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Chapter 27: When I Punished Him for My Pleasure

"Discipline isn't always about failure. Sometimes, it's about desire." — Mistress Staci

He hadn't done anything wrong.

That night, after my friends left, he was as composed and graceful as ever—cleaned the dishes, folded blankets, checked the doors, and returned to kneel at my feet like the good husband he was.

But I could feel it in him. That tension. That flicker of embarrassment when Lisa teased. That little flush when he dropped his eyes.

I hadn't punished him in weeks.

And I missed it.

So I stood, walked slowly around him, and said:

"Undress. Meet me in the bedroom. And bring the cane."

He obeyed immediately.

I took my time. Changed into something sheer and red. Lit the candles I liked. Spritzed perfume on my thighs. When I entered, he was already kneeling by the foot of the bed—nude, caged, trembling slightly, the cane resting across his palms like an offering.

I didn't ask if he knew why he was being punished.

I told him:

"Because I want to. Because I can. Because I need to feel your obedience under my hands."

I ordered him to stand.

No restraints. No bondage. Just trust.

I began with my hand—sharp slaps to his ass, slow and rhythmic, not harsh but purposeful. I paused only to whisper:

"You're beautiful like this. Weak and open."

Then the cane.

Fifteen strokes. Spaced apart so the pain could bloom, settle, and bloom again. He didn't count them. He didn't cry out. He swayed slightly, muscles twitching with each sharp kiss of rattan against flesh.

I watched the lines appear. Red. Raised. Glorious.

And when I reached fifteen, I laid the cane aside and pressed against him from behind, arms around his waist, mouth against his ear.

"I didn't do this because you were bad," I whispered. "I did this because you're mine. And I like when you ache for me."

He shivered. I could feel how hard he was in his cage, straining helplessly.

I reached down. Ran my hand over the bruises. He winced. And sighed.

Then I kissed the back of his neck.

And left him standing there—shaking, marked, silenced.

Because sometimes punishment is not about correction.

Sometimes it's just about power—and how beautiful it is to use it without needing a reason.

Chapter 28: What His Submission Did to Me

"He gave me the power to stop asking permission—from the world, from men, even from myself." — Mistress Staci

People think the dominant is the one who does the shaping. And yes—I shaped him. I molded him into the man I wanted, the servant I needed, the partner who could kneel with pride and ache with grace.

But what most people don't understand is this:

His submission changed me.

It made me more than I was.

Before him, I was strong. Confident. I'd always known how to command a room. I didn't shy away from leadership or from pleasure. But I still lived in a world that expected women to modulate—to soften, to compromise, to not want too much.

And then I met a man who wanted me to want everything.

A man who wanted me to take without apology.

The first time I made him kneel, it thrilled me. The hundredth time, it affirmed me. But somewhere beyond that, it transformed me.

I stopped shrinking.

I stopped second-guessing myself.

When I said "No," I meant it. When I said "Yes," I took it. When I wanted something, I said so—because I had someone whose entire purpose was to help me get it.

He served me every day, not just with his body, but with his energy. His attention. His stillness. His faith.

And I realized something: I had spent years navigating the world with armor—subtle, invisible, but always there.

And now? Now I had a man who was my armor.

He let me be strong without fear. He let me explore my cruelty without guilt. He let me indulge my pleasure without the need to earn it.

Because he wasn't just obedient.

He believed in me.

And that changed everything.

My voice got lower. My spine got straighter. My gaze held longer. My smile, when I gave it, meant more. Because I didn't need validation anymore.

I had a man who offered himself to be molded by my desire.

And in that offering—I became the woman I had always wanted to be.

Chapter 29: Why I Never Let Him Inside Me

"Penetration is not a right. It's a privilege. And he never earned it." — Mistress Staci

He never once fucked me.

Not once in fifteen years.

I never let him.

And I want to be clear—this wasn't about disgust. It wasn't about withholding. It wasn't about teasing him forever with something I never intended to give.

It was about definition. About drawing a line in our dynamic so deep, so absolute, that neither of us ever tried to cross it.

Because to be inside me—truly inside me—is not just about sex. It's about power.

And he never held power in this relationship. He gave it.

He tasted me. Worshipped me. Massaged me. Devoted his body to my pleasure. He could make me come with his mouth, his hands, his words, even his stillness. Sometimes I used toys and let him watch. Sometimes I came while seated on his lap, caged and trembling beneath me.

But when it came to fucking—when it came to being inside my body—that was sacred territory.

That was for those I chose as equals. As tools. As play. As men who didn't belong to me, and never could.

He was different.

He was mine.

His cock wasn't his own. It was locked, pierced, denied. Controlled. It existed for my amusement, not his satisfaction. And inside me? That was the one place I kept completely off limits.

And he accepted that. He never begged.

There were moments when I would press the tip of his cage against me. Just close enough to make him gasp. Just far enough to keep the boundary intact. I'd whisper:

"You'll never be in me, pet. Never."

And his whole body would shake with the mix of agony and reverence.

He didn't want to cross that line.

He wanted to feel it.

To live with that edge. To ache under it. To worship the part of me he would never, ever conquer.

And I think he loved me even more for it.

Because no matter how much I took from him—and I took everything—there was still one thing I never gave.

And it reminded him, every day, of the truth he never forgot:

I was not his.

He was mine.