I wake up in his bed, naked and warm, with the sun dragging its fingers across the sheets. For a second, I don’t know where I am. Then I stretch, slow, sore, satisfied, and it hits me. The way I’d slipped out of my house at 3:40 a.m., wearing nothing but my crotchless panties. The way I pushed him back into this couch and took what I wanted.

Last night, I was in control.

Chris. My neighbor. The quiet one with the gravel voice and the unreadable eyes. The one I’d spent too long watching from across our shared fence, shirtless in his yard, always alone, always focused on something just out of reach.

Now I'm in his bed.

The sheets smell like sex. Sweat. A trace of something citrusy. His body wash, maybe? I turn onto my side and take in the room. It's cleaner than I expected. Not spotless, but… organized. A single bookshelf stacked with old paperbacks. A small plant on the windowsill. Some sort of cactus or succulent. No posters, just one framed photo of a lake in winter. The bed was a queen, low to the ground. The sheets kicked half off. My panties, what was left of them, lie twisted near his desk chair. The bell silent.

The door creaks open.

He comes in barefoot, shirtless, holding two small glasses of something green. Toned, but not showy, his strength looked lived-in, not sculpted.

“You’re awake,” he says. His voice low.

I nodded. “Barely.”

He hands me one of the glasses. “Kale, ginger, lemon. Good for after a long night of… cardio.”

I smirk and take a sip. It's sharp, bitter, alive. Just like him.

He sits on the edge of the bed, turned toward me. I let the blanket slip just enough. Let him see what he already owns.

“I thought you’d be more shy this morning,” he says. “You surprised me.”

“You thought I’d be your quiet little submissive?”

He doesn't blink. “I’ve seen your videos. The way you act in them… you let people do things to you. You surrender.”

I hold his gaze. “Maybe I was pretending.”

He sets his juice down, leans closer. “Last night, you weren’t pretending.”

“No,” I say, lips parting. “I wasn’t.”

“You took control.”

“I needed to.”

He studies me. “So what now? Are you in charge of this?” He reaches out, brushes a finger down my arm, then over my breast. “Or are you ready to give it up again?”

I breathe in slowly. His touch lights up nerves that haven’t calmed down since before dawn. “You tell me. What would you do with it?”

He smiles. Not soft. Not cruel. Intent.

“If you give it to me,” he says, “I’ll use it. But not how they did in your videos. I’ll make you feel everything they only hinted at.”

That lands. Somewhere deep. Hot.

I set the juice down and pull the blanket back. Fully. Let him see me. “Then show me.”

He doesn't move.

Doesn't reach for me, doesn't take what I’d just offered with bare skin and breathless eyes. He just looks. Like he is measuring something. Or protecting it.

“I want to,” he says, voice low. “You have no idea how much.”

“Then do it.”

“I will. But not like this. Not just because you’re naked and reckless and trying to prove something.”

That cuts a little. Mostly because he's right. I pull the blanket back over my legs, slower this time. He doesn't stop me. Just keeps watching.

“You want to dive in?” he says. “Head first. That’s what scares me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve seen what happens when someone gives everything without thinking about it. I don’t want to hurt you. Not unless you want to be hurt. And even then… There are lines.”

I nod. “So let’s talk about them.”

He shifts to face me fully, legs folded under him now. “Okay. Tell me what scares you.”

I have to think. No one's ever asked.

“Losing control,” I say. “And not knowing if I can get it back.”

He nods. “Fair. What else?”

“Being used. Like… used up. Not seen.”

“I see you. I want all of you, not just the version you think I’ll like.”

The words curl around something in me. I swallow.

He leans in just a little. “Have you ever had a safe word?”

I frown. “What’s that?”

He doesn't laugh. He doesn't make me feel dumb. He just nods, like he expects it.

“It’s a word you say if things go too far. If you need me to stop. Right then, no questions, no hesitation.”

I look down at the sheets. “Like… ‘stop’ doesn’t work?”

