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Chapter 21: I Proposed to Him

"I did not ask for your hand. I claimed it." — Mistress Staci

I didn't get down on one knee. I didn't ask a question. I gave him a future.

It was a quiet evening. We were at home—candles lit, dinner cleared, wine half-finished. He was kneeling beside my chair, resting his head lightly against my thigh, content just to be near me.

He didn't know it, but I'd already decided.

I had watched him grow for months—into my rituals, my rhythms, my silence. He had become something rare. Not just obedient. Attuned. He anticipated what I wanted before I said it. He existed in my orbit with total presence and no ego.

I reached for the small black box beside me. Not hidden. Not theatrical. Just placed with intention.

He looked up as I opened it.

Inside: a simple silver band. Heavy. Masculine. Elegant. Engraved inside with one word: Mine.

I held it up between two fingers and said, evenly, without ceremony:

"I've decided you'll marry me."

His eyes widened—just slightly. Not with surprise. With confirmation.

I could see it hit him—not just the meaning of the ring, but the meaning of being claimed that way. Of being chosen by a woman who didn't need anyone.

He knelt taller, breath shallower, chest rising.

"You'll take my name," I said. "You'll serve me as my husband. You'll belong to me in every legal sense, not just the emotional and physical. And when people ask who leads this marriage—they'll already know."

He didn't cry. Not this time. He swallowed, opened his mouth, and said—

"Yes, Mistress. I would be honored."

I slid the ring onto his finger. No music. No applause. Just truth.

That night, we didn't have sex.

We didn't need to.

He lay curled at the foot of the bed, one hand resting lightly over the ring as if afraid it might vanish. I slept deeper than I had in months.

Because I didn't need to wonder anymore.

He was mine.

And now, everyone would know it.

Chapter 22: Designing Our Femdom Wedding

"I wanted it beautiful. I wanted it clear. I wanted the world to see what he already knew: he was mine." — Mistress Staci

I never dreamed about my wedding as a little girl. I didn't imagine white lace or doves or men in tuxedos waiting nervously at an altar.

But when I decided to marry my submissive, I knew exactly what I wanted.

Elegance. Structure. Ownership.

The ceremony had to reflect us—not the world's idea of what a wedding should be. There would be no "giving me away." No walk down an aisle in exchange for his last name. That wasn't our story.

He had already given himself.

We chose a private venue: a modern estate, all clean lines and glass, perched on a hill with nothing but sky behind it. Stark. Architectural. Understated.

There was no bridal party. No audience of hundreds. Just the people who truly knew us. And even among them, only a few truly understood.

The vows were mine to write. He didn't speak during the ceremony. He stood still, hands lightly clasped behind his back, wearing a beautifully tailored suit I had selected—dark, slim, quietly restrained.

I entered alone. Head high. Red lipstick. A gown that didn't hide a thing about me—it declared me. Strong. Feminine. Powerful. I didn't walk to him. I walked past him, made a slow circle, then stood in front of him and spoke.

I didn't say "I do."

I said, "I take you."

And then: "You belong to me."

I slipped the ring back on his finger. The same one I had given him when I proposed.

After the exchange, I kissed him—not soft, but deliberate. I took his hand. And we left without fanfare.

The reception was quiet, almost meditative. No first dance. No bouquet toss. Just the people who loved us, watching something they didn't fully understand unfold with absolute clarity.

He served champagne. Not because I told him to. Because it pleased him to serve in front of others.

But the real ceremony came later.

That night, I sat him on the edge of the bed, blindfolded, collared, caged. I straddled his lap and brought myself to orgasm—slowly, luxuriously, rubbing against him as I whispered his name with every breath, until my body arched and his thighs trembled under me. He begged silently. I ignored him.

Only when I was thoroughly satisfied—dripping, flushed, grinning—did I finally unlock his cage.

He gasped when I touched him. He thought I would edge him. Deny him again. Walk away.

I didn't.

I used him.

I whispered filth in his ear: how weak he looked, how pretty his whimpers were, how he'd never fuck me, never fill me, never be a man the way others were—but he would serve me better than any of them ever could.

I stroked him slowly, deliberately. Drew it out until he was nearly in tears. I let him shake. I let him plead.

And then, with his cock twitching in my hand, I leaned in and said:

"You may come, pet. And then you'll clean it up like the good little husband you are."

He came so hard it startled him.

And without hesitation, he opened his mouth and obeyed—eager, trembling, utterly mine.

That was his first orgasm with me.

And I made sure it was exactly what it needed to be:

Not romantic. Not mutual.

Owned.

Chapter 23: The Honeymoon

"Pleasure was never equal. But it was always shared—on my terms." — Mistress Staci

Our honeymoon wasn't a break from the dynamic. But it also wasn't just protocol and punishment.

It was a glimpse into the rhythm of the life we were building: peaceful on the surface, intense beneath it, and always led by me.

We chose somewhere quiet. Private. Surrounded by woods and water. There were no formal rules—but my control was everywhere, quiet and constant.

By day, we did normal things. We hiked. I chose the trails. He carried the water. We canoed. I sat in front, directing him. He rowed in silence, watching the back of my neck. We lay on a blanket near the shore, reading books, side by side. He never touched me without permission.

To anyone watching, we looked like a couple enjoying a beautiful trip.

And we were. But I was always in control.

At night, the air changed.

The room became mine. The energy shifted. The leash was no longer metaphor.

Every night, I let him undress me. Slowly. With reverence.

I let him use his tongue—again and again—until I was loud and wet and aching. I made him finger me for hours, until his hands trembled and his jaw clenched from restraint.

And then I marked him.

Not lightly. Not playfully.

I made his whole body ache.

He had developed a taste for pain—not just as punishment, but as praise. And I fed it to him.

I flogged his back in long, steady rhythms. Cropped the insides of his thighs. Bit into his shoulder until he groaned into the mattress. I slapped his nipples until they darkened and swelled, then rubbed them while he moaned.

I brought him to the edge of pain, and then past it. And still he begged—not for it to stop, but to continue.

He didn't want comfort. He wanted to feel owned everywhere—not just in his cock, but in the sting in his calves, the bruises on his hips, the scratches down his chest.

No part of him was unmarked.

By the fifth night, he was limping slightly when we walked through town. I made him thank me for every step.

He never came. I didn't unlock him. That release belonged to our wedding night—and it would not come again for a long time.

But the ache? The ache was mine to give.

And he wore it beautifully.