Tootie navigates a luxury retreat where every step, touch, and glance is a calculated exposure, culminating in a public orgasm under the guide’s command.
The grand foyer of the luxury retreat stretched before her, its vaulted ceilings swallowing the sound of her breath as Tootie stepped onto the heated stone floor.
The attendant was a broad-shouldered man with a voice like polished oak. He stood just behind her.
His presence was a silent command. She had already slipped off her shoes, the thin straps of her sandals coiled in her fingers before she let them drop to the marble bench beside her.
The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and something faintly metallic, like the tang of a blade just before it cut.
“Feet flat,” he murmured, his gaze tracing the high arches of her feet, the way her toes were painted a glossy, obscene red and curled slightly against the warmth beneath her. “Toes relaxed.”
She obeyed, pressing her soles fully against the stone, feeling the heat seep into her skin, crawling up her calves like a lover’s hands.
The thin blouse she wore clung to the swell of her breasts, the fabric so sheer she might as well have been naked beneath it.
Her skirt, a slip of silk that barely grazed mid-thigh, shifted with every breath, teasing the attendant’s peripheral vision.
She knew he was watching. She could feel it. The weight of his attention was like a physical touch, tracing the curve of her waist, the way her hips swayed just a fraction as she adjusted.
“Good,” he said, though his voice held no warmth, only the cool assessment of a man who had seen a thousand women just like her… willing, pliant, and eager to be unraveled. “Now walk.”
The next room was a study in opulence, its floors polished wood so dark it drank in the light, reflecting nothing.
Tootie stepped forward, her bare feet whispering against the surface. The attendant followed, his footsteps silent, but she could sense him behind her.
He was close enough that if she leaned back, she’d brush against him. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
She had to soften her steps here. The wood was unforgiving, every misplaced heel click a betrayal.
She concentrated, rolling from heel to toe with deliberate slowness, her weight shifting in a way that made her skirt ride up just a little higher.
A glance over her shoulder confirmed that the attendant’s eyes were locked on the flash of thigh, the way her muscles flexed beneath her pale skin.
“Better,” he murmured, and this time, there was the ghost of a smile in his voice. “You’re learning.”
The Hall of Mirrors was worse.
It wasn’t just one reflection staring back at her… it was a dozen, a hundred, an infinity of Tooties, each one more exposed than the last.
The walls were lined with gilded glass, each panel catching her from a different angle.
The way her blouse clung to her nipples when she breathed too deeply, the way her skirt clung to the damp heat between her thighs, and the way her toes curled when she hesitated, pressing into the cool floor as if she could anchor herself against the weight of all those watching eyes.
She couldn’t hide here. Not really.
Every sway of her hips was amplified, every shift of her weight a confession. The attendant stood just behind her, close enough that his breath stirred the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.
She could see him in the mirrors, too. His dark shape at her back, his hands clasped behind him, his posture relaxed, like a man who had already won.
“You give yourself away without a word,” he observed, his voice low, almost conversational. “The way your toes curl when you’re unsure. The way your thighs press together when you’re wet.”
Tootie’s breath hitched. She didn’t deny it. What was the point? The mirrors didn’t lie.
Dinner was a different kind of torture.
The dining hall was long and narrow, the table low to the ground, forcing her to sit cross-legged on a woven mat that prickled against her bare soles.
The staff moved in silence, their footsteps muffled by thick carpets, their eyes flicking to her feet, her posture, the way her blouse gaped just enough to tease the shadow of her cleavage.
She was the only one barefoot. The only one on display.
The meal was a series of small, exquisite dishes of thin slices of raw fish, delicate dumplings, and bites of fruit so ripe the juice ran down her fingers.
She ate with her hands, as instructed, licking the stickiness from her skin, aware of the way the staff’s gazes lingered on her mouth, her wrists, the way her toes flexed against the mat with every shift of her body.
No one spoke.
The silence was a living thing, pressing in on her, making her hyperaware of every sound… her own swallowing, the soft shink of her skirt against her thighs, even the way her breath came just a little faster when the attendant’s eyes met hers across the table.
Then, finally, the meal ended.
The guide… she hadn’t even realized he’d entered… leaned in as the last plate was cleared, his breath warm against the shell of her ear.
His fingers brushed her thigh, just above the knee, and she jerked, her toes curling into the mat.
“You’ve learned to walk,” he murmured, his voice a dark caress. “To stand. To yield.”
His hand slid higher, his thumb tracing the inside of her thigh, slow, deliberate. “Now show us how you fall apart.”
🔒 The rest of this story is for subscribers only.
Tootie has learned the rules. She’s been watched. Corrected. Exposed.
And now, under the guide’s command, she’s about to discover just how far surrender can go when an audience is invited to witness it.
If you want the explicit continuation and what happens after the command, how her body responds, and how the retreat takes what it’s owed…
👉 Subscribe now to unlock the rest of Surrender.
No footwear.
No hiding.
No turning back.