“It can. But sometimes ‘stop’ is part of the game, right? A safe word is something you’d never say by accident. Something that means we’re done for now, no matter what.”

That makes sense. It settles into my gut in a strange, comforting way.

“So I pick it?”

“You pick it. Something easy to remember. Not sexy. Not something you’d ever moan in the middle of getting railed.”

I laugh, soft and breathy. “Okay… how about… ‘banana’?”

His lips curve. “That works. Not exactly seductive.”

“Exactly.”

He reaches out, touches my wrist lightly. “Look,” he says. “I want you. I want to push you. But only if we’re clear. I need you to know how to stop me. That’s not weakness. It’s power.”

I nod. “I want that. I want to feel… taken. But safe.”

His hand moves up my arm. “Then that’s where we start. Right there.”

“Why don’t you head back home for a bit?” He runs a hand through his hair, the messier part of him that made me smile. “I’ve got some errands to run. I’ll be over when I get back.”

I frown, disappointed by the distance, but something about the way he says it feels... right. Like a breath. Like a space where there was too much heat.

Before I reach the bedroom door, he stops me. “Take this.” He hands me his hoodie.

I look at it for a second. Then I slip it on, the fabric swallowing me in its warmth. The sleeves are too long. I fold them up just once, and it feels like I’m wrapping myself in him.

“You came over in just your panties last night,” he says, his tone low with a touch of humor. “Can’t have you walking around naked outside during the day.”

I pull the hoodie tighter around me, feeling the fabric against my bare skin. It’s comfortable, but it doesn’t hide everything. The soft weight of it makes me feel a little more protected as I move toward the door.

“Okay,” I say, looking over my shoulder at him. “I’ll see you later then?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll be over when I’m done.”

I step out of his house, the cool of the Arizona afternoon hitting me as I open the door. The sun is already strong, but the breeze has a soft edge. Spring in full swing.

I walk down the steps and into the street, my feet hitting the pavement with an easy rhythm. The hoodie feels good. I feel good. Not in a rush. Just… light. For the first time in a while, things are clicking. I’m not forcing anything. I’m not trying to be anyone else.

___ 🐺___

The last light of the day slips away, the orange and pink hues fading as the sun dips below the horizon. The air outside has cooled, the Arizona night settling in. I am alone, the stillness of the house pressing in on me, waiting.

A knock at the door. Sharp, steady, and exactly what I'm waiting for.

I open it before I can second-guess myself. He's there, standing tall, his eyes fixed on mine with that same focused intensity.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say a word at first, just studies me. Takes me in.

“You’re alone?” he asks, his voice low, an almost imperceptible edge to it.

“Yeah,” I reply, stepping aside. I don’t know what I expected. Some kind of warning, maybe. But I don’t need one. We both know what this is.

He moves inside and turns to face me, his gaze unwavering. “Madeline,” his voice steady but deliberate. “Are you sure you are ready?”

The use of my name hits me harder than I expect. It’s simple, but there is power in the way he says it. Like it means something. Like... he means something.

I nod. “Yes,” I whisper.

His hands reach for me. Slow and deliberate. He pulls me close, his lips brushing over mine in a kiss that is more than just a kiss. Possession.

When he pulls away, his voice is thick with that quiet authority. “On your knees.”

I drop without hesitation, knees to tile, the cool floor biting just enough to remind me this is real.

He walks past me like I am furniture. Like he owns the space. His footsteps slow, measured, retreating deeper into the house. Toward the hallway, maybe the kitchen? I stay where I am, spine straight, breathing slow. Not moving. Not speaking.

The door is still wide open in front of me. The last of the daylight paints the floor in gold and blue. I can hear the house settling, the faint hum of the fridge, maybe a bird outside losing its mind in a tree somewhere.

But I don’t move. He hasn't told me to. And I don’t want to break the spell.

The sound of his footsteps returning is so soft I almost miss it. I don’t turn my head. I don’t look. I just feel him. That warm, slow gravity that follows him like heat off pavement.

