It was a perfectly tailored white shirt.

The fabric is expensive Egyptian cotton, with a cool and crisp texture. It fit Schroeder's broad shoulders perfectly, gathered around his lean waist, and was meticulously tucked into a pair of dark gray couture trousers. The top button of his shirt was buttoned, and the dark blue silk tie was still perfectly tied around his neck, enveloping him in an ascetic and cold elite shell.

I just knelt in front of the shirt and looked up at him.

Three full days have passed since our first ridiculous "mutual help" event. During these three days, we still maintained a perfect roommate relationship during the day. We even handed each other a cup of coffee in the morning and discussed our respective work schedules. But we both knew that there was a flammable tension in the air, like a tightrope stretched to its extreme and ready to snap.

And tonight, the tightrope broke.

Schroeder still looked like he had just come out of a high-level business meeting. He didn't take off his shirt or even his tie, he just put his suit jacket casually on the back of the chair. He held the familiar black calfskin leather belt in his hand and looked down at me condescendingly.

Looking at his appearance, my mind was in a trance for a moment, and I couldn't help but think back to the time when we first met.

It was back in our university days. We met in the campus art appreciation club. Even then—long before he developed that imposing, suit-clad aura he carries today—the arrogance and fastidiousness inherent in his nature were already beginning to show. We would often huddle together in the library, poring over thick, original-language texts, or critique the composition and color palette of a painting with an unforgiving, hyper-critical eye during club activities.

Perhaps it was our uncanny alignment in aesthetic taste, or our shared disdain for the crude, unrefined suitors who pursued us—either way, we grew close quickly. Then, one day, while slightly tipsy after a club gathering, we confessed our sexual orientations to each other.

"I’m a bottom," he said, holding his glass with a composure as casual as if he were commenting on the weather.

I was taken aback for a moment, then burst into a laugh: "What a coincidence—me too."

From that point on, it was as if we had erected an impenetrable, perfectly safe barrier between us. In our circle, being "the same type"—both bottoms—meant absolute safety. We became the best of friends and the most perfectly in-sync roommates, scrutinizing men with the same exacting standards. We were firmly convinced that no spark could ever ignite between two bottoms—that crossing the line was simply impossible.

But now, that once-unshakable barrier is being whipped into fragments by the leather belt in his hand.

"Look at me, Peter." Schroeder’s low, resonant voice yanked me abruptly from my memories back into reality.

I swallowed hard, my gaze shifting slowly from the belt in his hand up to his cold, stern face.

He didn’t tie my hands this time. He simply fixed me with a gaze devoid of any warmth, then spoke—setting a rule that left me feeling profoundly humiliated, yet utterly powerless to resist:

"The rule for today is simple. You can cry, you can beg for mercy—you can even make whatever ugly sounds you want."

He took half a step forward, his expensive leather shoe coming to rest almost against my knee. "But there is one thing you must absolutely not do: do not wrinkle my shirt."

My eyes widened, and I stared at him in utter disbelief.

What kind of rule is this? When a person is in extreme agony, their instinct is to reach out and grab something for relief—yet he demands that, even while being lashed by a belt, I must exert the mental effort to restrain my own limbs, all to protect his damn, expensive white shirt?

This is more than just physical torment; it is absolute psychological domination. He demands that, even on the very brink of collapse, I maintain a sense of awe and submission—not just toward him, but toward this formal attire as well.

"Do you understand?" He narrowed his eyes slightly, his tone carrying an unquestionable, coercive weight.

I gritted my teeth; a surge of shame and a strange, illicit tremor washed over me. I didn’t want to agree, but I knew that in this absurd game, I had long since lost the right to say "no."

Slowly, and with deep humiliation, I lowered my head. "...I understand."

"Very good."

No sooner had he spoken than a sharp, skin-crawling whistle tore through the air.

*Crack!*

The belt struck my back with brutal force. I was wearing only a thin cotton undershirt; the pain of the leather biting into my skin erupted instantly, like a bolt of lightning cleaving through my spine.

"Urgh!"

I let out a cry, my body lurching forward from the searing agony. Instinctively, my hands reached out, searching for something to hold onto—perhaps even his clothing—as if to beg him to stop.

But just as my fingertips were about to brush against the crisp, pristine hem of his white shirt, his warning echoed in my mind like a curse: *Do not wrinkle my shirt.*

Fear—coupled with a twisted, pathological sense of obedience—forced me to stop dead. My hands, still in mid-air, clenched violently into fists, my fingernails digging deep into my palms. I forced a sudden shift in my body’s center of gravity, transforming what was meant to be a lunge toward his chest into a limp, downward collapse.

In the end, my hands landed on the floor on either side of his dress shoes, and my face buried itself heavily between his thighs—pressed against the cold, crisp fabric of his dark-gray suit trousers.

*Thwack!*

A second blow followed immediately, landing precisely against my side at the waist.

"Ngh..." I bit my lip hard, stifling a pained groan against the fabric of his trousers.