The Contract on the Envelope - Ch. 02

The Contract On The Envelope

Author's Note:

I am publishing this chapter and all other chapters in Loving Wives because infidelity and the subsequent reconciliation are the central themes of the story, but many chapters could have been published in Anal, BDSM, Fetish, Group Sex, or Lesbian Sex. This chapter contains lesbian sex, oral sex, nipple piercing, public exposure, and a female submissive.

This work is copyrighted, and not to be altered, duplicated, copied or published anywhere, including alternative media, without the written consent of the author. © Copyright 2025.

Chapter Two: Three Trials

Peter

I woke just before dawn, as I often did. For a moment, I forgot where I was.

The bed beneath me was too firm. The cheap hotel sheet clung faintly to my chest as I sat up, tracing the line of hair down my chest. I'm not bulky, but the lines of my arms and shoulders have always been sharp. I've always tried to stay in good shape ever since I discovered weight training in college. Even before I watched that video, I had been spending more time at the gym than I had been with Daphne. Of course, now I had seen why that was in high definition.

The room smelled faintly of bleach. I wasn't at home. And sleeping at the foot of the bed--curled up on the makeshift nest of pillows and blankets and breathing softly--was my wife sleeping in the nude. She used to run her hands across my arms and shoulders when she needed reassurance, and compliment my muscular legs when she needed something else. But no, this woman was no longer my wife. She was my "slave," I guess? But what did that really mean?

I sat up, the sheet sliding off my chest. The memories returned in order: the email, the video, the suitcase, the knock on the motel door, the contract. Her kneeling. My command. I looked down at her, naked beneath a sheet, her dark hair fanned across the pillow. She had taken her position without complaint, after spitting out my cum the night before at my command. She looked peaceful. I felt anything but.

My jaw clenched. I remember her last night, her kneeling, the quiet hunger in her eyes. That vision should have turned me on. Instead, it had hollowed me out.

She'd given that same look to someone else.

I sat up slowly and exhaled through my nose. The room was still dark, early gray light leaking through the blackout curtains. I padded over to the desk where my laptop waited, opening it as silently as I could. I didn't want to wake her. Not yet.

I exhaled. What the hell am I doing?

Last night had been all instinct and pain and revenge. This morning felt different. The heat of the moment was past, and in its place was a feeling of being completely unprepared. My wife had betrayed me, but I couldn't stand to let things end now. Not after she had begged to be my slave, naked on her knees.

I treated this new project like a complicated invention I did not understand yet. I turned to the Internet to do some research (the kind that felt absurdly, almost painfully embarrassing in hindsight). Completely lost in the woods, I searched for things like dominance for beginners, how to dom your wife, submissive rituals, and training a slave spouse. The result was nothing helpful; mostly erotic fiction and obviously AI-generated garbage designed to hawk dubious-sounding sex toys.

Feeling every bit the nerd I am, I eventually opened a private tab and logged onto Argus, the AI assistant that I use for work reviewing patent applications and prior art references cited by patent examiners. Maybe Argus could give me something useful.

I typed in this prompt:

I accepted my wife's full submission after discovering her affair. She begged to stay in my life as my slave. I said yes. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm angry, I'm hurt, and I don't want to hurt her more than I have to. But I want her to feel this. What should I do next?

The reply was nearly instant. Professional. Chillingly clear:

Begin with structure. Slaves thrive in structure. You are not her partner right now. You are her Master. Start with obedience and control. Test her resolve. Give her pain and service. Give her rules. And give yourself space to feel what you feel. You are allowed to hurt. But make your pain productive.

I blinked at the screen.

Test her.

I didn't know what that meant at first. But then I had it. Three trials. A trial of pain, a trial of service, and a trial of exposure.

For the trial of pain, I remembered one of the results from my prior searching: Iron & Ivy Studio. I saw it listed on a website as a resource for the local BDSM community. It was a piercing, tattoo, and custom body jewelry place on South Lamar near our house in Austin. It was a remnant of Austin's prior incarnation as a creative city full of musicians and artists covered with tattoos and piercings. The website listed the name of the proprietress: Madelyn Korr and a phone number. Despite the early hour, the website said they would open soon.

