The Contract on the Envelope - Ch. 05

The Contract on the Envelope

Tags:

BDSM, female submissive, cheating wife, slave, reconciliation, pierced nipples

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 oral sex, pierced nipples, and a submissive wife.

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 Five: This Isn't Dominance

Peter

I woke with a feeling I hadn't had in months: the close presence of another person in the bed. Daphne. After years of marriage, it should have felt natural, but we'd drifted apart in both waking life and in sleep. And since we'd signed the contract, I'd only touched her on a few occasions.

She was curled beside me, soft and warm. One leg slung over mine, her arm draped across my stomach. Her breath was steady, her body still, except for the slight rise and fall of her chest.

One of her breasts was pressed against me, skin to skin. I felt the metal of the ring every time she exhaled. The other breast was exposed. The blanket had fallen during the night, leaving her nipple bare to the morning air.

She shifted slightly, murmuring something in her sleep, her thigh pressing more firmly into mine. Her cunt, bare, smooth except for a narrow brown strip, brushed lightly against my leg.

My cock throbbed against my shorts. I reached between her legs and lightly touched her smooth lips, but I stopped myself before doing more. I clenched my fists. I refused to lose control. This felt good, but also dangerous.

I wanted to roll her onto her back, pin her down, and fuck her until both of us forgot the last year. I wanted to feel those rings scrape against my chest. I wanted her screaming my name, sobbing, begging me not to stop.

But I didn't. I wouldn't. I couldn't. Not now.

Last night I let her sit in my lap and sleep in the bed. Let her press against me. Let myself stroke her hair. It felt good. Really fucking good. But I needed to get away from her before I did something I'd regret.

I slipped out from under her arm. She stirred faintly but didn't wake. I watched her for one more moment--her rings rising with each breath. Lips parted in sleep. Her body was open and warm, mine but untouchable.

I turned away and threw on a shirt. Then I walked out, cock aching and patience gone. I needed coffee. I needed control. I needed to get away from her.

Because if she so much as breathed my name the right way right now, I'd pin her to the bed and give her what she's been begging for. And I couldn't let that happen.

The kitchen was cool and just barely illuminated by the first rays of sunlight. I flicked on the under-cabinet lights and reached for the beans. I wanted distraction, so I elected to do everything manually. I used my hand grinder on the beans, feeling them crush against the burrs as I turned the crank. The kettle beeped when it reached the right temperature. I poured the hot water over the grounds the way a barista taught us on a date to a hipster coffee bar years ago when I learned that pour over really does taste better than drip coffee. But fussy extra effort was exactly what I needed to distract myself.

I stared at the slow drip from the Chemex. Watched the white filter darken as the coffee soaked in.

She had begged me not to stop.

Her voice yesterday--thin, raw, breaking open at the edges--still echoed in my skull. Please don't let go. Not yet. Not when we're finally starting to find each other again.

"Finding each other," she'd said. But what was I finding, exactly? Just more proof I wasn't fully in control of myself or of her.

I remembered how she looked when she came home from Madelyn's. Glowing. Freshly used. Her skin still flushed, her thighs trembling. And how she looked crawling into my lap, still tasting of another woman. Her nipple rings cold against my chest. Her voice was quiet. Obedient.

She hadn't just followed the rules. She'd relished in my commands. And I gave her something too. I let her sleep beside me. I called her a good girl.

The woman who ripped my heart out.

A mistake? Maybe. But it felt good. Better than I'd felt since I first saw that fucking video. And of course I knew that wasn't the whole story. Nobody starts with leashes, whips, and public anal on stage. What else had she done? How far had it gone?

Did I even want to know?

You are withholding connection as punishment. That is not sustainable. Argus's voice, clinical and uninvited, buzzed in the back of my mind.

I wanted my wife back. The one from college and law school. The one I picked this house with to raise our children in. The one whom I trusted.

But is she even here anymore? Or is this all that's left--this depraved, obedient thing? My sex slave.

And what about me? It is just as unsustainable for me if I keep withholding connection. But last night had felt good. I had been tempted to do more than I had, but I controlled myself as much as I'd controlled Daphne. Was I capable of continuing to do that? Could I control myself to give her just enough connection? What would it mean about me if I could? Was I weak and pathetic for taking back another man's slut? Was I being cruel to a woman I still loved by stringing her along knowing things would probably never be like they used to be?

Control. That's what this was all about. Could I control myself, and still give Daphne enough? Would that feel good to me? To her? I didn't know then.

And how do I get Daphne to control herself? These rules and instructions seemed to be working. She'd said I helped her believe she could be more than her worst instincts. That had been true for years, I was sure of it. But there was another piece. Last time, her sister Rachel was critical. She had always been a grounding presence in Daphne's life. I hoped she could do that again.

Connection. What happened with Madelyn last night hadn't just been about sex. I could tell that much. Daphne had come back... lighter. Like some weight had been taken off her. I don't know what they'd said to each other, but it had left a mark.

They must have talked about her affair. Perhaps Daphne unburdened herself with some of the secrets she'd been keeping. Connection with Madelyn was great for last night, but Daphne needed more.

Daphne needed someone else who knew her history and her tendency to spiral in self-destruction. Someone who had seen it happen before. Someone who wouldn't let her hide behind excuses. Someone who would hold her accountable, make her confront the shame of what she'd done.

I wasn't ready to hear Daphne's confession, though. Not yet, anyway. I was already barely holding it together.

Daphne must confess to Rachel. They'd grown distant over the last year--I knew that much from Rachel herself. It was time for Daphne to bridge that gap. I'll tell her to talk to her today.

I poured two mugs. Hers got a splash of milk. Just the way she used to like it. Just the way I remembered.

I carried them both upstairs.

She was awake in bed when I returned with our coffee.

Blinking at the ceiling like she wasn't sure whether to speak. Her hair was a tousled halo of dark waves across the pillow, one hand folded near her chin.

As she sat up, the blanket slid down, and I caught the movement of her breasts before she could adjust. They were round and perfect, silver rings catching the low morning light. She almost pulled the blanket up, then didn't. Her back straightened. Her chest lifted.

I set her mug on the nightstand.

"I made you coffee," I said. "Let's talk about yesterday. And last night."

I didn't sit.

I stayed near the wall. Distant. Letting the morning's calm hold the space between us.

"I don't know if what I did was right," I said quietly. "Sending you to her. Letting you sleep beside me."

She didn't flinch. Didn't rush to reassure me. Her eyes stayed low, her voice soft.

"She took very good care of me. Thank you, Sir. I felt safe with her," she said. "She praised me. She told me I was beautiful. Said I served her well. And I--" she hesitated, "--I confessed my sins to her. It was good for me to talk about them. I know you haven't forgiven me. You shouldn't. Maybe you never should."

She glanced at me once, tentative. "But thank you, Sir. Thank you for letting me feel some kindness. For letting me cum. I know that wasn't owed."

I said nothing.

She swallowed. "I told her about what the Stag did to me. It turns out that she is a member of the club where he took me. Apparently it is called the Hellfire Club. I hadn't even known the name..."

