Chapter 6: The First Day

Charles stood before his bedroom mirror at 5:47 AM, the black lace set from Embraced in Lace laid out on his bed like ceremonial vestments. The morning light streaming through his Malibu windows seemed different somehow—sharper, more significant, as if the world itself had been transformed by last night's signing.

His phone buzzed with a text from Bryce, sent at precisely 5:30: The black lace. Nothing else underneath. I want you to feel owned from the moment you dress. - B

No good morning. No pleasantries. Just a command that made his pulse quicken and his newly smooth skin flush with anticipation. The contract was barely eight hours old, but already her ownership felt absolute, inescapable, perfect.

He slipped into the panties first, the French lace sliding against his waxed skin like a whispered promise. The sensation was electric—every step, every movement sending silk across nerve endings that seemed more alive than ever before. The bra followed, its delicate cups and straps transforming his silhouette in ways only he could detect but that felt monumentally significant.

Over the lingerie went his armor—a charcoal Armani suit, crisp white shirt, silver tie. To the outside world, he would look exactly like Charles Mercer, Esq., senior partner and legal powerhouse. But underneath, against his skin, he carried the secret of his surrender, the physical reminder that he belonged entirely to Bryce Landon.

The drive to downtown LA felt surreal. Every traffic light, every turn, was underscored by the whisper of lace against his chest, the subtle embrace that reminded him of his new reality. He was no longer just a successful attorney heading to another day of depositions and contract negotiations. He was Bryce's, owned and controlled, carrying her mark in the most intimate way possible.

Hartwell & Associates occupied the top twelve floors of a glass tower that scraped the Los Angeles sky. Charles had walked these halls for fifteen years, commanded respect in every conference room, built his reputation one victory at a time. But today, everything felt different. The marble lobby seemed more imposing, the elevator ride to the forty-second floor more charged with possibility.

His assistant, Margaret, greeted him with her usual professional warmth. "Good morning, Mr. Mercer. Your 9 AM with Consolidated Industries is confirmed, and the Henderson brief is on your desk for final review."

"Thank you, Margaret." His voice sounded normal, controlled, giving no hint of the silk secrets beneath his suit. "Any calls from Blackwood & Associates?"

"Not yet, sir. Shall I put Ms. Landon through if she calls?"

The innocent question sent heat through his chest. Margaret had no idea that Ms. Landon now owned every aspect of his private life, had signed him into willing slavery with a contract more binding than any marriage certificate.

"Of course," he managed. "Always put Ms. Landon through."

His corner office was a shrine to professional success—diplomas from Harvard Law, photographs with judges and senators, awards that testified to his legal prowess. But as Charles settled behind his mahogany desk, all he could focus on was the lace pressing against his skin, the physical reminder of his complete surrender to Bryce's will.

The morning passed in a haze of meetings and phone calls, each professional interaction heightened by his secret. During the Consolidated Industries conference, he felt hyperaware of every movement, every gesture. The lace shifted with each turn of his body, creating a constant undercurrent of sensation that made him feel simultaneously powerful and vulnerable.

"The liability clauses in section twelve need revision," he told the assembled lawyers, his voice carrying its usual authority. But underneath the professional confidence, he was acutely conscious of silk against his chest, of belonging to someone in ways they could never imagine.

At 11:30, his phone buzzed with another text from Bryce: How does it feel to negotiate million-dollar deals while wearing my lingerie?

Charles glanced around the empty conference room, his colleagues having departed for coffee. His fingers trembled slightly as he typed back: Like I'm exactly where I belong, Ma'am.

Her response was immediate: Good boy. Conference room B, Blackwood building, 2 PM. Don't be late.

The afternoon stretched before him like a tightrope walk over an abyss of exquisite tension. Every remaining meeting became an exercise in maintaining composure while the lace whispered its secrets against his skin. The Henderson brief, which should have taken thirty minutes to review, required an hour of careful attention as his mind kept drifting to thoughts of Bryce, of ownership, of the contract that had signed away his autonomy.

At 1:45, Charles found himself in the elevator of Blackwood & Associates, riding to the twenty-sixth floor where Bryce held court. The building was smaller than Hartwell's tower but somehow more intimidating—all sleek surfaces and sharp angles that reflected its managing partner's personality.

Conference room B was a temple to legal warfare, its glass walls offering a panoramic view of downtown LA. Bryce sat at the head of the polished table, reviewing documents with the focused intensity of a general planning a siege. She looked up as he entered, her dark eyes immediately cataloguing every detail of his appearance.