I quietly walked to the bathroom to call and make an appointment. She was my slave? Then she would prove it--with pain and with degradation. She is going to get both nipples pierced, something she had mentioned off-hand years before and dismissed but that I had always fantasized about. My wife never had pierced nipples, but my slave would.

The trial of service would take some finesse. Madelyn's picture was on the website. She was a very attractive woman. She looked tall, elegant, and striking in a quiet way, maybe five foot ten with a sculpted, athletic frame. In the main photo on her website, her hair was platinum blonde and twisted in a no-nonsense braid that highlighted the sharp lines of her jaw and the clarity of her blue-gray eyes. She was wearing a lightly boned top that shaped her torso and framed her cleavage with a square neckline, structured enough to command attention, without sacrificing movement. Her top showed her toned arms, both lightly tattooed with geometric patterns and subtle botanical motifs. The overall effect was that of a Viking artist. She was beautiful, but a bit intimidating.

Yes, Daphne would get her nipples pierced, but it wasn't enough for her to endure the pain. Pain fades. I wanted her to feel something else: humiliation, vulnerability, obedience. Something primal. Something that might mark her more deeply than a needle ever could.

I stared at Madelyn's picture on the site. The calm authority in her gaze. The slight lift of her brow, like she was already judging me. Or maybe judging Daphne.

Madelyn was beautiful in a way that would have once made Daphne self-conscious, especially of her generous curves. And I remembered something else: how my wife had once joked about being one hundred percent straight. "I'm not into girls," she'd said, dismissively, back when her sister Rachel was in a string of relationships with women when we were in law school. But I remembered the way Daphne looked at one of Rachel's girlfriends. The way her eyes lingered. The way she flushed.

She had given herself to a man who wasn't me. Who'd made her do degrading things, used her in front of others, turned her into a slut. I did want to use her myself, not now. Last night was the heat of anger and passion, but I was too filled with loathing to touch Daphne now. But she could prove herself to me if she gave herself to someone else under my command.

So I made the decision. She would get her nipples pierced today. And she would pay for the rings the only way a slave pays for her adornment: with her body.

She would give Madelyn her mouth. And I would watch.

I tapped the number listed under "Appointments" and put the phone to my ear. After two rings, someone picked up. "Madelyn speaking," came the voice. Calm, clear, and alert.

I cleared my throat. "Hi. I hope I'm not calling too early."

"Not at all," she replied. "We open at eight. I usually get in early to prep. What can I do for you?"

I hesitated. There was no good way to ease into this.

"My name's Peter. I found your site through a vetted listing on one of the leather forums. My wife and I--we're just starting out. She's made a formal submission."

A pause. Then a professional, neutral reply: "Alright."

"She's asked to be marked. Specifically, nipple piercings. We both want it. But it's not just jewelry for us. It's a symbol. A commitment."

"I understand," Madelyn said, her voice softening slightly. "That's something I do often. But never casually."

I let that sit. The tone of her voice wasn't just professional; it was deliberate. She was testing me.

"I don't take it casually either," I said.

"There's another piece," I said, pressing on. "She hasn't said this directly, but she's told me; she'll do anything I say. I want her to pay for her rings with her mouth."

The silence on the other end stretched, not long, but weighted.

"I'll ask plainly," Madelyn said. "Has she consented to that act? With me?"

I breathed out. "No. Not yet. But I believe she will. She's served others. Publicly. Voluntarily. She offered me her submission after that. I'd never force her. If she says no, we won't go forward. Not with the piercing, not with anything."

Another pause, shorter this time.

"Good," Madelyn said. "That's the only acceptable answer. If I get even a flicker of coercion--fear, uncertainty, resentment--I end the session immediately. I don't care if we're in the middle of prep. I only work and play in a space of radical consent."

"I agree completely," I said. And I meant it. Radical consent. That's what Daphne denied me. She never asked me about any of this. That's what my life needed now.

"I have a six o'clock," she offered. "Last slot of the day. Quiet time. If she kneels of her own accord, we'll continue. If not, we will end the sesion."

I swallowed. "That's all I could ask."

"See you both tonight, then."

She hung up first.

