"Power is addictive but submission, even more so."
Avery had always considered herself untouchable.
She wasn't just successful she was flawless. A high-level strategist in a male-dominated tech firm, she had negotiated mergers across continents, stared down billionaires in boardrooms, and still made it to Pilates every morning by six. In her world, everything was scheduled, analyzed, and controlled.
But at night, when the emails stopped, and the heels came off, a strange silence always crept in.
A need she never spoke about.
A craving for something opposite.
Not power. Not respect.
But surrender.
She first heard of Mistress Elara through an elite, invite-only wellness circle for "executive recalibration." A quiet euphemism for women who needed somewhere safe to come undone.
"She doesn't take clients. She chooses them," one woman whispered over chai. "And once she chooses you, she owns you."
The words should've scared her. But instead, they lit a fire in her veins.
Avery received an email the following Friday.
Subject: You've been accepted.
Arrive alone. Do not knock. Pack nothing but yourself. Wear what is laid out for you. Leave your name at the door.
There was no signature. No explanation. But the attached address made her heart pound.
The townhouse was older than the skyline around it, hidden behind wrought iron gates and a tall cherrywood door. As she stepped inside, the scent of jasmine and leather wrapped around her like silk. The lights were low. Shadows danced.
And then she appeared.
Mistress Elara.
She looked like something out of a forgotten dream. Tall, elegant, older than Avery by at least ten years, with sharp cheekbones and a voice that rolled like honey spiked with steel.
"Strip," Elara said, not unkindly, just certain.
Avery stood frozen for half a breath. Then nodded and obeyed.
The guest room wasn't what Avery expected.
There were no cold chains or cages. Instead, the walls were deep burgundy velvet. The light came from flickering candles. Every detail was sensual, intentional, an altar to vulnerability.
Avery stood in the center of the room, naked, heart thudding.
"You look tense," Elara said, approaching from behind. "People confuse submission with weakness. But it takes immense strength to hand over control."
She reached out, brushing Avery's hair away from her neck. A soft collar followed. Not tight. Not heavy. Just there.
"I won't hurt you," she whispered. "Unless you ask me to."
What followed wasn't chaos, it was choreography.
Elara guided her, instructed her, touched her in places that hadn't felt awake in years. Not always sexually, but always intimately. A blindfold. A rope. Her breath. Her voice.
Avery had never cried for anyone. But here, bound and guided by someone who saw her not as the flawless woman in the suit, but as the soul underneath she let herself fall apart.
Her whispered safe word was never needed.
Later, resting with her head on Elara's lap, she traced the fabric of her mistress's dress and murmured, "Why me?"
Elara stroked her hair and replied, "Because you were brave enough to ask for something real."
By the time Avery left the next morning, hair tied back, clothes folded neatly in her bag, she didn't feel lesser.
She felt clear.
Power wasn't just about control. Sometimes, it was about trusting someone else with your chaos.
And Mistress Elara had held it all without ever letting her feel small.