Something touches my skin. It is soft, slow, dragging lightly across my cheek. I flinch, not in fear, but from the sudden intimacy of it. The fabric, smooth as breath, brushes against my eyelids.

I stay still.

Velvet? A blindfold? I exhale softly. My vision disappears behind black. My ears sharpen. But it also makes something else tighten.

This is real. I'm not looking anymore. I am waiting. I don't know what he is going to do next. And that is the point. I trust him. Enough to kneel. Enough to stay. Enough to let him take away my sight and wait to see what he does.

I don't hear him move, but I feel him behind me. So close. The air shifts, heavier near my back. My skin pricks, every inch of me now tuned to the smallest change. Then his hands find my wrists.

Warm. Certain.

He lifts my arms slowly, like he is raising something delicate, something sacred. The fabric of the hoodie gathers at my ribs, then catches under my arms. I feel the hem tug, lifting away from my skin in gentle, dragging folds.

The air kisses my sides. My breasts.

He peels it off like he is unwrapping me.

I shiver. Not from cold, but from exposure. From knowing he can see everything, and I can’t see a thing. The hoodie slips free over my head. I feel the brush of it along my knuckles, then it is gone. I am kneeling. Blindfolded. Naked.

I don't cross my arms. Don't try to cover anything.

I stay exactly where he leaves me.

The air in the room feels cooler now, or maybe it just feels that way without my hoodie. My nipples tighten. My knees ache. My mouth is dry. My skin buzzes under the silence.

I can feel him now. Standing in front of me. Close. The warmth of his body soaking into my skin. I don't move. I don't need to. I just breathe him in. Still blindfolded, still waiting.

Then sound.

A belt, unbuckling. The quiet clink of metal sliding through loops. Not rushed. Not loud. But final. Then a zipper, slow and deliberate. Each tooth releasing like a countdown. I lick my lips in anticipation.

And then it hits me.

The scent. Not cologne. Not soap.

Him.

Then I feel it.

A soft, warm touch. Right at the tip of my nose.

There is no mistaking it. The weight, the heat, the barely-there press of skin. The head of his cock. A jolt runs through me, not fear, not shock. Just raw, burning need. My lips part on instinct. I stick out my tongue and taste him. Salt, skin, something thick and real that curls heat through my belly.

I kiss the head softly, reverently, then again with more pressure. My tongue traces the shape of him, slow and careful, savoring every inch. I tilt forward and let my mouth travel lower, wet kisses along the underside. A long, slow lick that ends with my lips just under the head again.

I lift my hands, the need to hold him. But before I get there, his hands catch mine.

Firm. Unmistakable.

He pushes them gently back down to my thighs. A wordless command.

Not yet. Not like that.

I feel a rush. Humiliation and arousal twisted tightly. My hands twitch in his grip, but I let them fall.

I breathe through my nose, tasting him again, slower this time. Let my lips linger, let my tongue curl around the edge of him. Every inch of my body is aware of his. The way he doesn’t move. The way he just lets me take him in while keeping the rules his own.

Every time I swallow, I want more.

I don't need to see him. I can feel everything.

The weight of him resting just against my lips. The pulse under my tongue. The way his skin tastes, clean and thick.

I take him deeper. Slow, at first. Letting my mouth stretch around him, slick and careful, tongue tracing every ridge, every vein. Something is building. Low. Deep.

A hunger.

I pull back. Licking the tip again. Kissing it, soft, almost a tease. I'm not teasing him. I'm teasing myself.

And I can't stand it. I lean in and open wider, swallowing more of him. I feel the muscles in my throat tense, then ease. My saliva slicks everything now, and still, I want more. I want to devour him.

He makes no sound. No motion. That only makes it worse. Or better.

I lose rhythm. Become messy. Needful. My lips slide along him faster, cheeks hollow, tongue working hard. I can feel heat gathering between my legs, throbbing without mercy. My knees hurt. My jaw aches.

