Take It, Pt. 04

He sat in his car for thirty-seven minutes before starting the engine. The leather seat was cool against his back. His shirt stuck in places he didn't remember sweating. The collar mark still lingered on his neck.

He didn't need a mirror to find it. He reached up and touched it. Once. Then again.

The phantom pressure of her fingers still hummed beneath the skin. The curve of the collar. The sound it made when it buckled into place. The way she looked at him right after--like she'd claimed what was already hers.

He touched the spot again. Slower this time. And he came.

Without permission.

Without friction.

Just the memory of her voice. The ache in his spine. The taste of her still ghosting his lips.

His head hit the steering wheel. He stayed there.

Still hard.

Still hers.

The knock is soft. Barely a whisper against the hotel room door. He knows better than to enter without permission today.

I take my time crossing the room, letting him wait just long enough to question himself.

When I open the door, he doesn't look at me. He's standing exactly where he should be: eyes low, arms loose at his sides, breathing tight like he hasn't fully come down since I last dismissed him.

He doesn't speak. Instead, he holds out a folded piece of paper. Slightly damp at the edge where his fingers wouldn't let go.

"Mistress," he says, voice strained. "I came without your permission."

I take it without responding. I don't read it immediately. I just let the silence wrap around us like consequence. Then I turn and walk back inside, leaving the door open behind me. I hear it click shut once he follows, wordless.

He kneels.

I sit in the same chair by the window, robe drawn close, collar resting beside me on the table like a loaded weapon. Only then do I unfold the paper.

Mistress,

I didn't mean to.

I sat in my car for thirty-seven minutes.

I thought I was holding it together.

I wasn't.

I touched the mark where the collar had been.

Once.

Twice.

And I came.

I didn't even touch my cock.

I just remembered you.

The sounds you made.

The way you tasted.

The way you held me after.

I'm sorry.

I know what this means.

Please punish me.

Please remind me who I belong to.

--Yours

I fold the page slowly, then, I look at him.

"You didn't ask," I say. "You didn't beg. You didn't earn it."

His shoulders tighten, breath catching.

"And yet," I continue, "you came."

He nods, guilt thick on his skin like sweat.

"Do you know what happens now?"

"No, Mistress," he whispers. "But I know I need it."

I rise from the chair, collar in hand.

"Good," I say, circling behind him. "Then you're ready to be punished."

I don't tell you to kneel this time. I tell you to stand. Right there--next to the bed. Palms flat on the mattress. Feet shoulder-width apart. Back exposed. Vulnerable.

You obey without hesitation.

The room goes quiet--so quiet you can hear the whisper of silk as I move behind you. You breathe once, deep, and then the first crack of the paddle lands on your left cheek.

You gasp--not from pain, but from shock. You didn't think I'd hit you that hard. Before you can fully process the sting, the second strike lands--right cheek this time, sharp and deliberate. Then the next. And the next. Alternating. Rhythm building.

Faster.

Harder.

Louder.

Each slap blooms heat beneath your skin. Each one a mark. A lesson.

And then--I stop.

I step closer, trailing one hand up your spine, slow and light, until I reach your jaw. I brush it with the back of my fingers, then gently tilt your chin up until your eyes meet mine.

"Good boy," I murmur. "You took that so well."

You swallow. I see it. But you don't break. You stay still, even as your body trembles.

You wait. You listen. You obey.

And when I begin to speak--laying out exactly what comes next--you don't flinch. Just the tone of my voice is enough to keep you rooted.

You follow every instruction. You let go. Finally.

Afterward, I take care of you. I tend to each welt with a cool compress, my hands gentle now. No urgency. No commands. Just care. My touch softens where the paddle struck. My fingers stroke where my words had cut.

And then--I hold you.

I let you lie against me, skin to skin, your head tucked beneath my chin. I guide your hand to my hair. I let you touch it. Run your fingers through the waves like you've been wanting to since the first time you saw me.

You do it slowly, reverently.

Until your breath deepens.

Until your body slackens.

Until you fall asleep.

And just before you do--just as your grip softens and your mind begins to drift--I lean in, lips against your ear, and whisper, "Even in your dreams, you belong to me, slave."

No one has ever seen the real you but me.