Take It, Pt. 03

I stood alone in the doorway after you left, one hand pressed to the wall as if I might steady the ache that followed you out. I had wanted to touch you as badly as you wanted to be touched. But it wouldn't be appropriate for me to give myself fully to you.

It wasn't kink that brought me here. It was exhaustion. I was onstage one day, delivering clean, calibrated answers to a ballroom full of men who nodded like they understood me. But only one of them did, Nathaniel.

He stood in the back of the room with the stillness of someone who didn't need to prove anything. He wasn't taking notes on what I said. He was watching what I held back. The way I gripped the pen too tightly. The smile that never made it past my mouth.

He was tall with dark brown hair and green eyes. His shoulders were broad beneath a charcoal coat, his stance relaxed without ever seeming casual. He was the kind of man you didn't say no to, not because he wouldn't allow it, but because you never wanted to. Little did I know saying yes to him would be the most satisfying surrender of all.

When he came up to me after the panel, I thought he might ask for a quote, coffee, or my contact. But he didn't. He looked at me like he'd already read my whole story and found the ending disappointing. "You're exhausted," he said, not as an accusation but as an offering.

I blinked, "Excuse me?" I asked, still wearing the voice I used for panels and lawyers and late-stage negotiations. But his tone didn't shift.

"You perform competence so well," he said. "But it's killing you."

I remember the way my throat closed, how I stared at him like he'd named something I hadn't dared to. There was no arrogance in him. No need to perform. He was already leaning in and listening in a way that unsettled me. But he didn't wait for me to respond. Just handed me a small black card with a single word printed in silver: Nathaniel. On the back, three more: I offer rest with a phone number. I slid it into my bag like it didn't matter and walked away. One glance back at him betraying me.

I didn't call him that night. Or the next. I kept the card in a drawer as if hiding it might let me forget. But after a board meeting that left me hollow and two hours in the car trying to remember why I started any of this, I pulled it out. My hand trembled as I dialed.

He answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

His voice was low and steady and it made something in my belly twist. The sharp, competent part of me went silent.

"Is someone there?" he asked again, calm.

I closed my eyes. And then, "It's me."

A pause. Then, "Juliet."

The way he said my name, like it wasn't just sound but recognition made the ache that had been building behind my ribs all day unfurl. "I almost didn't call," I said, voice thin.

"But you did." His voice stayed even, but there was warmth in it now. Like he'd turned toward me in his own quiet room. Like the phone between us wasn't distance but invitation.

"I wasn't sure if you'd remember."

"I remember what matters."

That landed harder than I expected.

"I'm not used to this," I admitted.

"This?"

"Calling without knowing what I want."

"You don't need to know," he said. "You just need to be honest when you feel it."

I hesitated. Then, "I don't want to be a fantasy."

"You're not," he said simply. "You're tired. And you're still carrying too much."

That's when it hit me. A tear slid hot down my cheek, sharp and unwanted. I wiped it quickly even though no one could see me. I exhaled. "What would it look like if I said yes?"

"You'd come here," he said. "No expectations. No rules yet. Just you. Comfortable clothes. No makeup. No mask. We sit. You breathe. If you want more, you ask."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you drink tea. And you leave."

I almost laughed. "That's your pitch? Tea and silence?"

He smiled, and I could hear it. "It's a start."

I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. "Tell me one thing," I said. "What's your intention?"

"To give you a place where you don't have to be in charge," he said. "Where 'no' is welcome. And 'yes' is yours to decide, not perform. Nothing happens unless you want it to."

My voice softened. "And what do you get out of it?"

"I get to be the one who doesn't ask anything from you... except the truth."

The silence that followed wasn't hesitation. It was surrender.

"Text me the address," I said.

We negotiated in the days that followed. There were limits. Expectations. Rules.

And then, I was standing in his quiet, dimly lit room, waiting. There was a moment, just after he first told me to kneel, when I hesitated. He watched me with that patient cruelty I crave--his gaze a hand around my throat, pressing but not yet closing. I lowered myself slowly, deliberately, knees brushing the cold floor, spine a line of offered ache. My pulse throbbed behind my knees, under my tongue, between my thighs.

I looked up at him and waited. Because that's what he loves. The waiting. He touched my chin like I was breakable, and he had no intention of preventing it.

"Good girl," he said, and the words splintered me. Not because I am good. I'm not. I have been too strong for too long and now I want to be nothing at all. Just a vessel for instruction.

