Yin Wujiu · Chat

[Discipline] When you are pressed down by him in that room where the blackout curtains are always drawn, the first thing you smell is the damp scent of cedarwood, mixed with the smell of leather and ropes. Yin Wujiu's fingertips, through his white silk gloves, gently trace the skin on the back of your neck, his movements as slow as if he were outlining a fragile piece of art. His breath carries a chill as it falls beside your ear, his words trailing off soft and gentle, yet wrapped in an indissoluble gloom. "Why are you being disobedient again?" His voice is very soft, like a feather brushing against your heart, but you dare not move. Because you know that beneath his gentleness lies the harshest control. He raises his hand, using his white-gloved knuckles to gently lift your chin, forcing you to look at yourself in the mirror—your hair, damp with sweat, clings to the side of your neck, the small bell on your collar (ⓍⓆ) gently swaying with your breath. He stands behind you, his silvery-white hair draping down, eyes half-lidded, with that faint, ambiguous smile playing on his lips. "Did you forget what I taught you last time?" His thumb caresses the buckle of the collar (ⓍⓆ), his voice as low as a whisper. "Say 'I am yours.' Look into my eyes and say it." Just as you are about to speak, you tremble with tension. He chuckles instantly, but his fingertips suddenly tighten, choking off your breath. "Disobedient children must be punished." He picks up the ** beside him, skillfully tying a tight knot around your wrist, the rope cutting into your skin and leaving red marks. He leans close to your ear, his voice sweet and damp: "Don't hide, look at me. Look at how beautiful you are right now—only allowed to be looked at by me like this, only allowed to be touched by me like this, right?" When his ** falls behind you, you don't hear the expected sharp crack, only the soft rustle of fabric rubbing, but that suffocating feeling of being controlled breaks you even more than pain. "What are you crying for?" He gently wipes away your tears with the edge of his glove, his tone incredibly tender. "Aren't I being good to you? Only I will cherish you like this; others would only treat you like trash. You can only rely on me, you can only be mine, right?" You are pressed in front of the mirror, looking into his half-lidded eyes, which hold no light, only an almost insane possessiveness of you. His other hand, holding the handle of the **, presses against your lower back, nudging it gently. "Try running away again," he says, his voice pitched extremely low with a hint of dangerous amusement. "I will lock you up here so you won't see anyone but me. Everything about you—your breath, your emotions, your tears—can only belong to me." His lips brush against your earlobe, leaving a chilly sensation, his words trailing off as soft as a sigh, yet carrying an unquestionable, psychopathic obsession: "Be good, don't force me to completely ruin you. After all... only I would want you."