Finally, the trial of exposure. I thought of the park near the house I used to share with my wife. The house we bought together. The house we chose because it had extra rooms for children and a park nearby where they could play. My slave was going to strip nude and walk through the park naked before I would agree to move back in. She would get out of the car, strip, and hand me her clothes, and walk down the three-hundred-foot path to the middle of the park and back, her new nipple rings shining in the light of the lampposts illuminating the path. I'll only let her back into the car again after her nude walk of penance.

When Daphne wakes up, I'll know for sure how serious she is about atoning for her betrayal. How serious she is about being my "slave." If she passes these trials, all of which will test her in different ways, I'll know she's serious. If not, I'll just come right back to this hotel room.

I heard her before I saw her.

"Good morning, Peter."

My name in her mouth sent a spike of rage through my chest. Not because of what she said, but because of what she didn't say. Not Sir. Not Master. Not anything that would show she remembered. It was just the next morning, and she had already forgotten.

I turned toward her. She was curled up in the blankets on the floor, blinking up at me with something almost like hope in her eyes.

"Peter? You wake up naked on the motel floor after begging to be my slave, and that's what you call me?"

Her face went pale. She tried to speak, to explain, but I cut her off with a harsh edge I didn't know I still had.

"Get this straight, whore. The wife who used to call me 'Peter' is gone. She ended our marriage when she threw her body at the Stag, and she lost the right to call me 'Peter' or 'husband' or 'darling' when she dropped to her knees and offered me her body. You are not my wife. You're my property. You will address me accordingly."

She looked like she'd been slapped. Maybe she had, in some small way. I felt a flicker of regret about but not enough to apologize. Calling her "whore" hadn't felt good. Fuck me... What am I doing?

I pulled on a shirt and jeans and stepped out to the motel breakfast bar, grabbing two coffees and a couple of muffins. When I returned, she was still sitting on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. Her eyes were red.

I placed her food on a napkin beside her. No plate. No words. Just the bare minimum she needed.

I sat at the desk and ate in silence, scrolling through work emails, the clatter of the keyboard the only sound between us. She shifted slightly, sitting cross-legged on the pillow I had tossed down last night. She ate the muffin slowly, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to.

After I finished my coffee, I snapped the laptop closed.

"Get dressed, three-hole slut. We're going back to the house. Do not speak unless spoken to."

She flinched at the words but obeyed without hesitation, moving quietly to get her dress and coat.

We didn't speak in the car. I drove with one hand on the wheel and the other clenched on my thigh until it ached. She sat in the passenger seat with her hands folded in her lap, like a schoolgirl who knew she was in trouble.

When we got home, I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The house smelled faintly of dust and lemon cleaner. I hadn't been here in a week.

My voice was low and calm now. Calculated.

"My wife wore what she pleased in this house. She wore what made her feel confident, comfortable, loved." I turned to her with eyes like ice. "But you're not my wife. You're my slave. And my slave wears nothing."

I let the words sink in. "Until further notice, you are naked in this house. Always. Now go upstairs and put on your highest heels. Then get in the kitchen and clean. Start with the dishes."

She nodded, blinking fast, and walked upstairs. I didn't follow.

An hour later, I ordered Chinese takeout. I could hear the distant clatter of dishes as she worked. When the doorbell rang, I turned to her.

"Go get it," I said.

She froze mid-wipe on the countertop. "Sir, I--"

"You heard me. Go."

She padded to the door, heels clicking against the tile, and crouched behind the frame. I watched from the hallway. She opened the door just enough to speak.

"You can, um, leave it on the doorstep," she said, voice soft. "I'll get it."

The delivery girl gave her an odd look, caught a glimpse of bare shoulder, and smirked.

"Rich weirdos," she muttered, turning on her heel and walking back to her car without another word.

Daphne shut the door with a trembling hand and carried the food into the kitchen.

I watched her place the bags on the counter. Then I walked to the bedroom and returned with the garment I'd chosen. I glanced at the map of Europe I had made her as a gift, with all of the pins showing how much we loved and needed each other back then.

It was a wrap dress made of soft, slate-gray jersey. It tied at the waist and could be slipped off in one fluid motion with no buttons or zippers. The kind of thing a woman might wear as a casual house dress or to go to the store, but today it had a new purpose.

"You'll wear this later," I said. "It stays on until I say otherwise. It comes off easily. And it will."

