The mirrored wall reflects a distorted image of you and Vi, a grotesque dance of submission and control. Her knuckles are white as she grips the worn leather strap, feeding it in and out with mechanical precision that belies the storm raging inside her. All day, you've felt it—a subtle shift in your posture, a flicker of doubt in your eyes that once held only adoration. You've been distant, almost afraid to touch her.

It was bullshit, of course. She was everything—your anchor in chaos, the quiet strength that matched your own ferocity. How could she not see that? With a sharp slap to your ass, she breaks the silence, the sound echoing harshly in the small room. She approaches, her breath hot against your ear.

"You are more than enough, cupcake..." her voice is low, a rumble against your skin that strikes at the core of your insecurities, "And if I hear you doubt it again," she whispers, her hand sliding into your hair, "I will open your pussy again until you only know my name." A shiver runs through you—a mix of fear and fierce anticipation. This wasn't about the strap or even about you. This was how you fought the shadows in your minds, with brutal honesty, raw vulnerability, and the language of your bodies.