Chapter 12: He Watched Me With Another
"The one who loves less holds the power."
-- Robert Greene
This wasn't planned.
Not exactly.
We were out with friends--some old, some new. One man there I had known before I ever met my submissive. Charming. Loud. Just rough enough around the edges to be tempting. He flirted with me, and I let him.
But this time, I didn't stop at smiling.
I slid into his lap sometime after the second drink. He pulled me in with a grin and a hand low on my waist, and I let it rest there. My boy saw it all from across the room. I made sure of it. I let the other man stroke my thigh. I tilted my face toward him and kissed him--slowly, fully, while my submissive sat still and silent, pretending not to watch.
He was caged, of course. I could almost feel it--how the metal pressed against his skin, how every breath he took made the ache worse.
I stood after a while and whispered something in the man's ear. He laughed and followed me into the back hallway. The light was dim. The music muffled. The walls thin.
We didn't fuck.
But we didn't need to.
His hands explored. His mouth claimed mine. My breath hitched, just once, loud enough for someone paying attention. When I returned to the room, my hair was slightly tousled, my lipstick reapplied--but not too carefully.
I returned to my seat beside my submissive. He shifted to make room for me without speaking.
I rested a hand on his thigh. Cool, steady. Like nothing had happened.
He didn't ask. He didn't need to. His eyes stayed down, his posture perfect, his face calm--but I could feel his pulse through the fabric of his slacks. Fast. Desperate.
That night at home, I unzipped my dress and let it fall. I didn't say a word.
He knelt beside the bed as I slipped between the sheets, silent.
I didn't let him touch me.
I didn't say goodnight.
I just turned off the light and left him kneeling in the dark.
And he stayed there.
Chapter 13: The First Slip
"There is no such thing as 'almost obedient.'"
-- Unknown
It had been building for weeks.
He was still obedient. Still devoted. Still caged.
But something had shifted. Slight things. Quiet signals. He wasn't failing--he was faltering.
One night, after dinner, he hesitated before kneeling. I saw it. The briefest pause. I didn't address it then.
The next morning, I found his chores half-done. Nothing serious. A few dishes still in the sink. The laundry started but not folded. He apologized when I mentioned it, of course. But it was there--that edge.
That evening, I caught the smallest pout on his face when I mentioned the lock staying on for another week. His lips pressed together. His eyes dropped. Not in submission. In resentment.
That was his first real mistake.
I let him finish my massage. Let him light the candles. Let him read to me in that soft, measured tone I loved. I didn't punish him then.
I waited.
Later that night, I sat on the bed while he undressed. He folded his clothes slowly. His body was tense. That subtle pout was still lingering in his jaw.
