Take It Pt 02

You don't knock. You simply open the door, just as I told you to. You step inside quietly and close the door behind you like you're sealing a secret.

Suite 612.

Same place. Same hour. But something is different now. You don't look around the room. You already know what matters. I'm waiting.

I'm seated in the high-backed chair near the window, one leg crossed. The city glows behind me in fractured halos of gold and white, its light spilling through the glass and casting long shadows across the room. From where you stand, I am both illuminated and obscured--a silhouette of power.

The black silk robe I wear slides against my skin like sin in fabric form. It's open just enough to suggest everything and promise nothing. The curve of one breast slips beneath the lapel; the swell of my hip breaks the line of silk draped across my thigh. My bare skin gleams in the low light--warm, inviting, untouchable.

One red stiletto heel rests on the floor. The other dangles from my foot.

I sit upright. Regal. Watchful.

My fingers trace the armrest in a slow rhythm. You always watch my hands.You wait to see what they'll choose next: your cheek, your jaw, the leash, the belt. But my gaze doesn't break from yours.

This is how you find me. Composed. Prepared. Watching. And without a word, I remind you, you didn't come here to seduce me. You came here to serve.

You don't speak. You know better. Instead, you begin.

Your fingers move to your jacket, shoulders shifting as you shrug it off slowly. Not from hesitation--this time, it's reverence. The same way someone might undress in a church. Your tie follows, unspooled like ribbon from your throat. Then your shirt--button by button. Each movement careful. Each breath steadier than the last.

You fold your clothes again. You're learning. Then you lower yourself to your knees, your eyes fixed just above the floor. And you wait.

I let the silence stretch, watching the rise and fall of your breath. Your spine is straight. Your hands rest on your thighs. But I see it--the way your fingers twitch for approval. The way your cock already strains beneath your slacks.

I rise from the chair and walk toward you slowly. Each step intentional. You don't move. Not even when I circle behind you. Not even when I reach for the drawer.

The collar is in my hand when I return to face you. Black leather, worn soft, with the silver ring at its center catching the light.

"You remembered the rules," I murmur.

You nod.

"Words."

"Yes, Mistress."

I smile, and it's slow. Approval, not warmth. Power, not comfort.

"Then lift your chin."

You do.

I slide the collar around your throat and buckle it tight--not cruel, just close. You close your eyes. Not to hide, but to feel it deeper. The snug pressure. The surrender. The truth of who you are in this room. "There," I whisper. "Now you're ready."

And you are.

Ready to obey.

Ready to be broken open in new, exquisite ways.

I take my time walking around you, the collar snug at your throat, your body motionless except for your breath.

"Tell me why you're here."

Your voice is quiet, controlled, but not flat. It carries something new--reverence.

"To obey you, Mistress."

"And why do you need that?"

You hesitate. I stop behind you, just close enough for you to feel the heat of my presence at your back.

"Because I'm tired of being in control," you say. "Everywhere else, it's me. Every decision. Every outcome. But here--" You swallow. "Here, I get to give that away."

I lean down, close to your ear. My voice barely more than a breath. "You don't give it away. I take it."

You shudder.

I step in front of you again. I let you see me--still mostly covered, but effortlessly dangerous. I hold the leash in one hand. Not attached yet. Just visible. A reminder of what could come.

"I'm not going to touch you tonight," I say softly. "And you're not going to touch yourself." You don't react. But I see the flicker in your eyes. Wanting. Struggling. "Instead, you're going to earn me with your voice."

You blink. "Mistress?"

"I want you to speak it all out loud. What you're feeling. What you want. What you're afraid of."

"Now?"

"Now. Here. At my feet."

You hesitate for just a moment, and I let it hang in the air. Then you begin. "I'm... hard," you admit. "And I'm ashamed of how fast it happened. Just kneeling in front of you." You exhale. "I want your hands on me. But I don't deserve that. Not yet."

"Good," I say simply. "Keep going."

"I'm afraid I'll fail. That you'll see how weak I really am. But part of me wants you to. I want to be undone. I want someone to take it all from me so I can stop holding it."

"And what do you want me to take?"

You look up at me, eyes wide. "Everything, Mistress."

I slowly, calmly, lower myself into a crouch in front of you. My robe slips open, just slightly, and your gaze flickers to my eyes, waiting for permission.

I don't give it.

Instead, I cup your jaw with one hand, firm and possessive. "You want to be ruined," I say softly. "Say it."

"I want to be ruined."

"You want to be broken open."

"Yes, Mistress."

"You want to be used, praised, denied, kept."

"Yes."

"Say it all."

You're trembling now, but you say it. Every filthy, aching, vulnerable word. You say what you want me to do to you, what you want to be called, what you want to give up. And as you speak, I stroke your hair with my palm, gently, like a reward.

"You're not weak," I whisper. "You're brave. It takes strength to surrender. And you are mine."

I reach behind you and attach the leash to the collar. It clicks into place like a promise. You flinch--not in fear, but in that helpless, reverent way you do when you know what's coming and want it anyway. Then, I stand. I tug gently, just once. "Up. On your feet."

You rise. Your legs tremble with tension, cock straining beneath the fabric of your slacks. But I don't acknowledge it--not yet. I guide you to the bed with slow, precise steps, the leash tight in my hand. I don't look back to see if you follow. You do.

I point. Not with words. Just a look, a flick of my wrist. "Lie down."

