Everything Is Grace Ch 06

The next morning, after Emily left for class, Grace lay back in bed, staring at the door. She couldn't stop thinking.

The conversation had changed everything - to Grace's surprise. She'd gone into it expecting friction, maybe even a sulk, or one of Emily's soft silences. But Emily hadn't cracked. She'd bent. And not just that: she'd thanked her.

Thanked her.

Grace kept replaying it: the softness in Emily's voice, the flicker of anxiety in her eyes, the need to be told. The gratitude. The surrender.

She had been tipsy on power before. But now?

Now she was wasted on it.

The conversation had settled something. It marked the end of negotiation. Grace didn't have to test the limits anymore. She had them. Emily had confirmed it - not by agreeing, but by thanking her. The terms were set now. Grace would define, and Emily would adjust.

And it wasn't just hot. It was useful. Grace had never been this efficient. Emily was effectively Grace's research assistant now, she cooked for her, she handled her errands. It was no longer care. It was service. And it worked. Grace could think, move, focus. She had more time now.

Of course, there was still the other voice. The little one. The one that whispered: You're using her. You're manipulating her. You're rewriting her boundaries so slowly she doesn't even see them move. She trusts you. And you're building yourself a throne out of that trust.
 Grace heard it. She just didn't listen.

Because it wasn't like she forced anything. She didn't bark commands. Not yet. Emily did everything of her own accord. She showed up, asked for instructions. And she thrived. Her sleep was better. Her grades were up. She looked sharper, calmer, more focused. The structure worked. Grace was only building what Emily had asked for.

And so Grace's whole body hummed with possibility. With ideas. She'd told herself - back when this started - that it was just an arrangement. Mutual. Experimental. But that was bullshit. She knew that now. What they had was singular. Maybe fucked up. Definitely not balanced. But it was real.

They weren't acting. It wasn't a scene or a performance.

It was something much older than that. Deeper. Instinctive, almost animalistic. One body adjusting around another. And she was the alpha. Hierarchy had become the defining axis of their relationship.

She thought of the word, not for the first time: slave.

But this time, not as kink. Not metaphor. Not fantasy. As possibility. As identity. A human being whose sense of self was carved around her. Who lived through Grace.

She would make Emily into it. Quietly, daily, completely.

Under the sheets, her hand moved down her body.

She thought about rope. About a collar and a leash. About knees on cold tile. About teaching Emily to hold still through pain.

She came fast. Silently.

That night she opened her laptop and read. Just lightly. Articles. Blog posts. Stories. Forum archives. She ended up on old threads about slave training. Cum-on-command protocols. Reward schedules. Conditioning sequences. One post described denial as calibration - orgasms only when earned, not wanted. Another broke down obedience drills: kneeling, presenting, responding without hesitation.

She didn't bookmark anything. But she got her own ideas. The key was repetition. Repetition and reward. Make obedience a habit. Then a need.

Grace closed her laptop eventually, but only because her hand was already between her legs.

She came thinking about the word again.

****

At one point, Emily noticed that she didn't make decisions in the morning anymore.

Not without checking first.

What she wore, what she ate, when she rested - somehow, all of it was now filtered through Grace. Sometimes Grace told her outright. Sometimes Emily waited, phone in hand, refreshing the chat again and again until a message came.

grace: don't eat before 3

grace: you're sharper when you're a bit hungry

grace: don't whine. drink water if you must

She did as told. Every time. Even when it didn't make sense.

Even when it sucked.

She'd tried once - gently - to push back.

emily: i'm dizzy

grace: and?

grace: be dizzy. it's not going to kill you

That was it. No softness. Just expectation. Emily had to sit down, sip water, get through it.

But later that night Grace texted:

grace: you did well today

grace: i love you when you do what's difficult without complaining

And that made it worth it. Or close enough.

**

On Thursday she was standing in front of her wardrobe, towel in hair, staring at two outfits. The seminar started in twenty minutes. She wasn't dressed.

She'd already texted Grace.

emily: can i wear trousers today

emily: or skirt

No answer.

Ten minutes passed.

Fifteen.

She didn't move. Just stood there, checking the phone.

At 9:12:

grace: skirt

grace: long one

grace: the one that makes you walk like you think someone's watching

She was late. But she changed quickly. No resentment. Just that small rush - the kind that came from being noticed. From being given rules.

She didn't say thank you. But she felt it anyway.