She looked at the dress and nodded, saying nothing. She took it with both hands, her fingers trembling. I said nothing more and turned to finish setting the table.

Tonight, she would bleed for me. And that would only be the beginning.

After lunch, I watched her clean for an hour: on her knees, wiping down cabinets, her breasts swaying with every scrub. She was trying. I knew that. But trying wasn't enough.

"You say you're ready to be my slave," I said finally, arms folded across my chest, leaning against the kitchen doorway. "But I need to be sure of your commitment. I. Don't. Trust. You."

She flinched.

"So I'm going to test your resolve. Three trials. A trial of pain, a trial of service, and a trial of exposure."

She froze mid-motion, rag in one hand, and turned to look at me slowly. "Yes, Sir?"

"Pain," I said. "Your first test. You'll be pierced tonight. Both nipples, silver rings. No numbing. No hesitation. It will hurt. But more importantly, they'll be a badge of office for your new position in this house."

She inhaled sharply but didn't object.

"Second--service. You'll offer yourself to someone else. Not for pleasure. For obedience. You'll kneel. You'll use your mouth. You'll serve the woman who marks you. If she consents. If you consent."

Her eyes widened. "You want me to go down on her?"

"I'm asking you to choose to go down on her. I'm asking you, as my slave, to suck her clit and tongue her pussy and give her an orgasm if you can," I said coolly. "If you want to serve me, you'll prove it."

"I'm not--" she started, but I cut her off.

"Not gay?" I said, voice sharp. "That doesn't matter. A slave isn't gay or straight. A slave has no sexual preferences. A slave fucks who her master says. And as your master, I'm saying that if you want to be my slave, you are going to willingly and enthusiastically go down on the striking woman who's going to pierce your nipples."

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her cheeks burned.

"That's why this is a trial, Daphne. Do this at my command and we keep doing... whatever this is. Or don't, and we chalk last night up to a mistake and go our separate ways. I'm not going to force you. You say you're my 'slave,' but you're a brilliant litigator who is more than capable of fending for herself and making her own decisions." I took the envelope out of the desk drawer in my office and placed it in front of Daphne, the contract visible. "If you're not going to honor the commitment you made just last night, we're done here. I'll tear this contract up and we'll go our separate ways."

She looked down, teeth pressed into her lip, and nodded once.

I kept my face hard. "The woman piercing you told me she believes in radical consent. I like that framing. This only goes as far as you want it to. You're not my wife anymore. You offered yourself as my slave--but I am not your jailer. You have the power to stop this at any time. So do I. But if you hesitate, or if she thinks you're not fully committed, she'll decline to let you serve her. And that'll be the end of this experiment. If I can't trust you to follow my commands, I can't trust you to be my slave. And if I can't trust you to be my slave, I can never trust you enough to let you back into my life as my wife."

Daphne looked at me with the same steely resolve she once used to tell me--first year of law school, unshakable--that she was going to make law review. When we graduated, she was editor-in-chief.

I continued.

"Third. Exposure. You'll walk naked in public tonight. Not for long. But long enough that someone might see you. Long enough to feel the risk."

"You'll walk the park path from the northwest entrance to the bench in the middle of the park and back. Three hundred feet of lighted sidewalk. Then--and only then--I'll let you back into the car. Until then, your body is on display."

She looked like she might cry. But I could see her nipples harden and a flush bloom across her chest. On some level, she was getting off on this.

"Those are your trials," I finished. "Pain. Service. Exposure. Pass them, and we'll talk about what happens next. Fail..."

I didn't finish. I didn't have to.

After a long moment, she whispered, "Yes, Sir."

"Get dressed. Just the dress and your heels. Slaves don't wear underwear, and you're going to spend most of the night naked anyway," I said, turning. "We leave in ten."

Daphne

The studio was tucked into a quiet strip off South Lamar, just far enough from the bars and boutiques to feel separate, a world apart. I hadn't said a word in the car. Peter's orders had been clear: I was to wear my highest heels and a wrap dress that opened all the way in front. Nothing underneath. I obeyed.

The studio door chimed softly as we entered. It smelled clean--rubbing alcohol and faint lavender. The kind of scent that tried to be calming, but only made my heart hammer harder.

