Mistress' note: I edited Take It, Pt. 04 after some very helpful feedback (thank you xxx.) I suggest you go back and reread, unless of course, you'd rather be corrected later.
And now, back to our tale. Assume the position...
When I walk in, I see it immediately. A St. Andrew's Cross. Black leather. Steel hardware. Centered in the room like an altar built for undoing.
My cock responds before my brain does. The ache is instant. Heavy. Hungry. My knees nearly buckle.
And then I see her. My Mistress.
She stands in front of the cross, legs apart, owning the space like she built it from blood and breath and bone. She wears a leather bustier that hugs her waist like armor, lifting her breasts high, framed by dark straps that run over her shoulders and cross between them like the harness of a weapon. No underwear. No pretense. Her bare pussy gleams above the tops of her thigh-high stockings, which vanish into red stilettos--my favorite ones. Her auburn hair falls past her shoulders in loose waves today. She knows what the sight of her does to me. Of course she knows.
In her left hand: the flogger. Braided leather. Soft-tipped. Hungry. In her right: my collar. God, how I've missed it.
She's ready. And so am I.
"Come to me," she says.
I step forward. Because when she says "Come," I do. Every time. One foot, then the other. My gaze never leaves hers. My mouth is dry. My hands already tremble with anticipation. I want the collar. I want the cross. I want everything she hasn't yet named but has already promised.
She doesn't move as I approach. Just watches me. Measures me.
Then: "Repeat the rules."
I swallow hard. The words are etched into me like scripture, but saying them aloud still feels like a kind of worship.
"Listen," I say. "Kneel. Never assume I've earned release."
She nods once. Approval, quiet and rare. Then she steps close enough that I can smell her. Leather. Sweat. Skin. Her. She circles behind me. I feel the flogger drag lightly across my shoulders. A tease. A threat. A promise.
"Kneel," she says.
And I do. I sink down slowly, deliberately, lowering my gaze to the floor. My palms rest on my thighs, facing up. Open. Offered. Hers.
She moves in front of me again. I hear the shift of her weight, the soft rustle of leather, the whisper of her breath.
I don't look up.
I wouldn't dare.
"Good boy," she says.
And then I feel it--the weight of the collar settling around my neck above my collar and tie. How I must look to her as the clasp clicks into place, final and firm. The sharp, heady pressure of being claimed coils down my spine. I almost cry.
Her fingers thread through my hair--slow, possessive--and then she guides my face exactly where she wants it. Between her legs.
Her scent hits me first. Immediate. Intoxicating. She lifts one thigh over my shoulder, pressing me deeper. The heel of her stiletto digs into my back through my shirt--sharp, grounding, perfect.
My mouth opens on instinct. My tongue reaches for her--eager, reverent, hungry to serve. She doesn't speak. She doesn't need to. The rules are already carved into me: I'm not allowed to come. I'm only meant to worship.
So I do.
I kiss her like prayer. I lick her like penance. Every stroke of my tongue is deliberate, tuned to her breath, her subtle shudders, the slow roll of her hips when I find the rhythm that makes her gasp. And when she does--just once, a sharp, sudden cry--I almost lose control.
But I don't.
Because I can't.
That isn't mine to take.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, anchoring me. Her other hand moves to her breast, pinching her nipple as she grinds against my face, using me without hesitation.
And God, I want to be used. I want to be hers.
She trembles. Cries out. Her thighs clamp around my ears, locking me in her scent, her heat, her release. Still, I don't stop. Not until her body slackens and her hand finally tugs me gently back.
I rest my cheek on her thigh, breathless. Aching. Waiting.
She looks down at me and smirks.
"Good boy," she says.
And in this moment, I'll do anything for her.
She grips a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back. The pain is sudden, sharp--white-hot down my spine--but it's her gaze that truly undoes me. "You are my slave," she says, each word falling like a verdict. "And today you will serve me."
I strain to breathe, the collar snug against my throat. Her thumb skims across my lower lip, smearing it with her wetness--marking me with the taste of her power.
"You'll have a chance to earn release," she adds, voice low, edged like a blade.
I nod once, throat too thick for words.
She lets go of my hair only to seize my chin, tilting it up, forcing me to rise. I stumble to my feet, knees trembling, heart pounding so loud it drowns everything else. She circles me slowly and begins to strip me piece by piece.
She undoes my tie first--fingers precise, patient. The knot slips free like silk and is cast aside. Then my jacket, peeled from my shoulders and dropped without care. She unbuttons my shirt one by one, exposing me slowly, making me feel it. Cool air whispers across my chest. Her fingers graze my skin--testing the tremble in my muscles--before she moves to my belt.