**

Grace didn't "suggest" things anymore. She ordered.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just... directly. And Emily followed, most of the time before even thinking about it. It was normal now.

She noticed it during lunch one day. She sat down, pulled her food out of her bag, and suddenly paused. Checked her phone.

Nothing from Grace. No instruction. No restriction. But still - she waited. Like her own hunger wasn't quite enough to go on.

**

On Sunday Grace made her cancel plans.

grace: skip the flatmates dinner

grace: get your room ready like i'm coming over

grace: lights low, bed made, tea prepped

grace: even if i don't come

There was a pause - hesitation, guilt, something like that - but it passed. She sent the excuse to her flatmates, then started setting up.

She boiled the water, lit a candle, folded back the blanket on her bed. Turned off the overhead light. Fluffed the pillows.

Then she waited.

Grace never came. No explanation.
 But Emily left the room that way, untouched. Just in case.

**

The sex had changed too.

They were in Grace's flat. Grace had been quiet that evening - reading, scrolling, giving short replies. Emily had curled beside her on the couch, barely speaking, unsure if she was allowed to interrupt.

At some point, Grace stood without a word, left the room, came back with rope.

"Strip," she said.

Emily stood immediately. Her hands shook a little, but she didn't hesitate.

Grace didn't touch her at first - just watched her undress, piece by piece, until she stood naked. Grace didn't say anything about it. Just reached for her wrists and began to tie.

It wasn't decorative. The pressure was real. Tight enough to keep her still. Then ankles, then a short lead of rope between them, so she could walk, but not quickly. Then she pulled Emily onto the bed and pushed her forward - facedown, ass up.

No ceremony. No warm-up.

The paddle came down without rhythm. Sharp. Then again. Then twice in quick succession. Emily cried out, once, but Grace didn't slow down. She wasn't punishing. She was reminding.

"Hold still," she said, hand on Emily's lower back. "You don't flinch unless I allow it."

Emily gritted her teeth and did her best.

Then Grace touched her - fingertips moving over her pussy, not to please, just to get her ready.

"Don't move."

She didn't. Not really. But she shook.

Then the plug. Slicked already. Cold against her skin. In. Deep. Too fast.

She gasped.

Grace said nothing.

She climbed on top, strapped in, pushed Emily's thighs wider. Didn't ask. Just moved her like furniture.

Then stopped.

"Call me properly," she said.

Emily blinked.

"What-"

"I said call me properly."

"Miss," she whispered.

"Louder."

"Miss."

"Good."

Grace leaned down, voice at her ear.

"You don't come unless I say. Understood?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Say it again."

"I don't come unless you say."

Grace didn't wait after that.

She fucked her hard. Not violently. Just completely. Hips steady, hand at her throat, breath close enough to feel. No praise. No gentleness. Just control. Just use.

At one point she stopped completely - let Emily hover at the edge - then pulled back and waited.

"Say it again."

"I don't come unless you say."

Again. And again. Until her voice shook.

When she finally came - with her face pressed into the sheets - she was crying. Not from pain. From something else. Something she couldn't name, but that lived somewhere between exhaustion and ecstasy and total loss of self.

Her body felt hollowed out.

Grace let her stay like that for a minute. Breathing. Twitching. Plug still in.

Then she untied her wrists - slow, wordless - and said, flatly:

"Kneel."

Emily tried to get up. Failed once. Managed the second time. Her legs barely held. Her back burned. Her cunt was still dripping. But she moved to the floor and knelt beside the bed.

"Spread your knees more."

Emily adjusted. Winced.

"Back straight. Hands on thighs. Palms up."

Another adjustment. Her thighs were screaming now. The kneeling wasn't decorative - it was a position, and it hurt.

"Chin down. But not too far. Eyes on my legs."

Emily held the pose.

Grace watched. Said nothing for a long moment. Then stepped closer and began to touch - not kindly, not cruelly. Just with ownership. A hand in Emily's hair. A thumb across her bottom lip, then inside, pressing down on her tongue. Her mouth stayed open and waiting. Grace dragged her fingers along Emily's cheek, across her jaw - slow, unhurried, like using her face to dry her hand. Her breasts were cupped, weighed, squeezed once. Like checking for firmness, not reaction. Emily didn't move.

She didn't speak.

"Thank me," Grace said.

Emily blinked. She opened her mouth. Closed it.

