The coffee shop felt off the next morning. Not wrong, just... weighted. Like the air had thickened overnight, laying itself over the countertops, the tables, the back of my neck. The espresso machines hissed louder. The scent of roasted beans hung heavier. Even the music, something slow and instrumental, crawled across my skin like silk soaked in molasses.
I touched the collar.
Not constantly. Just enough to feel it press against my throat, enough to make sure it hadn't vanished with the dream. Because it hadn't been a dream. Not the thread. Not the kneeling. Not the bruises I could still feel inside me like a fingerprint.
I hadn't taken it off. Not to shower. Not to sleep.
Especially not to sleep.
I'd dreamed with it on. Dark things. Sharp things. Not nightmares, but something darker, sweeter. Memories bent into ache. They curled under my skin like roots in wet soil. I'd woken wet and shaky, the sheets a twisted nest, my thighs clenched, my breath wrong.
James didn't come in.
Each time the door chimed, my heart climbed up my throat, only to drop harder when it wasn't him. An old man in a scarf. A woman with a stroller. A couple arguing softly. Not him. Not his voice. Not his eyes. Not his hand on my jaw.
I smiled through orders. Burned milk. Spilled a shot. Blamed the grinder.
My manager asked if I was okay.
I said yes.
He asked again.
I said yes louder.
But I wasn't okay. Not in the way people meant it. I didn't feel broken. I felt broken open. Like something had been split in me, and now the pieces didn't quite fit the same. I was still me. Still Kristina. Still the girl who stocked syrups and wiped tables and double-checked espresso ratios. But under the surface, under the quiet, something coiled.
Something his.
My break couldn't come fast enough. I sat in the back room with my knees pressed together and my hands useless in my lap. The mop sink stared at me. I stared back.
What was I doing?
I'd let a man I barely knew bend me over and take me like he owned me. I'd worn his collar. I'd liked it.
Worse, I wanted more.
The thread was still tight against my skin, tied just above where my pulse beat loudest. I could feel it with every breath, every swallow. It didn't chafe. It pulsed.
I checked my phone.
Nothing.
Then, just before my break ended, a photo appeared. No words. No sender name.
Just my apartment door.
Slightly ajar.
I didn't clock out.
I left.
I ran.
The apartment was cold and still, but his scent was already there. Not cologne. Not soap. Something older. Leather, smoke, and heat.
The door clicked shut behind me.
On my bed, where my pillow had been, was a single black rose. Its petals were velvet, too dark to be real. Beside it, a small card, folded in half.
Tonight you kneel.
My knees hit the floor before I could think. Not because I was afraid. Because I knew. Because my body understood something I hadn't yet admitted.
He didn't come right away.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time felt useless. I stayed on my knees, spine tall, palms resting on thighs. My breathing slowed. My eyes blurred. The world shrank to one point: the sound of the door unlocking.
James stepped through like the air opened for him. Deliberate. Commanding. Silent.
He saw the thread still wrapped around my throat, the way I sat.
His lips didn't quite smile, but something pleased moved in his expression.
He circled me once. Then again. His boots whispered over the carpet, the sound making my stomach twist.
"Up," he said.
I stood.
Shaking.
His shirt came off, one button at a time. Deliberate. Like a ritual.
He stepped into my space. His heat rolled over me.
"Strip."
I obeyed.
The room felt too quiet after the sound of my clothes hitting the floor. My skin prickled, not from cold, but from exposure. From how his gaze didn't devour, it assessed. Measured. Judged. Not cruelly, but thoroughly.
James stepped closer and took the thread at my throat between two fingers. He didn't pull it, didn't tighten it. Just held it there, letting the weight of that touch settle.
"You've been good," he murmured.
My heart jumped.
"But that doesn't mean you're ready."
I didn't know what he meant. I didn't ask.
His fingers traced the curve of my jaw, down my throat, across my chest like he was marking territory.
"You need to learn stillness," he said.
Then he left me standing there, walked around the bed, and took a seat in the corner armchair.
I stayed where I was, waiting for instruction, but it didn't come. Just his gaze, slow and unwavering.
Seconds dragged. Minutes thickened. My thighs twitched. My nipples hardened. The ache started low in my belly and began to coil.
"Still," he said, voice soft but firm.
I fought the urge to cover myself, to shift, to speak.
His eyes never left me.
That look was its own kind of touch.
Eventually, James stood. Crossed the room slowly, like a storm forming on the horizon. He stopped behind me, his presence stretching over my bare skin.
His hand touched my lower back.
"Bend."
I did.
Palms flat on the bed. Legs spread just enough. Vulnerable. Exposed.
A single finger traced the line of my spine.
"This isn't about pleasure," he said. "Not yet."
Then something cold and wet pressed between my legs. Lubricant, slick and unexpected.
A small, smooth plug followed. He pushed it in slowly, carefully, ignoring my sharp inhale.
When it seated fully inside me, he leaned down and whispered, "Now you wait."
And then he left.
Left me bent. Plugged. Burning.
The door clicked shut.
The silence expanded.
I stayed exactly as he left me, though every part of me screamed to move. Muscles ached. Skin burned. Thoughts spiraled.
There was nothing to hear but the faint hum of the building, the clock ticking somewhere distant, and the beat of my own pulse echoing in my ears. It throbbed behind my eyes, through my legs, deep in my chest where longing nested like a hot stone.
I blinked into the bedding. Watched the tiny threads woven in the sheets. Counted each breath. One. Two. Ten. Fifty. The cool plug inside me was no longer shocking. It had become pressure. Presence. Ownership.
My knees trembled.
The carpet beneath them scratched, fibers digging, imprinting, but I stayed still. The salt of my skin tickled my upper lip. The taste in my mouth was coppery, thick with restraint. Tears blurred my vision, not from pain, but from surrender.
I wanted to scream. To move. To beg.
But I didn't.
I waited.
I waited until his key turned again and the door whispered open.
James didn't speak.
He walked to me, knelt behind me, and ran his fingers along the curve of my ass. Then lower.
Still, no words.
He removed the plug with excruciating slowness, his free hand gripping the back of my neck, not tight, just there. Just enough.
Then nothing.
No penetration. No climax. Just his presence. The aftershock of his control.
"Good girl," he finally said.
And I broke.
I cried without sound, mouth parted, body trembling. He lifted me off the bed, carried me like something breakable, and lay me down properly.
His body never entered mine.
But he wrapped around me, skin to skin, and pressed a kiss to my temple.
"You learn fast," he murmured.
Then sleep took us both like a tide pulling under.