Front Row At Her Discipline

I never expected Orla to stand so close at the railing while I direct the discipline below. The sharp crack of leather pulls her yielding form into focus, and my voice carries the authority that masks how much her independence challenges me.

Every order risks exposing the connection we both fight, the one that could cost us the club and the careful distance we maintain. Her fingers trace her collarbone when the tension builds, and I want to command it still without revealing my own fear of being seen. The deed folder waits open later under the lamp but my attention stays fixed on her.

The threshold sits between us now, forearms nearly touching as the next strike echoes. One admission and everything shatters.