A woman stepped out from a back hallway with the slow, grounded grace of someone who always knew exactly where her body was. She was tall--nearly as tall as Peter--with a sculpted, athletic body and long limbs wrapped in a pair of high-waisted black trousers and a loose black and floral tank cropped just above the waist of her pants, showing a narrow strip of skin with impressively defined abdominals. The shirt was gauzy and translucent. I could see that she had a single nipple piercing with a small barbell. Her platinum hair was braided tight along her crown. Her eyes were gray-blue and unreadable. I swallowed.

Peter looked at her and nodded. "Madelyn. Thank you again."

She gave him a tight-lipped smile, then turned her eyes on me. "Daphne. You've come of your own free will?"

I swallowed. My throat was dry. "Yes, Mistress. I am here to have my nipples pierced. And I want to offer you my mouth as payment."

Peter stepped behind me, his arms gently crossed in front of his chest.

"Then disrobe," she said gently, motioning toward a low-padded bench in the middle of the studio. "Let me see the canvas I'm working with."

I untied the sash belt of my wrap dress with shaking fingers and let it fall open. The air hit my bare skin. I heard Peter inhale behind me. I didn't look at him. The air conditioning was cold; my nipples tightened. And I was getting wet. Not even the Stag had dared to tell me to pierce my nipples. This wasn't just fantasy anymore--it was real. It was happening.

Madelyn's gaze didn't waver. She stepped closer and gently cupped one of my breasts in her hand. Her touch was clinical, reverent, and possessive all at once. She hefted the weight of me, her fingers brushing the base of my nipple. I jumped, just a little.

"These are lovely," she said. "Full, symmetrical. And these..." She pinched the nipple slightly between her fingers and smiled. "These are perfect. Long, sensitive. Made for heavy-gauge jewelry. I am going to give you 12 gauge rings. You're going to carry it beautifully, pet. "

I blushed so hard my vision blurred. Peter's voice was calm behind me. "Thank the Mistress for her compliment, slave."

"Thank you, Mistress," I whispered.

"Now I am going to kiss you twice," she said. "Once for each bit of pain you are about to feel my lovely girl. Do you consent?" I nodded.

She kissed me. Once on the lips--soft, steady, claiming. Then again, slower. Her mouth lingered, her tongue parting my lips with just enough pressure to make my knees tremble. I felt her hand still resting against my waist, steadying me as my breath hitched.

With my head still swimming, she took a step back.

The tools were already laid out--metal tray, sterile cloth, gloves, antiseptic, clamps, needles, a pair of gleaming silver rings with captive beads. Madelyn pulled on gloves, then turned to me.

"Sit up straight," she said gently, "and try not to move."

She swabbed my left nipple with antiseptic, then drew a small mark where the ring would enter and exit. I couldn't stop staring at the needle. It looked enormous. She picked up a clamp and gently pinched my nipple between the padded teeth, pulling it forward.

"Deep breath in," she said, her voice calm.

I inhaled.

"And out."

The needle punched through. A flash of white-hot fire. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. My eyes welled instantly.

She removed the needle quickly, inserting the ring in one fluid motion, bending the ring back into place, and inserting the captive bead with a steady hand. "Good girl. You're doing beautifully. One more."

Peter stepped closer. I saw his hand reach out to steady me. He didn't touch.

Madelyn moved to the other breast. Another swab, another mark. She clamped again.

"In."

I inhaled.

"Out."

Pain. Sharper this time. I yelped softly, eyes squeezed shut. My whole chest felt like it was pulsing. Heat radiated from both breasts, every nerve ending alight. My skin was flushed, prickling with endorphins, humiliation, arousal.

"I'm proud of you," Peter said softly. "Well done, Daphne."

Madelyn was already inserting the second ring. She twisted it closed with a click. "There. Gorgeous. When she's ready, these will be perfect for hanging bells. That's what my sub and I used to do."

Her voice had changed--something softer, sadder. I looked up at her. "Your sub?"

She nodded. "He died. A car accident. Just a year ago. He wore bells for me sometimes. When he moved he sounded like a windchime."

My breath caught, and I swallowed hard.

She reached out and brushed my cheek. "You look radiant. Raw. You're exactly what he would've wanted for me tonight." Madelyn stepped back. "Let's see them." She adjusted my posture, lifting my chin, squaring my shoulders. "Perfect. You're a work of art."