My hand curled around the handle of my mug, tightening.

"Please don't take this as trying to shift blame. I did this. I chose to participate in the Stag's... games. And that final... you know" she trailed off. "But apparently what he did is something like blasphemy to her. She and her sub were both members. It sounded very important to her. To him too. She said she was going to reach out to the proprietress to report the Stag. She said 'I will see him burn for this.'"

The Hellfire Club. A name I didn't recognize, but suddenly couldn't forget.

"She said it wasn't just a club," Daphne continued. "She called it sacred. And what happened to me--what he did--was a betrayal of that. I'm not sure why I'm telling you this, except that it might help you to talk to Madelyn about it."

I looked at her. At the faint fabric lines pressed into her breast. At the way her lips trembled. The hopeful look in her eyes. I wanted connection for her. I realized then that she wanted the same for me.

"I'll talk to Madelyn," I said. I took a sip of my coffee. Her eyes followed the motion.

"Get showered," I said. "Lotion. Light perfume. Put your heels on and come downstairs."

She didn't speak. Just nodded.

"Come kneel in the kitchen when you're ready. Do not make me wait. You'll eat after you pass your inspection. Then I'll tell you my plan for the day. I have an assignment for you. I will make breakfast. I need something to do with my hands."

"Yes, sir." was her only reply

I turned on my heel and left. I hoped she was ruminating on her unnamed assignment.

I sliced avocado. Toasted bread. Carefully cracked the eggs into the pan, one at a time, keeping the yolks intact. Kept my hands moving.

I could hear the water running upstairs.

I imagined her standing there, naked under the spray, running her hands over her breasts as the water ran between them. I imagined her spreading lotion into the soft skin between her thighs, checking herself in the mirror to make sure she was smooth, clean, prepared.

The water shut off.

I waited.

A few minutes later, I heard her footsteps. The sharp click of heels on tile. Poised and controlled.

She entered the kitchen.

And knelt. Back straight. Hands resting lightly on her thighs. Knees apart just enough to show obedience, not presumption. Her hair was damp, tucked behind her ears, leaving her throat bare. Her skin had that post-bathing glow, and her light perfume filled my nostrils.

But what drew my eye--what always drew my eye now--were her breasts. Full. Pierced. Claimed. The rings I'd chosen hung from them with subtle weight, tugging just enough to stretch each nipple longer. Her cunt was bare except for the narrow strip above. Even from a distance, I could see the arousal between her legs.

"Good morning, slave," I said, my voice low.

"Good morning, Sir," she replied, eyes still down.

I carried two plates to the table. I set mine down at my spot and hers in the middle of the table. I began to eat without offering her anything. I didn't speak. She didn't move.

But she breathed.

Fast. Shallow.

Her thighs flexed occasionally. It was taking effort for her to restrain herself. The scent of her arousal was faint but unmistakable: sweet, sharp, unmistakably hers. Her eyes flicked to my fork each time I raised it. Her mouth parted slightly with each exhale.

She was desperate.

I finished half of my meal. Time to test out my theory. Control, Peter. Control.

"Inspection before breakfast," I said. "Up. Hands on the counter. Legs apart."

She rose without hesitation. Walked smoothly to the kitchen island, her heels clicking on the tile. She placed her palms flat against the granite. Spread her legs.

Her back arched slightly. A silent offering. I saw it as a challenge.

I had wanted to touch her for days, but also refused to let myself for fear of losing control. I knew I wasn't ready for sex with Daphne, and I was afraid that if I started touching her I wouldn't stop.

But there was something darker, too. A wrathful part of me wanted to hurt this woman like she'd hurt me. To spit on her. To hit her. To do worse than that.

I would not let these intrusive thoughts win. Violence would not make me feel better, not against Daphne, not against Whitmore. No, bruising Daphne or punching Whitmore would not solve my problems.

Last night made me realize that maybe I could control myself, if I gave myself limitations and stuck to them. She'd sat in my lap nude and slept all night with me, and I had only done what I intended: a small bit of connection and affection. Yes, the temptation to do more was there, especially this morning, but I hadn't given in. I hadn't crossed the line then. Now I would test myself again.

I inspected her body with a firm touch. I took my time, staring from the top.

Ran a hand through her hair, checking for tangles. None. Her scalp was warm beneath my fingers. I moved to her ears, her neck, her shoulders. Ran my hands down the length of her spine. Slow, firm, possessive.

I stepped around her and cupped her breasts from behind.

They were hot in my hands. Her skin was supple from lotion. I lifted one, then the other, enjoying their soft heaviness.

I gave each ring a slow, deliberate tug.

She gasped.

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good."

I stepped between her legs. Placed one hand on her inner thigh and spread her farther. With the other, I cupped her mound. Full palm. Firm pressure. Not rubbing. Owning.

"You're smooth as instructed," I murmured. "Good girl."

Then I let my fingers slide--light at first. Down the slit. Over her arousal slickened skin. Not parting her. Not yet.

I ran two fingers in slow circles that started just above her clit and passed over it with each downstroke. She trembled. Her hips bucked once before she forced them still.

"Don't move. And don't cum."

"Yes, Sir."

Her breath caught. Her chest rose and fell faster. Her knees wobbled.

I pressed my hand firmer. I spread her lips with my fingers. My erect cock pulsed in my shorts.

"Why are you wet?" I asked.

"Because you told me to be ready, Sir," she whispered. "Because I want to please you."

I gave her three more precise strokes--circling, tightening, testing.

She twitched. Her whole body was drawn in a tight, shaking line.

Then I stopped. Completely. Control.

"Time for breakfast."

She sighed a whimper. Just barely audible.

I retrieved her plate. Set it on the floor beside her feet.

"Eat."

She dropped to her knees again. Bent forward. Ate with her fingers--slow, careful, messy. I watched her wipe toast through the yolk and lift it to her mouth, licking the egg from her fingertips. I didn't offer a napkin.

When she finished, she sat back on her heels. Hands on her thighs again.

"Clean your fingers, slave."

She obeyed. Licked each one slowly. almost like a cat. Her mouth was glistening by the time she finished. Her breath was uneven.

I sat behind her. Crossed my legs. Pulled her gently back against my chest.

With one hand, I cupped her breast again. Careful with the ring. Just enough pressure to make her gasp. With my other hand, I slid across her lower stomach and let my fingers hover again between her legs.

She moaned.

I began circling again. This time tighter. Deeper. In the spot where I'd touched her countless times before. She arched back against me. Her thighs opened wider without instruction.

Two fingers slipped just inside her--barely--just enough to feel the grip of her body, the heat, the ache.

"Please, Sir..."

I froze.

"Say 'please' again and I'll stop touching you for a week."

She swallowed her next breath.

I resumed. Not gently.

I could feel the tension in her. She was straining, fighting the orgasm that threatened to come at any moment. Her back arched.

Then I stopped, stood up, and walked away. I did it! I worked her right up to the line and backed away. Control.

