Chapter 6: Testing the Bindings**

Chapter 6: Testing the Bindings

The lie had saved her, but it had also forged a new kind of prison.

“My new client,” Kris had said, her voice impossibly steady as she stood in the harsh light of the laundry room, Mark holding her dress like a piece of evidence. “Vance Timberworks. Their office is in a converted mill in the industrial district. It’s full of sawdust.”

It was a half-truth, the most dangerous and effective kind of lie. She had watched Mark’s face, watched the suspicion war with his innate desire for everything to be normal. He wanted to believe her. Believing her was easier than confronting the alternative. He had eventually folded the dress, his movements stiff, and placed it in the washing machine. “Right,” he’d said. “Just… be careful.”

The word hung between them now. Careful. He hadn't accused her of anything, but the watchfulness was there. A new tension hummed in the quiet spaces of their home. Mark’s gaze lingered on her a second too long. He asked more questions about her day. His complacency, the very thing she had once resented, had been her greatest protection, and now it was gone. She felt like a specimen under a microscope.

So when her phone buzzed the next afternoon, her entire body seized. The text was, as always, a stark command from the same unknown number. No pleasantries. No preamble.

The Heathman. 1 PM. Don’t be late.

Kris stared at the screen, her blood turning to ice. The Heathman Hotel. It wasn't some anonymous café or a gritty industrial park. It was a Portland landmark, an icon of old-world elegance, famous for its upscale restaurant where business deals were sealed over three-course lunches. It was a place Mark’s firm sometimes used for client meetings. It was a place where she could be seen.

This wasn’t an invitation; it was a summons to walk a tightrope over a canyon of pure terror. Clara was testing her, pushing her out of the shadows of the stockroom and the workshop and into the full, unforgiving light of day. Testing the bindings, she thought, the phrase appearing in her mind unbidden. Seeing how far they would stretch before they snapped.

She spent an hour getting ready, her movements frantic and precise. She chose her armor carefully: a conservative charcoal gray skirt that fell below the knee, a simple cream-colored silk blouse. She looked like a wife meeting a friend for lunch. A safe, respectable woman. But underneath the skirt, she could feel the faint, tender ache on her thighs, a secret heat that was the absolute truth of who she was becoming. The marks had faded to pale, rosy shadows, invisible to the world but screamingly present to her. They were a constant reminder of her surrender, and a promise of what was to come.

The restaurant was a symphony of hushed power. The clink of heavy silverware on porcelain, the murmur of discreet conversations, the scent of expensive perfume and roasted duck. Men in tailored suits and women in elegant dresses occupied the tables, their faces calm and confident. Kris felt like a complete fraud, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard she was sure the maitre d’ could hear it.

Clara was already there, seated at a corner table with a commanding view of the entire room. She looked nothing like the TikTok woodchopper or the workshop foreman. Today, she was the CEO. She wore a perfectly tailored black blazer over a simple white t-shirt, her blonde hair artfully messy, her posture relaxed but radiating an aura of absolute control. She fit into this world of quiet money and influence so seamlessly it made Kris’s own insecurity a physical ache.

“Kris,” Clara said, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile as Kris approached. “You made it.” Her eyes flicked over Kris’s sensible outfit, a glint of amusement in their green depths.

“I said I would,” Kris managed, sliding into the chair opposite her. The starched white tablecloth felt like a barrier between two different worlds.

The small talk was agonizing. They ordered water. Clara discussed the wine list with the sommelier with an easy expertise that made Kris feel like a child. For a few minutes, it was almost normal. Deceptively normal. Then, under the table, something brushed against her ankle.

Kris jumped, a jolt of pure electricity shooting up her leg. She glanced at Clara, whose face was a mask of polite indifference as she scanned the menu. But the pressure on her ankle was deliberate, unmistakable. It was the toe of Clara’s stylish leather boot, slowly, insistently, tracing a circle on her skin.

Kris’s breath caught in her throat. She tried to subtly pull her leg away, but Clara’s boot followed, trapping her foot. Her entire nervous system was focused on that single point of contact, a secret, illicit conversation happening in a space no one else could see.

