The door clicks shut behind you.And the moment it does, the air shifts.
All the rules. All the teasing. All the built-up ache from dinner and the car ride—they hang in the space between you now likestatic.
You turn slowly.And he's there.Framed in the entryway.Shoulders relaxed.Head tilted.
Eyes dark.
"What did I say?"His voice is low. Quiet. Lethal in the softest way.
your knees.
You swallow. Your body responds before your voice can catch up.
You sink.
To Right there on the hardwood.Back straight. Hands resting palms-up on your thighs. Chin lowered just enough to show respect—just enough to show who you are when no one else is watching.
"Look at you,"he murmurs, taking a step forward. "So well-trained. So obedient. Just like I taught you."
His boots stop inches from your knees. You feel the warmth of his presence radiating off him. His hand reaches down, thumb brushing gently under your chin—lifting your face.
He studies you. Quietly.
Then—
"Hands behind your back."
You obey.
"Now tell me,"he says softly. "Why are you on your knees for me?"
You breathe in. Voice trembling, but steady enough.
"Because I'm yours, Sir. And I follow your rules."
A pause.Then he nods once. Slow. Approving.
"You didn't touch yourself at dinner.""You kept your legs open in the car.""You followed every command, even when your body begged to disobey."
His hand cups your cheek now, thumb brushing your lower lip.
"You've earned something tonight."
Your heart pounds.
"But not yet."
He steps back.And you feel the absence like a shock.
"Stay kneeling.""Don't move.""If I come back and find you out of position..."He trails off, smirking.
"You'll sleep on your stomach with a fresh set of rules by morning."
Then he disappears into the hallway—leaving you right there. Kneeling. Waiting.
Burning.
Because this is what obedience looks like.
And this is what he loves most.
You're still kneeling.Exactly where he left you.Back straight. Eyes down. Hands behind your back. Every part of you trembling, waiting for the sound of his steps, the touch of his voice.
And then you feel him.
He's back.
The quiet click of his boots across the floor. The soft shift of fabric as he kneels behind you.And then—cool silk against your wrists.
"Still and steady," he whispers, wrapping the tie with practiced ease."Let me bind you the way you like to be kept."
It's smooth. Luxurious. Intentional.
He knots it snug—not tight. Just enough to remind you that you are his.Even now. Especially now.
Then you feel his hands on your arms, guiding them forward… and wrapping them around his neck.
"Hold on, BabyGirl,"he murmurs."Let me carry you tonight."
And he lifts you.
Effortlessly.
Like you weigh nothing. Like you've always belonged there—against his chest, silk-bound and breathless, head tucked beneath his jaw.
Your heart pounds.His heartbeat answers.
He carries you down the hallway, slow, Deliberate.This isn't just transport —it's ritual.
He lays you on the bed like you're made of something sacred.Fingers brushing hair from your cheek.Eyes locked to yours.
He doesn't speak again.
He doesn't need to.
Because when he climbs over you—when he pushes your arms up above your head, tie brushing against the sheets, and slots his hips between yours—you already know.
This isn't about dominance tonight.This is about Devotion.
His pace is slow.Deep.Unhurried.
Every roll of his hips is a promise.Every kiss to your collarbone is a reward.Every whispered breath against your lips is a vow:
You were good for me.You waited.Now, I'll give you everything.
He holds your wrists down gently, forehead pressed to yours as he fills you.Letting you feel every inch. Every second.
Your legs wrap around his waist.Your back arches into him.Tears sting at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from being seen.From being chosen.From being loved exactly the way you need to be.
And when he finally lets you come—when he whispers"Now, sweetheart. Let go for me."—you do.
And this time? You fall apart in his arms.