She stayed kneeling. Shaking.

I rinsed my hands in the sink. Dried them. Sipped the last of my coffee.

"You haven't earned it yet," I said. "But you can start. Today, you're going to call your sister Rachel."

She was still panting with arousal, but a look of alarm and shame flashed across her eyes. Good.

I continued. "Confess everything. Your affair. Whitmore. Your 'performance' at the Club. All of it. Answer all questions. Leave out no detail. She helped you pull out of your last spiral. You'll need her again if you're going to survive this one."

I grabbed my phone from the counter. Slid it into my pocket.

I tried to sound calm. In control. "I'm going to call Madelyn and then do some work. If you're a good girl..."

I let the pause stretch. Like it meant something.

"... I might let you cum tonight. When you're done talking to Rachel and with your chores, wait for me on your cushion near the door in the bedroom."

Then I left the room. Before she could notice my feeling of panic.

Control, Peter. Control.

Daphne

I sat cross-legged on the floor of the guest room, phone resting in my palm like it might sting me. My thighs were still sticky from Peter's touch. My nipples still ached from my rings, but not as acutely as the prior days. I was still raw though.

It was well past time to make this call, even if Peter hadn't commanded me to make it.

During my affair, I hadn't just betrayed Peter. I'd pushed my sister aside in my selfish pursuit of pleasure, too. Damn had I been a bitch to her.

I felt for my rings almost in prayer for strength. I tapped the screen. The call rang once, then twice--then Rachel picked up.

"Wow. A live call. Should I be honored, or concerned?"

"Good morning, Rachel," I said.

"Is everything alright? Did something happen?"

I drew in a breath. "I know we haven't talked in a while. I've got some things to tell you. But first I want to apologize. I'm sorry I haven't called you much recently. Or picked up when you called me."

The silence stretched. Sharp and waiting.

"You've been dodging and bullshitting me for a year," Rachel finally said. "Okay. Then let's hear it."

I took a deep breath. My sister and I had always had honest conversations about sex, so any discomfort I had in describing what I did was because of my guilt and not because of our conservative upbringing and our sexually restrictive mother.

She took me in when I showed up in her door in a full-blown spiral the summer after freshman year of college. She told me I was a sex addict. Maybe I was.

She gave me a place to live that summer. In exchange, she demanded complete honesty from me. So I told her everything. About my fucking strangers while I told my boyfriend I was studying. About the time I went on a date with him after I had fucked another boy in my dorm room that afternoon. My boyfriend was a nice boy. A church boy. I kissed him goodnight in the street outside my dorm building with another man's cum dripping down my leg. She knew just how awful and debased I could be if I gave into my worst instincts. But she loved me anyway.

Even if Peter hadn't told me to tell her everything now, I knew it would be helpful to me to confess to her now like I did back then. To speak the shame that was burning inside me and to get her her advice. I took another breath.

I told her. I didn't hold anything back. I talked about the man I'd been seeing. I told her it was a partner at my old firm. I told her about how he flattered me, and told me how lucky the firm was to have such a brilliant young lawyer. And one so attractive, too. I told her about how it started small, with mentoring that turned into lunches that turned into dinners that turned into sex.

"Jesus, Daph," Rachel said. Her voice wasn't angry yet. Just stunned. "How long was this going on?"

"A year," I replied. "Almost."

"Fuck me, Daph. You know, you are probably the smartest person I've ever met. You speed ran high school in three years to get away from Mom, and then you did college in three years to make sure you stayed with Peter. You were editor-in-chief of the law review. Graduated with highest honors. You got the fancy big law firm job that pays boatloads of money. You're so brilliant. But sometimes, you are the dumbest bitch on the planet."

I didn't argue. I just sat there with my phone hot in my palm, heart thudding in my chest.

"I know." My voice came out small. "I know. And it's even worse than you think."

I told Rachel about how he slowly took control of me. I told Rachel about the wardrobe instructions, about removing my panties in the office bathroom to comply with his rules. About how he'd told me to wear an anal plug at the office, and how I'd slip into the ladies' room to insert and remove it. How I'd hide it in my desk drawer. About how the partner would inspect me in the morning before discussing our cases, and the spankings he would give me for failing his inspection, or just because he felt like it. I told her about the sex in the office. About how my following of simple rules eventually became ritualistic obedience. About how he started referring to me as "my pet" and talking about my body as if he owned it. How I let him.

Rachel audibly clicked her teeth. "'My pet?' Some asshole at your law firm tells you to stop wearing panties and you turn your whole life over to him. This is pathetic, even for you, Daphne."

I had no defense. She was right. It was pathetic. I had to get it all out, though. I forced myself to push forward.

I told her about how I lied to Peter over and over again. How I started to wear satin pajamas to bed just to hide the bruises on my ass. I told her about how I loved it in the moment and then hated myself afterwards--and how I still got wet thinking about some of them. I told her about how I spiraled, and how I shut Peter out. How our sex had become rare and joyless when it happened, and how guilty I felt--guilty, but never enough to stop.

"I cannot believe you right now, Daphne. A whole year!? You made the choice hundreds of times to cheat on Peter, over and over again. I can't believe you'd do that to him. You always seemed so happy together." A long silence followed. "Are you in love with this guy? Why didn't you just break up with Peter and get divorced?" Rachel asked.

"No! To be honest, I don't really even like him that much. It wasn't about him," I said. "I was unmoored. Overworked. Peter felt distant. I was selfish. I felt my old urges and let them take over. And when he started giving me attention I liked it. And when he started giving me rules, something clicked. It felt good. Better than good. Until it didn't."

"I wasn't in control. And I told myself I was. I thought I could compartmentalize. I thought if I served the partner in secret, I'd still come home and be Peter's wife. But I wasn't. I was someone else. I belonged to someone else. And I was never honest about that--not with myself, and not with him."

"Why are you telling me all of this now? Did you come to your senses and end it?" Rachel asked incredulously.

"I wish I could at least say I did that. But no, the partner just dumped me without a word. It's all over now. Everything. My affair with the partner and my submission to him. My job at the firm. My marriage," I sighed.

"So Peter found out I take it? What does he know?"

"I know he saw a video of me having sex on stage at a BDSM club in New York recorded the night after we won that big verdict. I didn't know there was a video. I didn't even know the name of the place. Apparently it was called the Hellfire Club. And the video is bad, so he knows I was up to some crazy stuff with this partner. I haven't told him all of it, but he surely knows this wasn't a one-off thing. He knows what I used to be. Well, what I still am I suppose: a stupid slut who can't control her urges."

"Jesus, Daph. How bad is the video?"

"Awful I'm sure. I haven't seen the video but I remember what happened. I'm wearing a rabbit mask and the partner is wearing a stag mask. That's what I've been calling him: The Stag. I got led out on the stage by a leash clipped to a collar I wore for the partner." I sobbed. Once I started, I couldn't stop. "He spanked me, handcuffed me to a pommel horse. I slammed back into him--and I came in front of everyone."