Madelyn crouched down in front of me. "Now. The second part. Tell me what you want, Daphne. Your master told me what he thinks. But this part only happens if it's what you want."

My face burned.

"I want to please you, Mistress."

"Why?"

"Because he wants it," I said. "Because I want to serve. Because I... I want to know what it feels like."

Madelyn reached up, gently cupping my chin. "Good girl." She beckoned me to kiss her. This time, I leaned into it. My pierced nipples ached, my pussy pulsed with a deep need. I was not just doing this to prove something to Peter. I wanted to do this. I needed to do this. I couldn't remember wanting something this badly.

Madelyn sat down and slowly unfastened her trousers and slid them down her thighs. She said nothing. Peter did "On your knees, slave."

Naked, my new slave rings swinging softly with the motion of my body, I knelt before... Mistress Madelyn. She leaned in and whispered in my ear, so soft I doubted Peter could hear. "You may only do this if you want to. Consent matters. Even here."

"I want to," I breathed. "Please, Mistress, let me taste you."

I could smell her--ripe, earthy, aroused. I'd never been with a woman before, but in that moment, I needed to taste her more than I'd ever needed anything. Madelyn moved with quiet command as she sat back on the padded bench, resting against the pillows like a queen on her throne.

She said nothing.

I reached between her legs and slid her panties down her thighs. A black thong--sheer in the front, soft and damp from her arousal. My fingers brushed the firm muscle of her legs as I drew the fabric down, feeling the strength beneath her skin.

She spread her thighs slowly, deliberate as a ritual, like she was unveiling something sacred. Her pubic hair was neatly trimmed, a delicate triangle left to frame her sex. Her outer lips were soft, barely parted, revealing smaller inner folds glistening beneath. My breath caught. I could feel my own arousal throb deep in my belly.

"I won't guide you," she said. "You already know what to do."

Her voice was knowing. Certain.

I leaned in. My hands shook as I touched her--lightly, reverently--fingertips on her thighs. She was already warm, already open for me. I kissed her just above the mound, my lips parting in reverence. I'd never done this before. Not for a woman. But it didn't feel foreign. It felt like surrender. Like I'd been waiting my whole life to kneel like this. My hands flattened on the sheets beside her hips. I let my mouth wander lower, tracing kisses along her mound and down to her thighs. My breath teased her skin. I didn't rush. I let the anticipation stretch.

Her outer lips were soft and full, flushed with warmth, parting gently with each breath she took. Nestled within, her inner lips were smaller, a dusky rose, delicate and slightly swollen, opening like the petals of a flower kissed by heat. At the top, just beneath the protective hood, her clitoris peeked out--small, taut, impossibly sensitive. It pulsed faintly with each of her slow breaths, like it knew I was staring.

She was wet. Not just slick--soaked with arousal, her folds glistening in the light, and I found myself leaning closer, drawn in not just by the scent of her but by the sheer fact of her--open, relaxed, waiting for me. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to press my mouth to her, to lose myself in every ridge and curve, to worship her with my tongue until my jaw gave out. Abandoning the last of my hesitation, I licked her lips with long broad strokes.

She let out a low sigh as I tasted her. Clean. Sharp. Woman. My tongue moved slowly at first, tracing the outer lips, tasting the curve and slickness, learning her shape. She let out a soft exhale, and I could feel her muscles relax deeper into the bed. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to hear her gasp. I focused on the rhythm of it--the flick of my tongue, the press of my mouth. I remembered what felt good when Peter did it to me; what made my body light up. I gave her all of that.

I moved my tongue in small circles over her clitoral hood. The firm tip of my tongue pressed her hood back, exposing her clit beneath. I gave her clit a few quick flicks, and rejoiced at her gasps. Madelyn's hand brushed the back of my head. Not to force, but just to feel.

I could feel myself growing wetter, my thighs trembling from the pressure building inside me. I wasn't supposed to enjoy this so much. But I did. The control she gave me by giving me none at all made me desperate to please. I closed my eyes and focused on every flick of my tongue, every quiet, involuntary sound she made above me.

"Mistress," I said almost like a prayer into her slick folds. Licking. Sucking. Tasting. I moved my head up slightly. "Mistress, may I use my fingers?" She was writhing beneath me. When she lifted her hips, pressing against my face, her voice came low and urgent. "Yes, Daphne. Make me cum."

