My Mouth Before 12

“You’ve been eating a lot of pineapple lately. What’s the occasion—finally getting railed?”

Cleo’s voice rang through the apartment like a bell as she cracked open the garbage can and turned to face me. I was halfway through inhaling broccoli stir-fry when I choked so hard I nearly flung my chopsticks across the counter.

“What the hell, Cleo?” I coughed, eyes watering.

“I’ve seen the evidence.” She held up two empty cans of pineapple from the trash like she was building a case. “You’ve eaten at least four cans in the past twenty-four hours. You don’t even like pineapple.”

“I’ve just been… craving it,” I mumbled, cheeks heating.

Cleo raised a single brow. “Oh really? What about cranberry juice? Craving urinary health too?”

I glared at her and shoved another bite of stir-fry into my mouth. “Maybe I’m just trying to balance my vitamins.”

“Mhmm. Balanced diet.” Cleo leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. “And what’s this I hear about you not coming home tonight?”

I kept my gaze locked on my food. “I won’t be here later. Just giving you a heads-up.”

“Oh, someone’s got a dick appointment.” Her grin was evil. “Say it. Say it, Sophie.”

“Call it whatever you want,” I muttered, not looking at her.

She winked. “Just make sure you hydrate.”

Then she spun on her heel and disappeared into her room, humming a filthy song that made me want to throw a pillow at her door.

Once I heard it click shut, I grabbed my phone and slipped into my room. The nerves hit instantly. Like someone dropped a bowling ball into my stomach.

Stepping into the bathroom, I turned the shower on hot. Steam fogged the mirror as I undressed slowly, like I was already being watched.

I scrubbed every inch of my body, washed my hair twice, shaved, exfoliated, and stood under the spray until my fingers pruned and my thoughts got quieter.

I dried off, did soft waves like he asked, and slipped into the wine-colored lace set he gave me. The fabric clung to my skin like a secret. I pulled the faux fur coat over it, fastened it closed, and sprayed the perfume behind each ear like he’d instructed.

My pulse was everywhere. In my neck. Between my legs. In my fingertips.

I stared at myself in the mirror and whispered, “You said yes, Sophie. So walk like it.”

Then I left.

The coffee shop was warm and dimly lit, tucked on a quiet corner one street away from my apartment. I slid into the far booth like he told me, hands clasped tightly in my lap, scanning every face that walked in.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed.

Private Room Service: Come outside, I’m waiting. Black Audi. Don’t keep me waiting, princess.

I exhaled shakily and grabbed my purse, pushing the door open with trembling fingers.

The Audi was parked under a streetlight. Sleek. Expensive. Polished like every part of him. He sat behind the wheel, one hand resting casually on the leather, the other on the gearshift.

I opened the passenger door, slid inside, and fastened my seatbelt without a word.

“You look stunning,” he said, voice low. “Are you nervous?”

I nodded once. “Yes.”

“Good.” He glanced over. “That means you care.”

We drove in silence after that. A soft hum of classical music filled the car, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat.

When we pulled through the iron gates, I nearly stopped breathing.

His estate was… massive. Gated, tree-lined, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a movie. The house itself was modern and timeless all at once. Soft lights glowed in the windows, casting warm gold across the gravel path.

“Come,” he said simply, and led me inside.

The hallway smelled like cedarwood and something faintly smoky. Every surface was elegant, curated. This wasn’t just a house—it was a life built around control.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked, pausing near the kitchen.

“No,” I said quietly. “Thank you.”

He nodded, pleased, and took my coat. “Follow me.”

We walked down a hallway that narrowed, each step more deliberate than the last. When we stopped in front of a matte black door, he turned to face me.

“Don’t be afraid. Not here. Not with me.”

Then he opened it and stepped into a different world.

My breath caught. It was like stepping into one of the books I hid under my pillow in college. Or one of the dreams I’d never dared to say out loud.

The room was lit in soft red and warm amber. The walls were lined with racks of tools—leather restraints, cuffs, paddles, silk blindfolds, canes, and ropes in every shade imaginable.

There was a wide bed against the far wall with black satin sheets. A St. Andrew’s cross stood at the center, gleaming under dim lighting.

Chains. Benches. Hooks. Velvet. Everything was crafted with such precision, it looked like an art gallery for sin.

“This is where I train,” he said. “Where I teach obedience. Pleasure. Restraint.” I stood frozen when he stepped behind me. “Undress. Slowly.”

I nodded and reached up, unfastening the coat, letting it slide off my shoulders. Then the bra. My hands were shaking. When I reached for the panties, his voice cut in. “Did I tell you to do that?”

I froze, hands halfway down. “No, sir,” I whispered.

He moved in front of me, dark eyes locked on mine. “You need to learn to listen, Sophie.”

I swallowed hard and nodded.

He stepped closer, brushing his knuckles over my cheek. “What’s your safe word?”

“Peaches,” I whispered.

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “Good girl.”