"I can tell that you're not going to stop even if I asked, so just say the rest. What other terrible shit did you do?" Rachel sighed.

I felt the pit in my stomach. I needed to get it out to someone but even thinking about it filled me with shame. Part of me wanted to rationalize it away somehow or disassociate, but this was me. I did this. With a breath I kept going.

"He uncuffed me and then facefucked me until I was gagging. Then he had me sit on his lap and he fucked me in the ass until he came. I even gave a bow at the end. I fucking bowed." I was blubbering now. "I don't think it was on the video, but it didn't stop after that. He had me stick around after our 'performance' and let other men use me. One after another. Dicks in my pussy. In my ass. In my mouth. I couldn't even tell you how long it was, but I kept going until some other sub saw my face and asked me if I was ok. I wasn't, and she whisked me away. She saved me I guess. I don't know. I'm so ashamed of myself."

After a long silence, I heard Rachel take a deep breath. "Are you okay?"

"Not really. After he saw the video, Peter left. I tracked him down at his hotel room a week later. I begged him to take me back. He did, but I promised to give myself to him. To be his slave"

"What does that mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. I'm his now. I submit. He leads. He took my engagement ring and wedding ring from me and put it in an envelope from the hotel. He dictated a contract that I wrote on the envelope and we both signed. I'm no longer his wife, and he is no longer my husband. The contract says that we will reevaluate after a year to decide if we want to still be together or sell the rings and go our separate ways."

"Really, Daph? You submit to a partner, ruin your marriage, and then try to fix it by submitting to your husband? Why don't you just call it quits and get divorced?" I could tell she was probing more than actually suggesting divorce.

"I... I want to be his wife again. I want to bear his children. I want to be someone he can trust to keep myself in check. I know I messed things up, but I'm willing to do anything to make things like they were. Before I ruined it."

Rachel made a skeptical noise. "Mmhmm. That's not the only reason though, is it? This is your kink, isn't it?"

I felt a blush spread across my face and chest. My fingers drifted to one of the rings Peter had chosen for me. I paused, swallowed the truth rising in my throat, and finally forced myself to admit it.

"Yes," I whispered. "It is. But it's more than that. It feels right with Peter. It didn't feel right before, with the Stag. But with Peter--it's where I belong."

"So you're Peter's submissive now, eh? How's Peter as a dominant?" She was fucking with me now. At least she wasn't angry.

"He gave me some tests to see how serious I was about being his submissive, and then he gave me a set of rules. I... I've loved that. All of it." I was blushing even harder. "But sexually, it's like he's been too disgusted to touch me. I sucked his dick that first night after we signed the envelope, but that's been basically it between us sexually since then. I'm so horny, but more than that I need to feel him inside me to make it feel real. At least he let me sit in his lap and sleep in bed with him last night..."

A silence fell between us. I could hear Rachel shift on the other end of the line. Her voice softened, careful. "Oh, Daph. Peter is probably struggling. He probably is a bit disgusted. Or afraid. Maybe both."

I felt tears welling up. "I know he's holding back. I think you're right. I think maybe he's scared--scared that if he touches me, really touches me, he won't be able to control how angry he still is. Like he's afraid about what he'll do if he gives in."

Rachel was serious again, "Be honest, do you think you're safe? I mean, do you think Peter would hurt you?"

I looked up and thought for a moment. "Honestly, I kind of wish he would. But no. Peter would never hurt me."

There was a long silence.

"So you are going to tell me about those tests and rules, right?" Rachel finally said, her tone lighter.

"I was just going to keep it to myself, but since you asked, I'll tell you." I joked. "Before he gave me the list of rules, he had me do three trials to prove I was serious about the whole submission thing. One of them was walking naked in the park near our house, which was terrifying and thrilling." I breathed, thinking of how wet I was at the end of that walk. How I felt the cool night air against the dampness on my thighs. "Another was getting my nipples pierced."

"It's kind of hard to imagine my gunner little sister with pierced nipples." Rachael said with amusement in her voice. "What was the third trial?"

"I had to pay the woman who pierced my nipples with my mouth." I swallowed. "I went down on her. Made her cum." I felt my hand drift toward my sex before I stopped it. The memory was too alive. Her taste. Her thighs. The way Madelyn came from my touch. About how happy I was when Peter said I had pleased him.

"You had sex with a woman? Was that your first time?" I heard the weight in her voice. This was personal. Our parents, especially our mother, are very conservative and Rachel received a lot of approbation when she dated women, several for fairly long periods of time. I thought she was going to marry her college girlfriend until they broke up after her ex moved to a new city for work. I never condemned my sister for dating women, but I also didn't do a good job of standing up to Mom about it either.

"Twice actually." I smirked.

Rachel let out a low whistle. "Daphne Williams. You loved it, too. Didn't you? I can hear it in your voice. I cannot believe this. I had you pegged as being almost painfully straight. Spill. How was it? What did you do?"

I laughed. "After she pierced me, she had me kneel between her legs. I was nervous at first, but it didn't feel strange. I used my fingers and mouth. I did what I knew I liked, and I made her cum!" I said proudly. "It felt... right. It felt like something I'd wanted all along. I just hadn't let myself. And Peter was there to witness it."

"Mmhmm. All I can say is welcome to the dark side, little sis. What about the second time?"

"Peter sent me to her again yesterday. He said it was for piercing aftercare, but I think he knew I needed affection that he couldn't give me. " I paused, realizing the sad truth of what I had just said. Oh Peter...

I continued, "I ate her to an orgasm, and then we ate each other together until we both came. It wasn't like anything I've ever felt. Not just sex--it was something else. It was beautiful. Afterward she held me and we talked. She made me feel better about my decision to submit to Peter. She had a sub, too. I don't know his name, but he died about a year ago. The way she described their relationship... I want that with Peter. Even if I don't deserve it..."

"Wait, a female body piercer who had a sub that died about a year ago? Are you talking about Madelyn Korr at Iron & Ivy?" Rachel asked.

"That's her. You know her then?"

"Yeah... it's... a small world." Rachel replied. There was clearly more to that story. "Ok, so tell me about these rules."

"Well," I said slowly, feeling the blush spreading, "I'm always naked at home unless he explicitly lets me wear something, and outside I only wear clothes he picks for me. I've got to do all my chores in at least four-inch heels, keep my body groomed and ready for him, no orgasms without permission, and I sleep on the floor unless he invites me into the bed. I have daily inspections, and I'm required to keep a journal about everything. Basically, Rachel, I follow every command he gives, sexual or otherwise--and accept any punishment he thinks I deserve. And, well... there's one other rule I asked for: if he ever decides he wants out, I asked him to warn me first, to give me a chance to fix things."

"So, nude chores in heels with pierced nipples?" Rachel laughed. "I'd like to see that. Wait, are you naked right now?"

I blushed. ""Yes. I'm naked. But more than that, I feel exposed. All the time. When I stop thinking about how awful I feel about what I did, I feel electric. And I'm wet, constantly."