"With your mouth."

Grace took a half step back. Just enough space.

Emily didn't hesitate this time.

She bent forward and kissed Grace's foot.

Once. Then again. Then slower. Her lips moved softly over the top of Grace's foot, then to the side, then to the arch. Her forehead rested there between kisses. Her breathing was heavy.

Grace didn't say anything. She just stood there and let it happen.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

Emily didn't stop.

She kissed. Nuzzled. Her cheeks rubbed against skin. Her lips grazed bone.

It felt normal.

There was no logic to it - just the sensation of being placed somewhere. Of being given a way to show gratitude that was physical, immediate, and complete.

She felt low. In the way you do when you're kneeling in front of someone who matters more than you. In the way that's almost comforting.

Eventually, Grace sat on the edge of the bed. Slid one foot up onto Emily's thigh. Then the other.

"Keep going," she said.

So she did.

Twenty more minutes. Maybe thirty.

Time got strange. Emily was sweating. Her knees were raw. Her thighs kept twitching from the pressure. Her cunt still hurt. The plug was still in. Her hands were shaking again, but she kept them where they were supposed to be.

Grace didn't speak.

At some point, she pressed her foot into Emily's mouth. Not hard, just present. Emily took it. Held it there. Breathed through her nose. She was lightheaded, but steady.

Finally Grace pulled her foot away, standing up again.

"Good. You're starting to enjoy being pathetic. That's progress."

Emily didn't reply.

She couldn't.

She was kneeling, naked, aching everywhere, sore and half-numb and empty in a way that felt deeply real.

And the only thought that made it through the fog was:

I can't come without her anymore.

And that made her feel two things at once:

Terrified.

And wanted.

****

The next morning, Emily woke up early. Grace was still asleep.

Everything felt quiet.
 Inside her, around her - quiet. 
Not like numbness. Like stillness.

Her body still ached. Between her thighs, her hips, her knees. But they didn't hurt. Not really. It was just... after.

And in the middle of that stillness, there was a feeling - sudden, full-body, impossible to hold: she loved Grace.
 Fiercely. Without coolness, without balance, without any distance at all.

She didn't want to say it.

She wanted to act on it.

To show it the only way that made sense now - the way Grace received love: through service.

She got up without a plan.

Cleaned the coffee press the right way. Hung Grace's coat properly. 
Then she found the shoes - the ones Grace wore for lectures, still dusty from last week. 
Emily sat on the floor and polished them by hand. Slowly. Carefully. Quiet work. 
When she was done, she left them by the door. Not displayed. Just ready.

While she was preparing breakfast for Grace, she looked at her phone.

lily: hey are you still coming tonight

mum: emily? just checking in

project group chat: [3 messages, unread]

She saw them. Didn't open them. 
Not out of malice. Just - no space. 
Everything else felt peripheral. Less urgent.

Later that day, after Emily left for the library:

grace: i saw what you did in the morning

grace: the shoes

grace: you were right to do it

grace: it helped

grace: you'll keep doing that, yes?

emily: yes

It wasn't the affection she craved - not exactly.

But 'I saw' was something. It meant she was on the right track.

If she wanted more, she'd have to earn it.

What mattered most was that it helped Grace.

That meant she was useful. That meant she was close.

****

There were still bad moments.

Like when Grace didn't respond for six hours - not even a seen checkmark - after Emily sent her the calendar she'd updated with Grace's deadlines and reminders.

Or when she asked if there was anything she could do, and Grace just said, "Not right now," without looking up.

No tone. No context. Just absence.

Emily sat there for a while anyway, waiting.

Eventually she got up and made tea she didn't drink.

**

She knew what this looked like.

 Control. Emotional dependency.

And maybe it was. But it didn't feel wrong. Just intense. Demanding. Sometimes exhausting.

There were nights she wanted normal. Just for a bit. To sleep in. Make her own plans. Talk without being weighed, measured, pulled into a shape.

But she'd already tried to raise that - back in the "what are we" conversation, when she'd hinted at maybe softening the edges, making things a bit more balanced.
 Grace had been clear: "you'd have to be willing to lose me again".

That was the line.

So she didn't bring it up again.

And being obedient meant this:
 The better she followed orders, the warmer Grace got.

That was the system.
 So she leaned in. Harder.

And when she got it right - really right - Grace changed.

