip of black satin, and returned to him. “Close your eyes.”