"And sex with women and kinky relationship dynamics. So now you're stealing my lifestyle and aesthetic," Rachel said. "Your nipple piercings. Are they cute?"

"I think so."

"Show me."

"Seriously?"

"I am. Send me a pic, little sis. Now."

I hesitated. Then moved. I opened my camera and took a photo from the neck down. My captive bead rings were centered in the frame. The shot extended to the top of my landing strip. I sent it.

"You've always had perfect nipples. These are beautiful additions. You're showing me in person next time we get lunch. And that landing strip, your work or is Peter sending you to a salon as well?"

"Mine. I've gotten pretty handy with my home waxing kit over the last week." I laughed.

"So now you're a bisexual submissive with pierced nipples who never wears clothes and does chores in only heels," Rachel teased.

"Apparently."

"Is this making you happier? Do you feel safe?"

"I've always felt safe with Peter, maybe that was part of the problem. As to happiness, if I can keep convincing Peter to keep me, I am happier. At least now what I'm doing feels good when I'm doing it and afterward. Before, I'd feel the thrill from what the Stag would do to me, but then I'd come home with a pit in my stomach. It was guilt of course, but also I'd think about the awful things he'd say to me and how mean and uncaring it was."

"Yesterday, I talked to Madelyn about what the Stag did with me. To me. As it turns out, Madelyn is also a member of that same club. So was her sub. It had been a sacred place to both of them. What the Stag did to me there and sending the video to Peter was apparently a serious violation."

"So I'm not just a slut. I'm the locus of sacrilege. I'm the whore who desecrated the altar."

"Jesus," Rachel said quietly.

"She said he might be kicked out. That made me feel better. And worse. I want him to be punished, but I also... hate that I'm the reason. That my shame isn't just mine anymore." I paused.

"I'm trying not to spiral. But the truth is, I just want to stay in Peter's world. That's what this is about. That's what everything is about. I wish I had just asked Peter instead." I touched my nipple rings again. The marks Peter gave me.

"Rachel, it has been so good to talk to you. You're being very understanding, and I know I wouldn't have reacted the same way. It really means a lot to me for you to hear me out like this. I know I wasn't always kind about your romantic life."

"Oh, make no mistake. I am still very pissed off, and you're going to be making it up to me for a long time. But we had the same mother. I know where it comes from. You were never cruel. Never lectured me when I brought girls home. Never made a speech about finally becoming a 'real woman' when I married a man."

"How is Morgan?" I asked.

"Fabulous. He just got promoted. VP of Product Management. We went out to celebrate and he picked up the most delicious twink. They let me watch. I desperately wanted to join in but this new boy doesn't play with girls."

"Jealous." I murmured, suddenly realizing I was jealous. What would it be like to watch Peter fuck someone else?

"Maybe one day Peter will let you watch him fuck someone."

That was it. I wanted to see that. More to the point, I wanted to help. "Not that long ago, that idea would have shattered me. Now? I want it. Not to punish myself. Not because I think Peter would need to do that to get even with me, but there's something so sexy to me about not having that kind of claim on him. When I've been cleaning the house..."

"Naked and in heels." my sister interrupted.

"Yes, naked in heels. When I've been cleaning the house, I keep having this fantasy of Peter fucking someone else--while I kneel beside him, while I help. It excites me. And anyway, it's not like I'm his wife anymore, so that means I don't have that kind of claim on him. But I do hope he lets me watch if it does happen. As fucked up as it sounds, thinking about him making me help another woman fuck him is exciting." I pictured guiding his cock to another woman's soaked pussy. I would open her with my fingers and watch him drive in deep, every inch vanishing inside her while I stayed on the floor. I felt the familiar heat between my legs. Even talking about it with my sister was turning me on.

"I think I understand you better now. About you and Morgan's open marriage. I feel unlocked. I want Peter to have more pleasure than I can give him by myself. I want to give all of that to Peter. Not to punish myself, but because I think I want him to have it all. All of me and more."

"One step at a time, Daphne. Don't rush from new submissive to open marriage. It's not for everyone. It takes a lot of work."

"But it works for us. I actually met someone recently too. You'll have to meet George. I think that might be one that sticks around for a while. We'll see what it becomes."

"George, huh? What does Morgan think?"

"The key to making it work," Rachel replied, "is communication. I tell Morgan everything. I don't bottle things up until I'm cheating. We talk. We fuck. We talk while we fuck. And we talk again."

I felt the words sting. I should have been more honest with Peter. And with myself. "I nearly destroyed everything." I said. "I let my urges bottle up until I let them burst. The way Peter has been treating me this last week... I wish I had asked to do this years ago. Then I don't think I would have strayed. I think this submission thing really works for me. But, I didn't do that. Instead, I destroyed my marriage. Peter and I agreed--we're not husband and wife anymore. But I want him to trust me again. I want him to lead me. I want the future I almost destroyed. I want to deserve him."

Rachel exhaled slowly. A centering breath. "The good news is that you sound like the fucked up girl who moved into my apartment after your second summer in college. The one who promised me radical transparency so I could help her. The one desperately trying to get a hold of herself."

"At least she's a lot better than the mess who fucked her friend's ex behind a Denny's, or the ice queen who lied to her husband hundreds of times and never called or picked up the phone."

My eyes burned.

"I love you, Daph. Always will. But you've been shitty. I forgive you, though, and I want you to know that I am here for you. And for Peter if he needs someone to talk to. But you need to do better."

"I know." I whispered. "I hate what I let myself become."

"Do you love him?"

"Yes."

"Then stop performing. Stop making speeches. Just do the work. Be obedient. Communicate. Be honest. You want to have a place by his side? Earn it."

"You've got one hell of a climb ahead of you, sis," Rachel added. "But at least you've stopped digging."

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

"You know I'm still mad, right?"

"Yeah."

"But I'm glad you called. I love you, sis. I love you so much I'm letting you buy lunch next week."

"I love you too."

I hung up the call with a smile on my face.

Peter

I stepped out onto the porch and leaned against the railing. The late morning sun was shining above me. I watched the trees sway in the gentle breeze. I unlocked my phone, tapped Madelyn's number, and held it to my ear.

She answered on the first ring. "Hello, again Peter. I was wondering if you would call."

"Thanks," I said, quieter than I meant to. "Whatever you did with her... it helped."

I exhaled slowly.

"She came back glowing. I haven't seen her like that in months. I couldn't have done that for her. At least not yesterday."

Madelyn didn't waste time. I got the feeling that she never did. "She did well," she said. "She obeyed to the letter. We pleasured each other. Then she told me what she did. And what happened to her." I could almost hear her glowering.

I didn't speak. There was more. I could feel it.

She took a breath. Then said something I knew didn't come easily to her. "I owe you an apology. On behalf of the Club."

That caught me off guard. "You don't have to..."