She'd look at Emily like she was the only person alive. Pull her in. Say, "You were good today," or "That's what I like to see." She'd stroke her hair. Rest a hand at the small of her back. Say "I love you" in the quietest moments, when it could sink in deep.

And when that happened, Emily lit up inside.

It didn't really make her feel like a girlfriend. Or a partner.

It made her feel like she belonged.

And that feeling?
 It was the one thing that made the rest of it make sense.

**

Still, on the bad days - when Grace went cold - the doubt crept in.

Like the day she cried in the bathroom because she hadn't eaten since morning and didn't know if she was allowed to.

It felt pathetic. But it also felt right - like she was doing what she was supposed to.

In her thoughts, she didn't really call it 'control', or 'submission'. She called it love.

And if love meant serving - then this was what it meant to love someone more than yourself.

****

One evening, they ended up at another messy Oxford house party.

The kitchen was crowded and smelled like wine and weed. There were jackets piled on the stairs and half a blunt sitting in the sink. Grace's usual crowd had taken over the living room: Florence on the sofa, two grad students gossiping in the corner, Inês rolling a cigarette like performance art. Siobhan stood against the wall, drink in hand, watching everything.

Emily hovered near Grace. She'd been quiet most of the night. Grace had asked her to wear the navy jumper. She had. Grace had told her to skip coffee earlier. She had. It was easier that way.

At some point, Grace stepped into the middle of the room, telling a story about a reading group disaster. People laughed. Leaned in.

Emily stood slightly behind her. Close enough to touch. Far enough to disappear.

Then Grace turned, mid-sentence, and said clearly:

"Emily, kneel for a second."

The room continued moving. A few people looked over. Someone snorted.

Grace's voice was breezy. "Come on. It's not a big deal."

Emily flushed. But she moved. Slowly. Carefully. Down onto the floor. Beside Grace.

Someone half-laughed. Florence raised her eyebrows. The grad students smirked.

Grace smiled like it was nothing. "Good girl."

Emily's ears burned. Her spine locked. She kept her eyes on the floor.

Then:
 "Jesus Christ."

The voice came from the wall.

Not loud. But sharp enough to slice through the room like glass underfoot.

Heads turned.

Siobhan stepped forward.

Undercut half grown out, sleeves pushed up over inked arms, drink in hand - she looked like someone who didn't flinch. Eyes locked on Grace.

Grace turned. "What?"

Siobhan's voice didn't waver. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Grace didn't blink. "What do you mean?"

"You're making her kneel in front of people. In public. Like that's normal?"

Grace's voice was even. "She doesn't mind."

Siobhan pointed at Emily. "She looks like she wants to disappear."

Emily stayed frozen. Hands on her thighs. Shoulders tight. Not calm. Just locked.

"She's clearly uncomfortable," Siobhan went on. "Her body's screaming it. Look at her posture. She's not into this."

"She said she liked it," Grace said.

Siobhan stared at her. "Did she say that now? Or are you speaking for her?"

Grace's voice sharpened. "Emily."

Emily looked up. Her voice was thin. "It's fine. I'm okay."

Siobhan shook her head. "This is fucked. This is abusive. You're using her."

Grace snapped. "You don't know anything about this."

"I know enough to know that if you cared about her, you wouldn't be doing this in front of people like it's a show."

Grace stepped toward her. "Get over yourself, Siobhan."

"Get fucked, Grace."

Siobhan threw her drink in the sink and stormed out the back door.

Grace was already moving after her. "Stay here," she told Emily, and followed.

Emily stood slowly. Her legs felt weird. She sat on a dining chair near the corner, out of the way. People avoided looking directly at her. The music kept playing. Someone offered her a drink. She shook her head.

Through the window, she could see Grace and Siobhan outside. They were yelling. Grace's hands were sharp, cutting the air. Siobhan looked furious, her face tight, eyes narrowed. Emily couldn't hear the words, but she could feel them.

People inside were whispering. Someone said "That was a lot." Someone else muttered "She's always been intense." Florence lit a cigarette and said nothing.

Emily sat completely still, trying not to cry. Her chest felt too tight. Her face wouldn't cool down. Everyone was talking like she wasn't there.

When Grace came back inside, she didn't say anything at first. She went straight to Emily, crouched beside her chair, and took her hand.

"You okay?" she asked softly.

Emily nodded, but her jaw was locked.

"She doesn't understand," Grace said. "You don't owe her anything."