Chapter 51: My Submissive Husband and the Woman I Loved
"They never competed. She never knelt. He never touched. And somehow, it worked—because I remained the sun around which they turned." — Mistress Staci
It wasn't traditional. But neither was I.
He knew his place. She never asked for one.
And so, without anyone planning it, a new kind of rhythm began to form.
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He still served.
He warmed my towels, prepared my meals, stayed in his corner of the house—quiet, respectful, still caged, still collared.
She lounged where she pleased. Draped herself over my chair. Whispered wicked things in my ear. Touched me in front of him without shame.
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She didn't mock him. In fact, she seemed to enjoy his presence—almost playfully.
She would run her fingers across my collarbone while he poured wine, then say things like:
"Doesn't she look divine tonight, pet?"
And he would bow.
"Yes, ma'am. Always."
She laughed the first time he said that.
Then she looked at me with the kind of heat that made me ache.
"I see why you kept him."
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There were no threesomes. No blended sex.
This wasn't a fantasy.
It was structure.
He served. She loved. And I received both.
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Sometimes, she'd make small requests of him:
"Would you mind refilling my glass?" "Could you start the fire?" "Be a dear and warm a blanket for us, would you?"
And he did—always glancing to me first for approval.
I gave it.
Because she was not his Mistress. But she was mine.
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In private, she worshipped my body with abandon. In public, she worshipped my presence.
And he?
He seemed... calm.
As if being near my joy—even if it wasn't his—still anchored him.
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One evening, as he turned down the bed and she brushed my hair, I looked at them both and thought:
"I did this. I built this life. And it still bends to my shape."
Chapter 52: The House Became Laughter Again
"I hadn't realized how quiet the house had become—until she brought the sound back. And I let it stay." — Mistress Staci
It started with music.
She played something jazzy in the kitchen while making breakfast—barefoot, in one of my silk robes, hips swaying without apology.
He came in, paused, then silently began making tea.
She looked over her shoulder and winked.
"Morning, sweetheart. Do you dance?"
He didn't answer. But I smiled.
Because she wasn't talking to him.
She was talking to me.
And I laughed.
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That was the shift.
The weight that had settled over the house during his recovery... began to lift.
Not because he was better. Not because I was softer. But because she was joy.
And I let her be.
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She rearranged the flowers. Repainted one of the rooms. Insisted I buy new slippers—"ones worthy of those ankles."
She teased him gently, served me generously, and filled the spaces between rituals with lightness.
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He adapted too.
He didn't become invisible. He just... accepted.