"Yes, I do," she said, her voice low and certain. "What happened to your wife wasn't just a violation of her and an insult to you. It was a desecration of something sacred. I am deeply ashamed that our space was the setting for such shameful acts. The Hellfire Club was a sanctuary for my boy. For me. It was the place where we truly learned to love each other. To find our true selves and show them to each other, and to see the beauty in one another. It is where I learned how to care for him the way he needed me to. To own him. And to make him feel safe."

With rising anger in her voice, she said "Whitmore used it like a cheap sex dungeon. He brought shame into the space we built to protect people like Daphne and my boy. And then used that shame to hurt you."

I closed my eyes.

"I'd never even heard of the Hellfire Club until this week. And now it's the fucking center of my life. Daphne goes there to put the final stake in my marriage, a member sends revenge porn filmed there to me to humiliate me, and the body piercer I find on the Internet just happens to also be a member, even though it's thousands of miles away. I don't understand any of this."

"You weren't supposed to," she said. "You aren't a member. It's not well-known by design. You weren't meant to be part of our world. But he dragged you in anyway. You're right, though. There is a lot more to the Hellfire Club than an event venue in New York City."

Another pause. Then:

"That's why I brought this to Mistress Violet."

I frowned. "Mistress who?"

"Violet," she said simply. "She founded the Hellfire Club about ten years ago. Despite her age, she's our queen domme. Every member respects her. Most love her. More fear her. All obey her. She told me she would be contacting you with a proposition. I strongly suggest you accept her offer."

That landed with weight I hadn't expected.

"She wants to help you and Daphne. You wouldn't know how big of a deal this is, but she doesn't offer this kind of assistance to many people. She's offering it because the Club failed. And because she knows what it's like--to be exploited as a submissive. And to lead as a Dom without any guidance."

"You clearly think highly of her. Do you really think she'll be able to help?" I asked.

"I think Violet will rewrite your life. If you let her. If you listen to her."

The silence stretched. I didn't know what to say.

"She'll reach out to you tonight," Madelyn said. "You need structure. The same kind of structure that my boy and I built together. Rituals. Boundaries. Control. Mutual trust to keep it all together. Violet can help you decide what to build. She can help you and Daphne find out what you need from each other."

The sun had finally risen high enough over the trees to be shining directly on my face.

"Rituals, boundaries, and control, you say that like it comes naturally. This is all so foreign to me. I'm not sure if I'm even capable of it," I said finally.

"You aren't capable," Madelyn said flatly. "Not yet. But you care enough to try. And neither you nor Daphne strike me as the kind of people to half-ass something."

There was a long silence on both ends.

Then, softly:

"She's still healing. You're still angry. Let someone help before you turn that anger into punishment you'll regret."

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me.

"Thank you," I said.

"Good luck with Mistress Violet. Just don't flinch. And don't hold back. She'll know, and she hates that. Trust me. I've seen it."

She hung up first.

After the call with Madelyn, I retreated to my office to get some work done. It was nice to leave my messy life for a while and dive into the familiar world of patents. Eventually I emerged to heat up some leftovers for lunch. I saw Daphne vacuuming. Nude in her heels. Breathtaking. I took my food back to the office before she saw me. I finished an office action response and sent it to the client for review, then I closed my laptop.

The house was quiet when I came back upstairs. Daphne was waiting, kneeling on the cushion I'd placed just inside the bedroom door. Straight-backed. Still.

Her hands rested on her thighs, fingers relaxed. Hair pulled behind her ears. Her breasts rose evenly with her breath, nipple rings catching a thread of lamplight. Beautiful.

I stopped in the doorway.

She looked up, waiting. Not nervous. Not needy. Just ready.

And I hated how much I wanted her.

Not just wanted her--wanted her kneeling like this. How much I wanted to own her. Despite what she'd done for him. Or maybe because of it.

My cock twitched. It had been half-hard for hours now. I'd had no release, no relief. And now here she was, body obedient, mouth silent, eyes full of longing.

I didn't speak right away. I stepped in. Circled her once.

"You've been a good girl today," I said.

She looked up. Met my eyes.

"I heard you talking with Rachel for a while. That couldn't have been easy." I stepped in. "And the house is clean. Thank you."

She nodded once. Barely moved.

Still she didn't speak.

That helped.

I stared down at her. My jaw clenched. I pictured her lips around him. I pictured her gagging on his cock until her chest was covered with mucus. I remembered how she slammed back into him when she was cuffed to the pommel horse, and the shattering orgasm that came after. I remember her taking a bow, his cum leaking down her leg.

She didn't move. She didn't know what I was seeing.

Then--quietly, like it had been rehearsed--"May I serve you, Sir?"

A beat.

"With my mouth?"

No hesitation. No shame in her voice.

I didn't answer.

I stared down at her. My jaw tight. Breath slow and hot in my chest.

I could smell her already. The faint musk of heat rising from thighs pressed together too long. Her lotion. Her shampoo. I imagined pressing my face between her legs until she soaked my mouth.

My cock pulsed. Harder now. It had been aching all day--from the time I woke up to when I saw her lick dripping eggs off her elegant fingers to when I saw her ass and thighs flex with effort as she vacuumed to now. I could see her glistening sex between her legs.

She was perfect, kneeling there. And I wanted to ruin her.

I wanted to fuck her mouth until she cried, flip her over and bury myself in her until the last trace of him burned off her skin.

But I couldn't.

Because she was already getting wet.

Because my body knew what it wanted--and that terrified me.

Because if I let go now, I wouldn't be in control. I'd be back in that room, watching her bounce on his cock. No control. No connection. Just reacting.

I stepped past her.

Didn't speak. Didn't look back.

"On the bed," I said. "I want to watch you want it."

She lay back without a word, legs parting as I climbed onto the bed. I knelt between them, still clothed, still hard, still furious.

Her skin was warm. Flushed. A hint of sweat traced the gentle definition of her stomach, toned yet softly feminine. Her chest rose with anticipation--nipples dark and tight, rings catching the light as she settled into stillness. Her sharp landing strip expertly maintained on my order.

I touched her thighs first. Soft. Smooth. My hands slid up, thumbs brushing the crease where thigh met hip. I didn't speak. She didn't move.

I slid my right hand over, and with two fingers I parted her slowly. She gasped. A drop of her wetness stretched from her opening to my finger. I slid my fingers inside. My thumb worked gently over her clit. Her hips twitched.

Her breath caught as I eased deeper. She was snug, hot, aching. I watched her face. Lips parted, brow creased. Eyes fluttering open and closed like she was trying to make sense of the pleasure.

Her back arched, pressing her nipples into the air. I reached with my free hand and tugged one ring.

She gasped. Then gasped again when I palmed her breast, full and heavy, and kneaded it gently.

The way she told me she liked on our honeymoon. The way she begged me to do in Prague, in Barcelona, in that tiny hotel room in Bruges.

Maybe she told him that too.

She whimpered. Her legs shifted. Her hands balled into fists.

"Please," she whispered. For mercy. For release. For permission.

I watched her fall apart beneath me. Her mouth open, lips wet, body arched. She was shaking. Trembling. Her cunt clenching around my fingers. She was need incarnate.