I don't care. I want to make him feel it. I want to be filled.

___ 🐺___

He steps back.

His cock pulls from my mouth with a soft, wet pop! Louder than it is in the silence. I gasp at the loss, leaning forward instinctively, like a child reaching for a lollipop that falls too soon.

But his hands catch my face.

Firm. One on each cheek. Thumbs press lightly into the curve beneath my eyes. Not rough, but not soft either.

He holds me there. Still blindfolded, still aching. My pulse hammers in my ears.

“So good,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with control. “So eager. But patience.”

I swallow hard, my throat still slick with him. My mouth stays open, jaw aching, lips swollen.

A heat pulses between my legs, sharper now that I can't touch, can't see, can't have.

Patience. I taste the word. Bitter and hot and perfect.

I nod, just once, slow and small between his hands. Waiting for whatever comes next.

He leaves me. Just… leaves.

The air cools where he stands. My mouth is still open, still aching, still wet with the shape of him. My tongue searches for the taste he takes with him

But I don’t speak. Don’t move.

The silence stretches. Then... padded footsteps.

Closer. Behind me.

I tense, but only for a second. Then I sink into it. Into him. His hands find mine. Not harsh. Not urgent.

They guide my wrists back, slowly, deliberately, like he’s folding something precious into place. I feel a shape between his fingers. Rope. Thin, maybe a quarter inch wide. Soft. With a little give. Not nylon. Something smoother. Gentler.

I expect him to bind my wrists. But his hands are moving. Up. Past my elbows.

Then the rope follows. He loops it around my upper arms, cinching in slow circles until my elbows draw closer together. Not painfully. But enough.

Enough to lock my hands behind me.

To open my chest. To force my shoulders back, my breasts forward.

I gasp, not from pain, not even surprise, just awareness. How exposed I am. How beautiful and obscene it must look: me kneeling like this, blindfolded, hands pinned behind, body offered without needing to be asked.

The rope hugs my arms snug. Each layer a soft reminder: I gave this. He doesn’t need to say a word. My body is already listening.

His fingers find my hair, brushing it over my right shoulder. A simple gesture. Gentle. But it makes my breath pause. His knuckles graze the back of my neck. Then the arch of my spine. A soft line of heat blooms across my skin in their wake.

Then… something new.

Not fingers this time.

Something cool. Structured. It brushes beneath my chin, then wraps around the base of my neck. The scent hits first… leather. Thick, oiled, unmistakable. Old and clean. Then a faint metallic jingle, soft but sharp... a buckle, maybe a tag.

A collar.

I don’t move. Don’t speak. I just kneel there, blindfolded, arms pinned, breasts forward, and let him fasten it.

My nipples tighten in the open air. My breath is shallow and fast.

Sightless. Bound. Collared.

I feel… owned.

And that terrifies me. And thrills me.

Everything heightens. The collar brushing my skin with each tiny shift. His breath warming the side of my face as he adjusts the buckle. My body impossibly still, waiting for permission to exist.

Still, he works the collar. His fingers tug, tighten, adjust. It settles snug around my neck. Not uncomfortable. But inescapably there. Like it always belongs.

Then comes the rope.

A tug. Subtle. First at my elbows, then where the rope meets the collar. I feel it—threaded through a ring at the back. The metal presses cool against my skin, a small shock of temperature that makes me inhale sharply.

And then he pulls.

Slow. Deliberate. Controlled.

The pressure around my neck increases... just enough to make me aware he has me.

My head tilts back, gently at first, then more firmly. The rope tugs, lifting my chin, angling my blindfolded gaze skyward. It feels inevitable, like strings being pulled by someone who knows how I move better than I do. I don’t resist.

My chest stretches open. My neck bared. My body not mine, not entirely. Bent to his will.

Each heartbeat pounds at the base of my throat. The collar catches every pulse.

And then it hits me. The deeper...