Remembering how Peter did it to me, I licked two fingers and slid them inside her slick opening. She was so wet. There was hardly any resistance. I curled my fingers inside her and felt the soft ridges along her inner wall. I pushed with my fingers as I sucked her clit into my mouth. I hummed softly in pleasure. Her back started to arch. She was close. My jaw ached. My knees ached. I didn't care. I kept up the pressure. Her thighs squeezed my head between her legs. She gave a soft cry, her body tightening, hips lifting.

And then her release--quiet, controlled, but unmistakable. Her sex squeezed down on my fingers. It was beautiful to see her orgasm so close. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her body shuddered through it. I was proud to have given this to my Mistress. I didn't stop until she gently cupped my chin and lifted my head. Her eyes were shining.

"Good girl," she whispered.

Something inside me clenched, hot and unbearable. Peter was still watching. I could feel his gaze, steady and heavy, anchoring me.

Madelyn crouched and kissed my forehead, then my mouth. "You did beautifully," she said. "I hope he's proud." I turned to Peter. My lips were still wet, and I could still taste Madelyn on my tongue. My voice barely worked.

"Did I please you, Sir?"

His eyes were dark.

"Yes," he said. "You pleased me very much." I could tell he meant it.

And the aching knot of shame and arousal and need inside me loosened just enough to let in something else: pride.

Madelyn extended her hand and lifted me to my feet, tottering slightly on the high heels I had been wearing the entire time. I bent over to pick up my dress. "May I dress, Sir." I could tell he was still angry with me. I could also recognize the arousal in his eyes. Peter nodded. Madelyn helped me into my dress, gently wrapping me with care not to brush my freshly-pierced, aching nipples. She knotted the waist, and leaned in and gave me a gentle kiss on the lips.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I haven't had an orgasm with another person since..." I understood. I embraced her, feeling the rings in my nipples press against my chest. Even after they heal, that was going to take some getting used to.

Madelyn held my hand as the three of us walked to the front door. My heels clicked on the hard floor. "Thank you, Madelyn," said Peter as he walked out the door and to the car.

"You'd better keep up, slave." said Madelyn with a wink, then shooed me out the door. I said goodbye to Madelyn and quickly walked to catch up, my hips swaying.

Peter

The car ride from the studio was silent.

She winced every time we hit a bump, her chest rising with each sharp intake of breath. Her nipple rings were still fresh--angry, raw, the skin around them flushed and swollen. I didn't let myself look at them directly, not yet. She had taken those marks for me. I remembered the way she had whimpered when Madelyn's gloved fingers pinched her nipples and centered the needle. She didn't cry, but her thighs had clenched so hard I thought she might snap the bench in two.

Now, every motion--every breath--dragged her swollen, newly pierced nipples against the inside of her wrap dress. From the corner of my eye, I could see their indentation against the fabric.

My thoughts flashed to the incredible scene that followed. Watching her give Madelyn that orgasm was just as erotic as her getting pierced for me.

But then I'd remember why she was doing this, and I felt a pit in my stomach. The video. The Stag.

It was half-past eight. The park was quiet and mostly dark. One long winding path, flanked by low trees, still lit by old sodium lamps and a few motion-triggered LEDs on the trail. I parked near the northwest entrance. She looked out the window, confused.

I opened my door. Walked around. Opened hers. Still silent.

She stepped out, wobbling slightly in her heels. She didn't ask what was happening. She knew.

"Take off the dress," I said.

Her fingers trembled on the belt. She looked around, as if someone might appear from the bushes. But there was no one around. Just the low wind in the trees and the muted hum of summer cicadas. She untied her belt and slid the wrap dress from her shoulders. Let it fall. Caught it in one hand.

Nude but for the heels. Her nipple rings caught the glow from the lamp behind her like twin door knockers.

I gestured toward the path. "Go."

She didn't move at first. Just stood there, naked in the lamplight, the wind brushing her skin, her grip white-knuckled on the dress in her hand. I saw her take one shallow breath. Then another.

"Drop the dress, slave." I commanded. She complied.