I leaned in, breath close to her ear, my fingers deep and curling inside her. Unrelenting.

"You may cum."

She broke.

Her climax came like a flood. Overpowering. Violent. She moaned my name, choked and raw. Her back arched, thighs trembling. She gripped the sheets with both hands. Her cunt spasmed, wet and pulsing around me. Her body shook with the initial jolt and the ensuing waves.

I knelt there, watching her come undone, fingers still inside her, feeling her body give the delicious squeeze she'd give my cock hundreds of times. She was raw and beautiful. I had done this for her. She was mine again, at least for a moment.

Then I thought of her onstage, cuffed to the pommel horse. I thought of her taking a bow with another man's cum running down her leg.

She was beautiful. She was debased.

I loved her. I hated her. I hated how she was making me feel. My eyes burned.

"Good girl," I said, barely audible. I forced the words out, low and steady, like I believed them. "You earned that today." I was a fraud.

She opened her eyes, blinking through the shivers. Her lips were parted, her voice breathy and low. "May I please serve you, Sir? With my mouth?"

She asked it with reverence, almost trembling from the force of her orgasm. She wanted to give me something in return. She wanted to be used.

I didn't answer. I didn't trust myself to speak. I nodded, just barely. Not from shame or disgust, but from everything else clawing inside me. My cock throbbed, already wet with need. I felt like I'd been hard for hours. I was starving.

She crawled to me, reverent and slow, her eyes still wet, her skin still flushed. Her fingers unfastened my pants. She freed me with a gentleness that only made it worse.

My cock jumped in her hand. The head was slick, glistening with precum. She smiled, soft and worshipful, and leaned in to taste it.

Her tongue swirled around the tip--slow, deliberate. She sucked just the glans into her mouth, tongue flicking, lips sealing around me. She moaned quietly. Her mouth was warm and wet and grateful.

I groaned--deep in my throat, guttural. I wanted to lose myself in her.

Then the images came back.

Her on her knees for him. Her cheeks streaked with spit. Eyes wild. That look she had: like she was made for this. Like she loved being used.

I looked down and saw her lips wrapped around me, and it was the same. The same woman reacting the same way, but now with my cock instead of his. I felt the familiar anger with her for her betrayal, and the familiar self-hatred for taking her back. I simultaneously wanted to hold her head choking on my cock until she passed out and to run away from all of this.

My balls tightened. I was seconds away. I thought I could stay in control. That I could touch her without losing it. I was wrong. I had no control. I could have done anything in that moment. Rage and violence. Pathetic forgiveness. Gentle lovemaking.

I reached down, as gently as I could manage, resisting the urge to hurt her, and cupped her jaw with trembling fingers, easing her off me. "Please. Stop" I managed.

Her eyes blinked up. Confused. Then, hurt. The lust drained out of her face like light leaving a room. Tears welled in her eyes.

She didn't ask why. She knew.

I couldn't take it. I stood up. Tucked myself back in. Walked out before I heard the first sob break free.

The hallway was dark. Cool air on my skin, the trace of her scent still clinging to my shirt. I walked without thinking. Bathroom. Door closed. Lit darkly only by ambient light from the window.

I gripped the sink.

The porcelain was cold. The mirror above it was worse. A stranger stared back. Eyes haunted. Jaw tight. I looked older.

My cock was still hard.

I didn't touch it.

I had lost control almost immediately, and I couldn't even finish without thinking about what she did and hating myself.

This wasn't structure. It wasn't control. It was reaction. Weakness dressed up as dominance. I wasn't leading her. I was chasing her. Pushed forward by animal need and the memory of what I once had. By rage and arousal tangled into something dark and destructive.

I tried to pretend I was in control. I worked Daphne to an orgasm expertly, but every moment I felt myself unraveling. All I could think about, when her back arched and her body shook, was him.

How fucking hot it was.

How fucking ashamed I was for feeling that way.

How fucking humiliated I felt knowing she threw away ten years of love to get fucked on a stage.

How fucking heartbroken I still was that the woman I trusted with my life, my future, chose him instead of me. For weeks. For months.

My erection finally flagged. Just a little. The edge dulled. I let out a breath.

Relief flooded in. What the hell am I doing?

She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She was radiant on our wedding night. She's radiant now, on her knees, her body marked by rings I gave her. She wears them proudly, like a uniform.

And when I saw her today--naked, glistening, vacuuming in heels like a goddamn wet dream--it didn't look like shame. It looked like worship. It looked like purpose. The most alive I've seen her in a year or more.

She's desperate for my touch. I'm desperate to touch her.

So why can't I just bridge the gap?

Why can't I just accept this fantasy?

I closed my eyes--and there it was again. The image that poisoned everything.

Her, gagged and bent over a throne. His cock splitting her ass wide. A cheering crowd. His hands in her hair. Her cries echoing off the walls. His cum pumping into her with no resistance. No regret.

I opened my eyes, breathing hard. I was spiraling.

And then, I heard her.

Soft steps on the floor.

She opened the door quietly. Still nude. She hesitated.

She walked into the bathroom.

She held out a hand.

I took it.

Her skin was warm. She smelled like lavender and sweat and submission. I pulled her into me, and she came without resistance. Her arms wrapped around me. Her nipple rings pressed into my chest. She looked up at me with a terrible, sad look in her eyes.

And I sobbed.

I didn't mean to. I didn't even feel it coming. But it hit me like a wave, and I buried my face in her neck and just let go.

"Why did you do this to us?" I choked out. "How could you throw me away like that?"

She didn't answer. Just held me tighter.

"I love you so much," I whispered, shaking. "I don't want to feel this anger anymore. I don't want to be afraid of touching you."

Her hands moved over my back. Gentle. Anchoring.

I clung to her. We stayed like this for minutes. She held me and kept me from collapsing on the floor.

I hugged her close. Part of me wanted to squeeze her until she vanished. Until the pain went with her. But I didn't. I just held her close. Listened to her breathing. Felt her own tears wetting my collarbone.

I opened my eyes and looked at her.

Then I kissed her. Not as a master. Not in lust. Just a kiss.

A kiss a husband gives his wife in a quiet room when no one else is watching.

Then I kissed the crown of her head.

"Thank you for holding me," I said.

She nodded.

"Let's get ready for bed."

I turned and walked back to the room. She followed silently.

We didn't speak as we moved through our routines. I changed. She folded a blanket on the floor. No protests. No questions. Just obedience.

We got into our respective places.

"Goodnight, Daphne," I said. My voice cracked. "I am trying so hard. To be strong. To be what you need. But it's really difficult. When I look at you, I see what the two of you did on that stage. I want you so badly, and I hate how that makes me feel."

She stayed silent. Curled on the floor.

"But I am going to keep trying," I said. "For you. And for me."

I lay back, staring at the ceiling.

"Please get some rest. Let's talk in the morning."

A quiet breath.

"Yes, Sir," she said. "Goodnight."

A long silence.

"I still love you, Daphne," I said into the dark.

"I love you too," she whispered. Then, softer still:

"Master."