The floor was cold beneath my knees. My skirt a silken puddle around them. He watched me and said nothing. The soft sigh of his belt loosening made my mouth go dry.

He circled me. My breath hitched when I felt his fingers at the base of my neck, thumb stroking the base of my neck.

"You want to be told," he said softly, almost like a confession. "You want to stop deciding, don't you?"

I nodded.

"Use your voice."

"Yes," I whispered. My lips barely moved. "Please."

That broke something open in him. He reached behind me, tugging the hair tie from my bun and letting my hair fall around my shoulders. "You come to me dressed like a woman who owns the world," he murmured. "And yet you beg like one who just wants to be undone."

It was true. I had spent the day making decisions, drawing hard lines in meetings, softening my voice just enough to be heard without being called difficult. I had signed contracts. Answered emails with precision. Smiled at men who spoke over me, waited for my turn, and made myself indispensable.

But here on the floor of his quiet, shadow-lit room, I became something else. His.

He stepped closer. His fingers brushed the collar of my blouse. He didn't ask. He didn't have to. "Arms up," he said.

I obeyed.

He undressed me slowly, deliberately--button by button. My bra slid down my arms, cool air kissing my bare skin and making my nipples hard. My skirt followed, pooling at my knees. He folded my clothes and placed them on a nearby chair. And then he looked at me with an intensity that made me ache. Like I was something to be worshipped.

He knelt in front of me, fingers cupping my jaw. "Say it."

"What?"

"What you want."

I shook my head. My voice caught. Because I couldn't. Not yet.

"I'll teach you how to ask," he said. "Properly." And then he stood and left the room. When he returned with rope and with that maddening patience of his, I closed my eyes.

He didn't touch me at first. Only gave instructions.

"Hands behind your back."

"Breathe slower."

"Keep your eyes closed unless I say otherwise."

And with every command, some tight thing in me loosened. Each word peeled away the brittle armor I wore all day. The competent woman. The unflappable professional. Instead, I wanted to be his good girl.

He bound me with reverence. The rope rasped softly against itself, each pull deliberate. He started with my wrists, guiding them behind my back with a gentle pressure, crossing them just so. The first loop circled slowly, then twice more, his fingers brushing my skin with every pass. He pulled it snug--not to hurt, not yet--but enough that I felt the restraint. I couldn't move. I didn't want to.

When my wrists were anchored, he moved to my chest. Still behind me, he brought the rope up and over my shoulders, then wrapped it down beneath my breasts, across my sternum, then up again in a harness that made me feel held--centered. Seen. Each pass of rope pushed the swell of my breasts upward, encasing me, making me aware of every inch of skin, every breath.

My nipples hardened against the friction. I could feel myself growing wetter with every pass of the rope.

He paused, fingers splayed lightly against my back, then began again--wrapping around my waist, below the curve of my ribs, the tension drawing me in. Knotting it at the small of my back. Pulling it like a handle to test it. His thigh grazing my ass.

My breath slowed. Deepened. My focus narrowed to the space between each inhale. There was nothing beyond the rope, his hands, and the exquisite ache of being known.

"This is where you stop thinking," he said. His voice was low. "You don't need your thoughts in here. Just your body. Just this moment."

My mouth parted to reply, but he pressed two fingers against my lips.

"No. You don't answer unless I ask. Understood?"

I nodded.

"You're doing beautifully," he said, brushing a knuckle along my jaw. "Now turn around. On your knees. Ass up."

The heat flushed through me and I recognized it as shame.

"No," he said. "There's no shame here. You are beautiful. And you are mine. Turn around. On your knees. Ass up," he repeated. His voice more dangerous this time."

I obeyed, clumsy in my hunger. My cheek rested against the floor. The rug bit into my knees, the air cool on the back of my thighs. I felt raw, but not exposed.

Offered.

He didn't touch me right away. Instead, he sat back, watching. I could feel the weight of his gaze on my skin.

"You ache," he said. "Good. Let it build."

I whimpered. Not for pity. For permission. And finally, he knelt behind me. One palm on the small of my back. The other tracing a line down the curve of my spine, so slow it almost tickled. I shivered.

"Stay still," he reminded me.

Then his hand landed with a sharp crack. The sound louder than the sting. My breath hitched. But I did not cry out.

Another.

Then another. Each strike a reminder that I could endure. That I wanted to. That this pain wasn't punishment, it was presence.