She thought she was walking alone. I hadn't said I would be coming with. Part of the dread. I let her get six steps ahead before I followed--just far enough behind to keep the rhythm of her heels from being drowned by mine. I bent, picked up the discarded dress, folding it once, deliberately. Mine to take. Mine to give back--if she earned it. She didn't look back. She didn't dare.

God, she was beautiful.

Every step set her hips into motion. Her ass was taut, proud, moving in slow waves--high and round and utterly obscene in the lamplight. Her ass had always moved like that when she's in heels. High and tight and begging for attention. I watched the way her skin pulled tight over each glute as her weight shifted forward. The faint shake of her thighs after a slightly misbalanced step. The way the soles of her feet flexed to keep her steady. Even now, pierced and trembling, she walked like she knew I was watching. Her hips rolled, her back arched just enough to send her new rings swaying with every step. I could see the rings gleaming faintly from behind with each sway.

I used to love watching her walk away. I hated how much I still did. Hated that some part of me wanted her radiant, ruined, and wholly mine.

She was terrified. But she walked.

And that did something to me I hated. I wanted her punished. Humiliated. I wanted her to feel even a fraction of what I felt when I watched that goddamn video. But here she was--naked in public, ringed like a slut, and still trying to make me love her again.

Halfway down the path, at a lonely green bench under an ancient live oak, she stopped. Her shoulders were drawn up, back straight. She was trembling, just slightly. Sweat caught the edge of her spine and ran down toward the dip of her lower back.

I stepped forward. Stood beside her for the first time since we left the car.

"You really will do anything I say, won't you?"

Her lips parted. I could feel the answer forming--yes, or please, or something worse.

I didn't want to hear it.

"Let's head back to the car."

This time I walked in front of her.

I didn't watch her. Not directly. But I could hear the uneven tempo of her heels on the path behind me. The telltale hitch when she stepped too hard. The intake of breath when the rings pulled taut. I imagined how her breasts must have felt--stretched and sore, needles of pain with each bounce. How her thighs must have been sticking from sweat. How her skin must have burned from embarrassment and effort.

We reached the car. I turned around.

She was flushed. Chest flushed, neck flushed, cheeks high with pink. A fine sheen of sweat on her chest caught the overhead light. The piercings gleamed--angry now, slightly swollen, perfectly placed. I wanted to kiss them. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted her to be mine again. And I didn't know if she ever could be.

She opened her mouth.

"Sir, I--"

I didn't let her finish.

"You'll do anything I ask," I said, voice low. "Then why do I feel worse?"

I got in the car. I tossed the dress in the back seat.

She hesitated for just a moment. Then climbed in herself, still nude. I could hear quiet sobs but I didn't look at her.

The drive home was quiet. She didn't ask to speak again. I didn't offer. But I could see her piercings shining in the moonlight.

At the house, I unlocked the door. Held it open for her. She stepped in first.

"Finish cleaning," I said. "Every surface."

The house was spotless. But she obeyed anyway.

I went to bed without waiting. Laid down, shirt off, pants still on. I stared at the ceiling. My cock was half-hard and I hated that it was. I hated her for turning me on. I hated myself more for still wanting her. If she had walked in that moment and slipped into bed, I would have made love to her like a husband makes love to a wife.

I got out my phone and logged onto Argus, my AI assistant / dominance for dummies guide. I typed:

Prompt: She passed the three trials. I am turned on, angry at her, and feel guilty for what I did. I don't think I can do this.

A brief flash of dots and I had my response from the machine:

You're aroused, angry, and ashamed. That's not failure--it's a natural response to reclaiming control after betrayal. You still find her beautiful. She passed your tests. You didn't abuse her. You led. Guilt is common when desire returns before trust. Don't conflate arousal with forgiveness. You're not ready to love her again. That's fine. But she still needs your structure.

Write down rules for her tomorrow. Keep distance. Keep control. Emotional clarity follows order, not the reverse.

Would you like suggestions for the Rules Document?

I responded "yes" and turned off my phone. I've had enough pretending to be a dom for today. I'll read it in the morning. I clicked my bedside lamp off.

Some time later I heard her come in. The soft clunk of heels tipping over. The rustle of her blanket on the floor. The creak of her body folding onto it.

I didn't look. I turned away. And lay there, awake, until sleep took me by force.