The morning was perfect.
Soft skin.Sleepy kisses.Coffee with oat milk and the last of your obedience still clinging to your thighs.
You barely spoke.You didn't need to.He wrapped you in one of his hoodies, kissed your forehead, and held your hand while you sat on the couch and ate fruit from his fingers.
He said the words carefully—like he hated them.
"I have to go again.""Three days. Maybe four.*""You'll be good for me while I'm gone."
You nodded.Of course you did.
Because you're a good girl.Even when it hurts.
He kissed your wrist before he left.Didn't untie the silk. Just loosened it.Pressed it to his lips and whispered:
"Keep this on while I'm gone. Even if no one sees it but you."
Then he was gone.
Just like that.
It's quiet now.
His scent still lingers on the pillows.Your body still bears the marks of his hands.But the space beside you in the bed is cold.
You wrap the silk a little tighter around your wrist.
You make his side of the bed.You cook breakfast the way he would.You even catch yourself whispering
"Yes, Sir" under your breath when you set your mug down on a coaster—because of course he trained you that well.
And at night?
You kneel.Not because he told you to.But because it's who you are now.
You kneel by the foot of the bed, just for a few minutes before you sleep.You press your palms to your thighs, keep your spine straight, and whisper:
"I'm still yours."
No matter where he is.No matter how quiet the room gets.Your obedience doesn't disappear when he does.
The first night is the hardest.
You try to stay busy.Make the bed. Fold the blanket the way he likes.Even tuck a note into his pillowcase like he does for you—just to feel something close to him.
But by sunset, the ache creeps in.
Not the kind between your legs.The kind behind your ribs.
You eat dinner in silence, the chair across from you empty.
You set your phone on the table. Screen up. Just in case.
And when the ache builds too tight inside you—You do the only thing you know how to do now.
You kneel.
No orders. No commands.Just the memory of him.
You kneel beside the bed, silk still tied loosely at your wrist, and whisper:
"I miss you, Sir.""But I'm still being good."
It's night two.
You haven't touched yourself.
Not even when your thighs clenched at thesound of his voice on the voicemail he left you.Not even when you found one of his worn t-shirts in the laundry hamper and held it to your face like oxygen.
But tonight… it's harder.
Your body is restless.Your skin still hums with the memory of his hands.You try everything—hot tea, deep breaths, that book he bought you—but nothing works.
And then?
You slip.
Just a single touch.Fingers sliding low, soft, slow—just for a moment.
You gasp.Stop.Pull back.
Shame. Ache. Need.
You wrap your arms around your knees andbury your face, whispering,
"I'm sorry, Sir.""I only wanted to feel you."
You don't finish.You don't fall apart.
But you do start crying.
Because being a good girl is harder when you're alone.