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Chapter 60: We Invited Him to Visit

"He arrived as a guest. Left as a friend. And while the collar stayed in the drawer, his deference never wavered." — Mistress Staci

It was her idea.

"You should invite him."

"Why?"

"Because I want to see the man who kissed your boots and made your coffee with both hands shaking."

I smirked.

"He doesn't shake anymore."

"We'll see."

⸻

So I wrote him a short note:

You may visit. Two nights. I'll be gracious. You'll be respectful. No expectations.

He replied:

"Yes, Mistress. Thank you for the honor."

⸻

He arrived with a bottle of wine, a small gift for her (hand lotion, thoughtful and French), and a quiet reverence in his voice.

He kissed my hand.

She kissed my cheek, possessively.

We all sat for dinner.

⸻

He asked questions. She answered a few before I did. He listened.

And when I left the table for a moment, she leaned over and whispered to him:

"She still moans when you get her tea just right."

He blinked.

She winked.

And that was that.

⸻

The next morning, I let him serve breakfast.

He laid the table. Warmed the croissants. Poured our coffee in silence.

She walked in wearing one of my robes and nothing else.

"You always did know how to host," she said, sipping from her cup.

He bowed his head.

"Thank you, ma'am."

⸻

We didn't play. We didn't punish. We didn't test boundaries.

It wasn't that kind of visit.

But one night, she curled up beside me on the couch and said:

"Tell him to kneel."

So I did.

He knelt, gracefully, at my feet. Hands behind his back, head bowed.

She placed her foot on his shoulder and said:

"God, that's a beautiful sight."

I smiled.

"Yes. Yes it is."

⸻

When he left, he embraced me gently.

"You've never looked more powerful, Mistress."

"That's because I've never been more loved."

He turned to her.

"Thank you for caring for her."

She smiled.

"She doesn't need care. She needs a stage."

"Then you're lighting it well."

⸻

And with that, he left.

Not diminished.

Not aching.

Just complete.

As he always was.

Chapter 61: The Collar in the Drawer, the Candle on the Table

"I don't need them anymore. But I keep them. Because what we built was real. And real things deserve a place—even if they're never used again." — Mistress Staci

His collar still lives in the drawer beside my bed.

Not out of sentiment. Not for show.

But because it was earned. And I believe in keeping what was earned.

⸻

I don't open that drawer often. But when I do, I take a moment. Run my fingers across the leather. Feel the cool metal of the D-ring.

I don't ache. I don't miss.

I remember.

⸻

On the table by the window, there's always a candle.

She lights it every evening. Without asking. Without fail.

"It's your flame," she once said. "Everything in this house should revolve around it."

And somehow, it does.

⸻

The collar and the candle.

One from then. One from now.

The symbols of a life that was once structured by service, and is now shaped by devotion.

Not better. Not weaker.

Just... evolved.

⸻

She never asked to wear a collar.

She wouldn't. It's not who she is.

But she bought me a delicate gold key on a chain.

"Not to lock me in," she said, "but to remind you you're never locked out of your own pleasure."

I wear it often.

⸻

Sometimes she'll find me sitting alone, the collar in my hand.

She'll walk over, kiss my temple, and say:

"Still yours, huh?"

"Always," I reply.

And she'll smile.

Because she knows.

I don't need to use it anymore.

But it still belongs to me.

Like he once did.

Like she now does.

Like I do.

Chapter 62: Our Sunday Morning Routine

"No collars. No commands. Just her, the scent of coffee, and the kind of peace I never used to believe I deserved." — Mistress Staci

It begins the same every week.

The sound of the kettle. The scent of cinnamon. Her soft footsteps down the hall.

And me, still in bed, waiting.

Not because I told her to.

Because she wants to.

⸻

She brings the tray like ritual—two mugs, perfectly prepared, and always something sweet she knows I love.

A strawberry, a square of chocolate, a bite of pastry warm enough to melt against my tongue.

She slides into bed beside me, legs tangling with mine, her hand already on my thigh like it never left.

⸻

There's no talking at first. Only warmth. Only skin. Only knowing.

Sometimes she reads aloud. Sometimes I run my fingers through her hair as she dozes against my hip.

Sometimes, if the air between us hums just right, I roll her over and remind her who owns her sighs.

⸻

It's not about dominance anymore. It's not about submission.

It's about deliberate intimacy.

She once said,

"I never needed to kneel to be yours. I just needed to show up exactly as I am, and trust you'd never ask me to be anything else."

She was right.

⸻

Sundays are sacred now. Not because of rituals imposed, but because of rituals offered.

Because in this chapter of my life, I don't require service to feel adored.

Just this:

A morning. A body pressed close. A coffee cup refilled before I ask. And a woman who knows that my softness is still a throne.