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Chapter 66: I Never Said I Was Done With Pleasure

"They thought I'd calm down. Get softer. Grow out of it. What they didn't understand was—pleasure was never the phase. It was the point." — Mistress Staci

There's a myth about women like me.

That we burn brightly for a while— and then settle.

That power is a costume. That lust is performance. That pleasure must be traded for peace.

They don't understand.

Pleasure is my peace.

⸻

We still fuck like we're trying to memorize each other.

She still moans when I take control, still growls when I let her take it back.

We've become fluent in each other's thresholds.

Sometimes she begs. Sometimes I do.

We both know how to draw out a touch until it becomes a confession.

⸻

One night, after a dinner party, she pulled me into the hallway before we'd even closed the front door.

"You wore that dress on purpose."

"Of course I did."

She dropped to her knees—right there, still in heels—and kissed my thigh through the slit.

"Say you still want me."

I didn't need to.

She already knew.

⸻

We own toys now.

Good ones. Luxurious. Wicked.

There's a drawer that makes guests blush and makes her eyes sparkle.

⸻

But sometimes it's just her hand on my lower back in the kitchen. Or the way she bites my shoulder when I win an argument.

Sometimes it's her saying, "I want to make you ache, not because I'm dominant— but because you're the only thing that's ever undone me."

And I let her.

⸻

I'm not chasing novelty.

I'm just not done feeling.

And I refuse to pretend I am.

⸻

So yes—

We still leave bruises. Still cry out. Still whisper filth into the spaces between tenderness.

Because I never said I was done with pleasure.

And I never will be.

Chapter 67: The Day I Felt Most Alive

"It wasn't a milestone. It wasn't planned. But everything we were—every spark, every breath, every thrill—was there. And I've never forgotten how it felt." — Mistress Staci

We didn't plan anything.

It was supposed to be an ordinary Saturday. Groceries. Laundry. A walk, maybe.

Instead, we stayed in bed until noon. Not out of laziness— but because she kept finding reasons to touch me.

⸻

First it was just her head on my stomach, reading aloud from some article that annoyed her.

Then her mouth, sliding south as punctuation.

Then both of us laughing as we tangled in the sheets, the kind of laughter that only comes from utter comfort—and hunger.

By the time we finally made it downstairs, we were glowing. No makeup. No clothes. No hurry.

⸻

She dared me to go out for lunch with nothing under my coat.

I said yes.

We sat on the patio of a little Italian place, eating pasta and sipping wine while the sun warmed my thighs—and her hand stayed just barely out of view.

She whispered things that made my cheeks flush.

And when the waiter complimented my smile, she said:

"She gets like that when she's very well fed."

⸻

That afternoon, we went shopping.

Vintage dresses. Perfume. A pair of heels I didn't need, but bought because she knelt to buckle the strap and kissed my ankle in the dressing room.

"You're the fantasy I didn't know I could live," she whispered.

⸻

We came home and cooked barefoot. She fed me olives with her fingers. I kissed her with sauce on my lips. We danced in the kitchen like fools.

Then we fucked like queens.

Long. Hot. Ridiculously loud.

⸻

That night, I lay in bed, her leg hooked over mine, our skin still slick, the scent of wine and candle wax in the air.

She was half-asleep, but I wasn't.

I stared at the ceiling and thought:

"This is the happiest I've ever been. Not just pleased. Not just in charge. Alive."

And I didn't know it then— but that would be the last night I would fall asleep knowing he was somewhere in the world still breathing.

Chapter 68: The Call

"It was a Tuesday. I answered the phone with wet hair, half-laughing about something she'd just said. And then everything... stopped." — Mistress Staci

The voice on the phone didn't know who I was.

A polite woman. Firm, professional.

She gave me the basics. Time. Location. Cause.

Single car. Rural road. Rain-slicked. He died on impact.

⸻

I didn't drop the phone. Didn't scream. Didn't say a word at first.

I just stood there, towel around my shoulders, one hand resting on the back of a chair, and felt the silence arrive.

⸻

She came into the room a minute later, still glowing from the morning we'd just had.

She saw my face and froze.

"What happened?"

"He's gone."

That was all I could say. And all I needed to.

She crossed the room and held me like I was breakable. I wasn't.

But I let her think I was—just for a moment.

⸻

The rest of the day is a blur.

Calls. Messages. A numb kind of order.

I didn't go to the funeral. I sent flowers. A note: "He served with grace. He left with dignity. He was loved beyond what most will ever understand."

I lit a candle at home. The same one he used to place beside my chair. I didn't cry then.

I cried later—when I found the letter he'd written me after our final visit.

The one where he said:

"Thank you for making me into something I didn't know I could be."

⸻

She stayed with me through the night. Didn't touch me. Didn't speak unless I asked her to.

She understood that some griefs are not loud.

They are earned. And private. And sacred.

⸻

At dawn, I walked outside barefoot and whispered to the sky:

"You did well, my love. You were loyal. You were mine. And I let you go with pride. May peace meet you gently."

Chapter 69: The Story I Had to Tell

"I didn't write this to grieve. I wrote this to remember. Because if I don't tell our story, no one else ever will—and it deserves to be known." — Mistress Staci

Three months after his funeral, I sat at my desk, lit a candle, and opened a blank document.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I had to.

⸻

He's gone.

The man who knelt at my feet. Who folded my towels with reverence. Who worshipped me with a devotion most people only read about in stories—and assume are lies.

But he was real.

And he was mine.

⸻

We were together fifteen years.

He never defied me. Never touched himself without permission. Never once asked for my love.

He simply gave his.

And I took it—every ounce—on my terms.

And in doing so, I became everything I was meant to be.

⸻

I didn't write this for validation. Not for kink. Not for spectacle.

I wrote this because I wanted one place in the world where what we had could live.

Not as fantasy. As fact.

⸻

He changed me.

He quieted parts of me I didn't know were frantic. He gave structure to my power, and grace to my desire. He held my shadow without asking me to shrink it.

And when he left my life, he left with honor.

⸻

I loved him.

Not softly. Not conventionally.

But completely.

And if there is anything beyond this world— I hope he knows that.

I hope he is at peace. I hope he remembers that I chose him, and I let him go because that was the final gift.

⸻

As for me?

I don't know what comes next.

Maybe more pleasure. More stories. More love, if I feel like it.

But I know this:

I am not unfinished. I am not mourning. I am awake.

⸻

This is not the end.

This is the record.

Of a woman who was worshipped— not because she demanded it, but because she deserved it.

Of a man who gave everything— and smiled every time he called me Mistress.

Of a life that was not traditional, but was absolutely holy.

⸻

Rest in peace, my love.

You served beautifully.

And now— I serve memory.

With truth. With fire. With my whole heart.

I hope I served him well in this telling.

Thank You for listening!

Mistress Staci