"Charles," she said, her voice perfectly professional despite the hunger flickering in her gaze. "Right on time."

"Ma'am," he replied quietly, the title feeling natural despite their ostensibly professional setting.

Her smile was sharp as a blade. "Please, sit."

The conference table was enormous, but she'd positioned herself so that even at its far end, her presence dominated the space. Charles took the chair across from her, hyperaware of the lace shifting against his skin as he settled into the leather seat.

"The Pemberton merger," Bryce said, sliding a folder across the table. "My client wants your opinion on the regulatory implications."

It was business—perfectly legitimate, professionally appropriate business. But underneath the legal discussion, another conversation was taking place. Every glance, every pause, every subtle inflection carried the weight of their new dynamic.

"Section 4.2 needs modification," Charles said, reviewing the documents with professional precision. But his voice caught slightly when Bryce leaned forward, her blouse falling open just enough to distract him completely.

"Agreed," she purred, making a note in the margin. "You always were thorough in your... analysis."

The innuendo was subtle enough to maintain plausible deniability, but it sent fire through his veins. Charles shifted in his chair, the movement making the lace caress his skin in ways that made his breath catch.

"Is there something wrong?" Bryce asked with mock concern. "You seem... distracted."

"Not at all," he managed, though his voice sounded strained even to his own ears.

She smiled with predatory satisfaction. "Good. Because I'd hate for personal matters to interfere with your professional judgment."

The emphasis on 'personal matters' made his pulse spike. Around them, the Blackwood offices buzzed with their usual activity—lawyers and paralegals moving through the halls, deals being negotiated, the machinery of legal commerce grinding forward. But in conference room B, a different kind of power was being exercised.

"The merger timeline is aggressive," Charles said, forcing himself to focus on the documents. "Your client will need to expedite the due diligence process."

"My client," Bryce said softly, her eyes never leaving his face, "gets what she wants. Always."

The double meaning was unmistakable. Charles felt heat flood his cheeks, the professional mask threatening to slip entirely. The lace seemed to tighten against his chest, reminding him that even here, in this bastion of legal authority, he belonged to her completely.

His phone vibrated with a text. Under the table, hidden from view, he glanced at the screen: Touch the lace. Now.

Charles's breath caught. Around him, the conference room remained perfectly professional—Bryce reviewing documents, the city sprawling beyond the windows, the ordinary world continuing its ordinary business. But her command transformed everything, making the mundane suddenly electric with danger.

Slowly, carefully, he let his hand drift to his chest, fingers finding the delicate lace beneath his shirt and suit jacket. The touch sent electricity through him, a jolt of sensation that made his eyes flutter closed for just an instant.

When he opened them, Bryce was watching him with eyes that glittered like dark stars. Her smile was pure satisfaction, the expression of someone who had just confirmed her absolute power over another human being.

"Excellent," she murmured, though whether she was referring to the merger documents or his obedience was unclear. "I think we understand each other perfectly."

Charles nodded, not trusting his voice. The lace felt like fire against his skin now, every breath making him hyperaware of his secret, of his surrender, of the woman who owned him completely.

"One more thing," Bryce said as she gathered her papers. "Tomorrow morning. The burgundy set from Seraphina's. I want you to think of me every time you move."

She rose gracefully, her hand brushing his shoulder as she passed—a touch so brief it might have been accidental, but the electricity it sent through him was anything but coincidental.

"Until tomorrow," she said softly, and then she was gone, leaving him alone in the conference room with the merger documents and the thundering of his own pulse.

Charles sat there for several minutes, letting his breathing return to normal, letting the reality of his new existence settle into his bones. In less than twenty-four hours, Bryce had transformed every aspect of his professional life. What had once been simply his career was now another stage for her ownership, another arena where her control could be exercised and enjoyed.

As he finally rose to leave, the lace whispered against his skin one final time, a silk reminder that tomorrow would bring new commands, new tests, new opportunities to surrender completely to the woman who had claimed him so thoroughly.

Walking back to his own building, Charles felt the weight of stares that weren't really there, the fear of discovery that made every step electric with danger. But underneath the anxiety was something else—a deep, bone-deep satisfaction. For the first time in his life, he knew exactly who he was and who he belonged to.

And tomorrow, he would put on burgundy lace and do it all over again.