The waiter arrived to take their order. “Ma’am?” he asked, looking at Kris.

Her mind was blank. Under the table, Clara’s foot slid up her calf, the leather of the boot a shocking friction against her nylons. The sensation was so overwhelming, so exquisitely terrifying, that she couldn’t form a thought.

“She’ll have the scallops,” Clara said smoothly, her eyes never leaving the waiter’s. “And another bottle of the Sancerre.”

The waiter nodded and left. Kris felt a hot flush of shame creep up her neck. She couldn’t even speak for herself. She was a puppet.

“Look at me, Kris,” Clara commanded, her voice a low murmur that barely carried across the table.

Kris forced her eyes up from her water glass.

“Your face is an open book,” Clara chided softly. “You look like a frightened rabbit. Anyone watching would know something is wrong. I need you to learn composure.” Her foot pressed harder against Kris’s calf. “Take a sip of water. Smile at me. Pretend you’re enjoying this.”

It was the cruelest kind of training. She was being taught to lie with her face while her body was being lit on fire. Kris picked up her glass, her hand trembling so much that water sloshed over the rim. She took a sip, the cold liquid a shock to her system. She attempted a smile, but it felt like a grimace.

The game escalated. While they ate, Clara issued a series of quiet commands, each one a new twist of the knife.

“Cross your legs. Now uncross them.”

“Tell me about your son’s last painting.” All the while, her boot was stroking, pressing, tormenting.

“Look at the couple by the window. Tell me what you think their secret is.”

Kris obeyed, her voice thin and reedy. She spoke about Leo’s rainbow dinosaur, her words a bizarre and profane counterpoint to the secret theater under the table. She was split in two: the suburban mother making polite lunchtime conversation, and a creature of pure sensation, captive to the whims of the woman across from her. The public humiliation was a new flavor of arousal, sharper and more potent than anything she had experienced in the workshop. The risk of being caught, the sheer audacity of it, was intoxicating.

She was nearing her breaking point when a man two tables away, a portly businessman, caught her eye and gave her a brief, polite smile. In that moment, Clara’s boot pressed firmly between her knees, a bold, possessive gesture. A tiny, involuntary gasp escaped Kris’s lips. The businessman’s smile faltered, a flicker of confusion crossing his face before he turned away.

Shame, hot and absolute, washed over Kris. She had almost given them away. She looked at Clara, expecting a reprimand, but Clara’s expression was unreadable. The pressure from her boot eased slightly, a brief reprieve.

Something inside Kris shifted. The fear didn’t vanish, but it was joined by a spark of defiance. A flicker of wanting to be a worthy player in this terrifying game. She took a steadying breath. When the waiter came to clear their plates, she met his eyes and smiled, a genuine, relaxed smile this time. “That was delicious, thank you,” she said, her voice even and warm.

She felt Clara’s boot press against her leg again, but this time it felt different. It felt like approval. Emboldened, Kris did something she couldn’t have imagined doing five minutes earlier. She pressed her foot back, a small, shy gesture against Clara’s boot. A signal. I’m still here. I’m learning.

A slow, predatory smile touched Clara’s lips. She had won the moment, but Kris hadn’t broken. She had bent, and in doing so, had found a new strength.

Clara paid the bill with a heavy, black metal card that made a definitive thud on the small tray. As they stood to leave, the ordeal seemingly over, Clara moved close, as if to help Kris with her chair. She smelled of her expensive, subtle perfume, a scent worlds away from the workshop’s cedar.

“You did well today,” she murmured, her lips brushing Kris’s ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “You’re learning to wear the mask.” She pulled back slightly, her green eyes boring into Kris’s, filled with a new, terrifying challenge. “I’m glad. It will make the weekend so much more interesting.”

Kris frowned, confused. “The weekend?”

Clara’s smile was a razor’s edge. “A friend invited me to a neighborhood barbecue on Saturday. A casual affair. I believe you know the hosts.” She let the words hang in the air for a devastating second before delivering the final blow.

“The Millers. I’m looking forward to seeing your home, Kris. And meeting your husband.”