An hour later, I still couldn't sleep.

The room was dark. My body still thrummed with heat. Not arousal, something worse. Need, maybe. Frustration. A tension that had nowhere to go. I'd closed my eyes. Turned the pillow. Focused on my breathing. Nothing helped.

Daphne's breath rose and fell in a steady rhythm on the floor.

I stared at the ceiling and tried not to count the seconds between each inhale.

The familiar shame was there. Shame that my wife would betray me. Shame that I took her back. But there was something else. Fear.

What if I couldn't be the man she needed?

The Master she needed.

What if this was all borrowed time? A performance, held together by rules I didn't fully believe in and rituals I didn't fully understand. What happens when the performance ends?

She's learning. Growing. She's good at this--frighteningly good. Like she was born to kneel. Born to please.

What happens when I run out of ways to hold her?

If I can't lead her--really lead her, not just react to her obedience with my cock half-hard and my chest full of rage--then we can't stay together. Not like this. She'll try. But she'll crumble. Or worse, she won't. She'll outgrow me. She'll find someone who knows what the fuck they're doing.

And I'll lose her all over again.

I exhaled through my nose. My chest tight.

I picked up my phone.

2:07 AM.

I tapped the lock screen. A dull blue glow lit the room. I flipped through the news--wars, lawsuits, celebrity rehab--and then, out of habit more than intention, I opened my email.

Inbox: 3 new.

The top one stopped me cold.

Subject: An Apology and Offer

From: Mistress Violet

To: Peter Williams

Time: 2:03 AM

Peter,

I don't typically write to men I haven't met. But I've been watching from a respectful distance. What was done to you--what was done to her--should never have happened. And I'm deeply ashamed that my Club was the nexus.

Madelyn spoke with me after your wife's visit. She told me everything.

What Whitmore did was not dominance. It was desecration. Of her body. Of your marriage. Of our shared space.

I built the Hellfire Club as a sanctuary. A place where those who ache to obey might feel safe. Where those entrusted with power might earn the right to wield it.

He turned that sacred space into a stage for his own ego and used your wife's surrender--half-formed and seeking--for spectacle. Then he tried to destroy you with it. His behavior is a severe violation of our charter. His treatment of your wife during her time in our sanctuary was shameful and exploitative. His sending you a video of their scene without her consent was the worst of all. These breaches are not merely unethical. They are unforgivable. And more to the point, illegal.

He will be expelled and blackballed at our Club. I assure you that there will be other consequences as well.

The point remains, though. I founded the Club with a purpose: to protect people like your wife. I have utterly failed in that purpose. Please accept my deepest apologies.

Now she kneels again. Not to him, but to you. But frankly, she doesn't know how to kneel. And with respect, I doubt you know how to lead, Peter. You demonstrate great love and bravery by trying, but bravery and love will not suffice now. And reactivity, even when well-intentioned, is not dominance.

I do not say this to diminish you. I say it because I've been where you are. A heart cracked in half. A body alive with arousal and shame. The mind split between forgiveness and rage. You are not weak. You are simply untrained.

You don't need to punish her. You need to lead her.

And leading a woman like her--a woman as bright and hungry and beautifully vulnerable as Daphne--requires more than willpower. It requires structure. Clarity. Precision. Love. Trust.

If you'll allow it, I can offer you a way to create that for yourself and for her.

We can speak tomorrow. I don't need anything from you but honesty. I offer no judgment. Only my experience and the beginning of a plan.

Please reply to this email with a time that suits you.

Sleep, if you can. She is safe. She is yours.

And you are not alone.

--Violet

Mistress of the Hellfire Club

"Structure is love made visible."

I stared at the screen for a moment. This was exactly what I needed. Madelyn was right. I'd never met Mistress Violet, or even heard of her before this morning. But I saw the look in Madelyn's eyes when she talked about her. And I was moved by her email. Like a man desperate for a drink of water in the desert, I dived headfirst into the oasis before me. I just hoped it wasn't a mirage.

Subject: RE: An Apology and Offer

From: Peter Williams

To: Mistress Violet

Time: 2:18 AM

Mistress Violet,

Thank you for your message. Madelyn told me to expect to hear from you.

I don't know what I expected to feel when I read your note. Guilt, probably. Or shame. I feel those most hours of the day now. But your words gave me some hope. Hope that was already desperate for, and it's been less than a week,

You have me pegged. I don't know how to lead Daphne, and I do love her. But I also hate her. I'm filled with love and rage, and it's more than I can stand. I want nothing more than to touch her, but when I touch her, all I can think of is what she did. I want to find a way forward, and frankly, I feel a need to take care of my wife, despite what she did to me.

But tonight, I couldn't stand for her to touch me. I fled the room, and when she came after me, I cried in her arms like a child.

All of this is to say, I would very much like your help. And I look forward to talking with you.

I don't know if I can do this. But I want to try.

I'll be available after 9 AM. Please let me know if that suits your schedule.

Peter

I hit send and let the screen go black. The blue glow faded from my face. A moment later, I received a video conference invitation for 10 AM from Mistress Violet. I accepted and put my phone down on the nightstand.

The shape of the ceiling became more and more visible as my eyes adjusted to the dark. The soft rhythm of Daphne's breathing was soothing, even if it was still strange to hear it coming from the floor instead of by my side.

The pain was still there. The fear. The anger. But something else had cracked through: a hand offered in the dark.

Mistress Violet. Hope that I could save this. Save Daphne. Save myself..

Eventually, I closed my eyes.

And slept.

Daphne's Journal - Day 5

Required by Rule #8

I thought I was doing everything right. I was kneeling. I was ready. I asked with composure, exactly how I thought he wanted. I didn't want to take what wasn't offered. I didn't beg. I just wanted to serve. He let me, for a moment. Then he looked at me like I was filth. Like I'd done it again.

When he walked away, I stayed kneeling. I didn't cry at first. I held it in at least long enough for him to leave the room. It wasn't just that he didn't want my mouth. It was because I knew what he saw when he looked at me. He saw a wreck that I let another man defile.

After a few moments, I went to him. Not as a slave, but as someone who used to be his wife and best friend. A guilty person who destroyed something beautiful and was still hoping to find a way to put the broken pieces back together. I didn't know if he would touch me. I didn't expect him to cry.

But when he held me, when his body shook and he buried his face in my neck, I felt needed like never before. Not as a slave, or even as a wife, but just as a person comforting another. Wearing only my guilt, I held the man I betrayed while he sobbed for what we lost. For what I broke.

But I can't erase his grief. I can only try to earn back what I destroyed. And he let me hold him. That must mean something. Doesn't it?

I want to be his. I need him to take my hand and lead me. And I think he needs that too. But I'm scared. If he can't lead me, then someday he'll have to let me go, and our marriage will really be over.

But I believe in him. I do. He'll find his way--not back, but forward. Into what I need. Into who he's becoming. When he does, I'll be there. Kneeling. Waiting. Wearing his rings again. Not just as a wife. As his. Completely.