You do, back flat, eyes locked on mine, waiting for what I'll take. What I'll allow.

I reach down and unbuckle your belt. Not to free your cock. Not yet. I slide the belt free with a slow, practiced rhythm, then tie one end to your wrist, threading it around the bedpost. You moan.

I bind your other wrist, this time with your tie. I walk around the bed, gaze skimming your body like a caress I refuse to give. I climb onto the mattress, knees straddling your chest. My robe is gone now. Tossed to the floor like something unneeded. I'm naked. And I want your mouth.

"Tonight," I murmur, "you don't get to fuck me. Tonight, you worship."

Your breath stutters. "Yes, Mistress."

I crawl forward until my thighs frame your face, my pussy hovering just above your mouth. Your lips part, desperate, reverent. But I don't lower yet. Not until I see the hunger in your eyes become need.

"You want to come?" I ask.

You nod.

"Then make me."

I lower myself slowly, letting you feel the heat of me, the slick wetness waiting just above your lips. I don't grind. Not yet. I just let you taste. Your tongue is slow at first--hesitant--but you learn quickly. I rock forward, just slightly, guiding your rhythm with my hands in your hair.

"That's it. That's what your mouth is for."

I ride your face with steady, claiming pressure, hips grinding against you, the leash still in my hand. Each moan I let fall is a reward. Each breathless gasp against your lips is a command. Faster. Deeper. Devoted.

I push my clit into your nose. Grinding against it. You strain against the restraints. I don't care. I'm not doing this for you. But you? You'll give everything for the chance to keep tasting me.

I pull myself off and let you come up for air. You gasp and then say, "More please, Mistress."

I lower myself within licking distance. "Lick my clit," I command. And boy do you obey. Moving your tongue in insistent circles urging me closer. I drop my dripping pussy to your mouth. "Fuck me with your tongue." You push your tongue in and out. Faster and faster. The pressure in me building.

When I come--because I do, hard and sudden--it's with a sharp exhale and a hand tightening in your hair. I don't lift. Not right away. I stay there, pulsing, trembling, using you like you were made for this. Because you were. You feel every aftershock on your tongue.

Eventually, I rise. My thighs are slick with you, my breath ragged. You are wrecked beneath me. Still hard. Still bound. Still waiting. And now, I lean forward, pressing my palm to your chest as I straddle your ribs and meet your eyes.

"You're mine."

"Yes, Mistress."

I trace one fingertip across your chest. Then down. Down--and stop. Just above your cock.

You moan, aching.

"You made me come," I whisper. "That doesn't mean you get to. Not tonight. But you served me well. Remember that."

You're still panting when I slide off of you, slow and intentional. Your lips are slick, your jaw aching, your body pulled taut with need and restraint. I don't release your hands yet. I want you to feel what you gave me.

I walk to the bathroom without a word. You hear the water run. The clink of glass. The opening of a drawer. You wait. Still hard. Still aching.

When I return, I have a warm, damp cloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other. I kneel on the bed beside you, body loose, robe draped over my shoulders again, and begin to wipe your face gently. The cloth moves across your mouth, your chin, your neck. I clean you like you're precious. Because you are. Not because you're fragile, but because you gave yourself over.

"You did well tonight," I murmur, voice low and even. "You served without question. You gave me your hunger, your honesty, and your tongue." I smile, just a little. "All excellent offerings."

I hold the glass to your lips and let you drink. Just a sip at first. Then more. I watch your throat move as you swallow. You close your eyes like the water is a second kind of release.

I set the glass down, then straddle your hips--not for sex. For stillness. For intimacy.

"You're still hard," I note. Not mocking. Just truth. "You stayed that way through every second of not getting what you wanted. That's devotion." I brush your damp hair from your forehead. "I noticed."

Your eyes meet mine--open, raw. I can see the thank you there, even if you haven't earned permission to say it yet.

I lean in and kiss your temple. Not possession this time. Not command. Just care.

I reach for the knots at your wrists, loosening the tie and the belt one at a time. I watch the red lines bloom where they bound you, and I massage them gently. Slow circles with my thumbs. You moan at the tenderness of it.

"That ache you feel?" I say softly. "That's mine too. I gave it to you."

I help you sit up. Then I crawl behind you, legs bracketing yours, arms wrapping around your chest as you lean back into me. My hands drawing lazy circles against your chest and inner thighs.

"There's no shame here. You're not weak for needing this," I murmur against your ear. "You're strong for staying present in it."

As I hold you in the dark, collar still snug, lips brushing your ear, I whisper, "You followed every word tonight. You listened. You knelt." I pause. "And you didn't ask to come."

I smile against your skin. "Good boys remember the rules." I kiss the back of your neck and say, "Get dressed."

You move slowly, reverently. You put on your shirt and your tie. Your fingers still trembling. But your eyes are steadier now. Softer.

At the door, I stop you. I reach up and unbuckle the collar, slipping it free like the end of a vow. "You are leaving hard again tonight," I murmur, brushing your jaw with my thumb, "Aching. That's by design."

I lean closer, my breath warm at your ear. "Don't touch yourself until you see me again. If you do, you'll confess. In detail." My voice lowers, velvet-wrapped steel. "And I will punish you for it."

I pull back just enough to look you in the eye. "Not because you were bad--" I smile, slow and certain. "But because you wanted to be."

I let the silence stretch, then whisper, "That's the difference. That's obedience."