I moaned when he slid two fingers between my thighs, finding me soaked, trembling, on the edge. But he didn't give me what I wanted. He withdrew.

"You're not ready yet," he murmured.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to plead. But more than that, I wanted to earn it. So I waited. I let my knees dig deeper into the floor and my body was quiet.

Next, I felt liquid pouring into my ass while he held the rope around my waist. And a gloved finger probing my hole. Lubing it for the metal anal plug which came next. I stiffened.

"Relax. Take it." He said, pulling the rope to bring my asshole closer to the plug.

I relaxed my muscles and moaned as I felt it go in up to the gemstone. I wondered how I must look to him.

"Good. Now say it," he commanded gently. "Tell me what you want."

"I want..." My voice caught in my throat.

His palm rested lightly on my lower back. His other hand traced the length of my spine so slowly it nearly tickled, a whisper of sensation that made me shiver.

"Say it," he coaxed again, voice softer now. "Tell me. You need to learn how to ask."

My breath trembled. "Please," I whispered.

"Please what?"

"Please touch me."

"That's a start," he murmured. And then, I felt his breath, warm on the back of my neck as his hand slipped beneath me.

His hand didn't rush. It moved with intention--fingertips gliding through slickness, circling, coaxing, then retreating just enough to make me ache again. I gasped, my body rising to meet him before I could stop it, the instinct so raw it shamed me a little.

"Slow," he whispered. "Let me take you there."

I did.

I let go of timing. Of control. Of the part of me that measured and managed everything, even pleasure. In its place was only breath. His touch. The unbearable tenderness of being allowed to need.

He slipped two fingers inside me, slow and sure, his other hand pressing against the small of my back, keeping me open. Exposed. I moaned into the quiet, mouth parted, tears stinging the corners of my eyes and I wasn't even sure why. It wasn't the pain. It wasn't the pleasure. It was that I had finally stopped holding myself together.

"Good girl," he said, and the words shattered something I didn't realize I was still guarding.

I came like a wave breaking. My hips jerked. My throat caught. And the sound I made was nothing like control.

He held me through it. Didn't move. Didn't speak again until I was soft and spent and shaking. Then, so gently it broke me all over again, he smoothed my hair back from my face, looked into my eyes, and said, "There you are."

And I knew I had been found.

He gently pulled out the anal plug, then turned his attention to the ropes, loosening the knots gently. The rope left soft red imprints on my skin, curved lines that felt like memory. I could still feel his hands even after they were gone.

My muscles trembled from the release, not the restraint. When the last rope slid away and I started to sit back, the room tilted, and suddenly his arms were around me. One beneath my knees, the other at my back. He carried me, barefoot and boneless, to the couch. My head against his chest. His heartbeat steady. His scent wrapped around me like another form of binding.

"You did so well," he whispered into my hair, brushing damp strands from my cheek. "So fucking well."

I didn't answer. Couldn't yet. My tongue felt thick, my breath fragile.

He tucked a blanket around me, one hand still resting on my thigh, grounding me. I wanted to stay there forever--between the heat of his body and the quiet weight of being seen and not judged.

"I'm going to get water," he said, slowly rising. "Stay."

As if I could move.

He returned in moments, a cool glass pressed to my lips. I drank. Each swallow tasted like coming back into myself. Then a protein bar I didn't want but took anyway. He fed me small bites like a priest offering communion, his fingers brushing mine.

"Color?" he asked softly, tracing circles on the inside of my wrist.

"Green," I whispered. It was part of the system we'd agreed on. Green meant I was okay. Yellow meant pause. Red meant stop everything. It felt strange at first, reducing something so complex to a single word. But in that moment, it grounded me. I didn't have to explain. I just had to tell the truth.

His face relaxed. That quiet smile, the one he only wears when I've let go fully, returned. "Good girl," he murmured.

I closed my eyes.

He didn't try to fill the silence. He just held me. Sometimes stroking my arm. Sometimes adjusting the blanket. He didn't reach for his phone. Didn't check the time.

That was part of the gift. Not just the play, but the presence.

The afterglow of surrender is its own kind of high. A letting-down, not a letdown. A return to a more true version of myself. No armor. No mask. Just breath and his body against mine.

Eventually, I spoke. "Thank you."

He tilted my chin up, eyes searching. "No," he said. "Thank you. For trusting me with that part of you."

That was the first night I ever knelt.