Nearly Midnight

It was nearly midnight when I finally said it. Not blurted--offered. Like a gift. Like a confession.

"I need you to know how far I'd go for you," I told him, my voice trembling just enough to betray how long I'd rehearsed it. "I'm yours, if you want me. Not just in words. In everything."

He watched me silently, sitting on the edge of his couch like a man carved from patience. He was always like that--slow, steady, unshaken. The opposite of my storm.

"I want to show you," I continued. "What I'm willing to do. What it means for me to be yours. I'll suck your cock anytime you want it. I'll take it in public if you ask. I'll lick the come off your fingers and thank you for letting me taste it. I'll strip naked and wear a collar, crawl at your feet, kneel outside your shower with my mouth open, fuck myself on your shoes if that's what you want."

Still, no reaction.

"I'll wear your plug when I go shopping, tell you what I'm wearing under my skirt before I leave the house. I'll beg for you on my knees with my cunt leaking down my thighs. I'll sleep on the floor if you tell me to, wake up early to blow you before coffee. I want to serve you. I want you to own me."

A raised eyebrow, that was all.

"I'll let you mark me--burn your initials into my skin if you want. Share me with your friends, make me kneel in front of them. Use me whenever and however it pleases you. Pierce me, collar me, tattoo your name where only you'll see it. I'd let you sell me if you thought it would prove my devotion. Anything. Anything at all. Just to show you that I'm yours. That I belong to you, completely, hopelessly, without limits. I'm offering everything, and I don't even know what more I have left to give--but if you ask, I'll find it. I'll give it to you with open hands and trembling breath. What more can I do?"

Finally, he lifted his hand, just one finger raised.

"Maeve," he said calmly, "Suck my dick."

I dropped to my knees so fast I bruised them.

It wasn't polished or elegant. It was messy, desperate. I unbuckled him with shaking hands and took him in, swallowing greedily, lips stretched wide, drool running down my chin. I wanted him to know I meant it--not just with my words, but with my body. I moaned as I worked him, needing him to hear my hunger.

He let me, for a time.

""Do better," he said, voice low and steady. "Make me come. Every drop. And if you waste a single one, you'll do it again--until you get it right."

I did it better.

Then he pulled me off, and I gasped for air, aching, throbbing, completely undone.

"Stand up," he said. "Turn around. Bend over the couch."

And I did. No hesitation. I hoped for what might come next.

It wasn't what I hoped for. He pulled my skirt up and my panties down. He spanked me hard, deliberate, calculated. Each blow landed like punctuation, like the closing line to every filthy promise I'd just whispered. My ass stung, the heat radiating out through my thighs, but I didn't flinch. I welcomed it. It wasn't cruel, but it wasn't soft either. He wanted me to feel it--his power, his disappointment, maybe even his curiosity. I gasped, cried out once--then moaned, deeper than I meant to. I thanked him with every breath, unsure whether I was being punished, tested, or claimed. But I took it. I wanted it. Wanted more. And he knew it.

Then came the real test.

"Take off your clothes," he said, "and run to the end of the street and back."

It wasn't quiet out. Porch lights still glowed, dogs still barked in the distance, and I could hear the hum of distant traffic and the occasional laugh from a nearby house party. Every instinct in me screamed not to do it. My body trembled as I reached for the hem of my dress, peeled it up and off, then undid my bra. My nipples puckered instantly in the cool night air. I hesitated with my panties, glancing down the street--but I saw no one. Not yet.

I slipped them off, the cotton brushing down my thighs, and stood there for one terrifying second: completely naked, exposed, heart galloping in my chest. I wanted to hide. I wanted to turn back. But I didn't. I ran.

Barefoot on concrete, breasts bouncing, air cutting sharp across every inch of skin, I sprinted like I was being chased by all my former selves. Halfway down the block, I heard a screen door creak open. Someone stepped out. I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye, and nearly stumbled.

They saw me.

A woman gasped. A man swore. Someone called out, "Hey!"

But I didn't stop. I kept running, cheeks burning with shame and something far more shocking: arousal. I was wet. I was wet. My thighs stuck together, slick with more than just sweat. I felt pride bloom in my chest like wildfire. I was being seen.

When I reached the end of the street, I turned, breath ragged, eyes watering. My legs were shaking. My skin ached from goosebumps. But I was smiling.

I jogged back, slower this time, letting the night take me in. I made no effort to hide. I saw curtains shift. Saw a teenage boy gape from a window, slack-jawed. I saw judgment. I saw hunger. I may even have waved. And I felt power.

When I returned to him, I didn't know what I would find.

He wasn't aroused. He wasn't angry. He was calm. Patient. Holding a blanket over his arm like it was a robe for a queen.

I expected him to be turned on. To push me down and fuck me. To take everything I'd offered.

"Come in, kneel in front of my while I sit on the couch. Arse raised."

I did that too, baring everything to him--my pussy, my anus, my soul. I got into position just as he commanded, face lowered to the floor, knees wide, arse raised like a slut on display. The air was cool against my skin, my cheeks burning as I felt his eyes roam across me. I held my breath when I felt his foot nudge my thigh apart wider, then a finger brushing over my folds, trailing down to my rear. He touched, almost clinically, a soft prod at my entrance, a testing toe pushed lightly against my pussy. I moaned involuntarily, humiliated by how quickly I reacted, how ready I was.

Then--nothing. Just stillness. Silence. He left me like that, waiting, open. For five whole minutes. Then ten. Then I don't know how long.

My muscles ached, trembled. My face flushed red-hot, not from shame anymore, but from the unbearable tension. I could feel every heartbeat in my clit, but my wetness dried on my pussy lips. My breathing was ragged. I wanted him to touch me again. To spank me. To take me. To do something.

But no. He let me stay there--waiting, hoping, desperate--and in that agonising, endless stillness, I finally understood what it meant to give up control. And I realised how badly I wanted to keep doing it.

Then he handed me the blanket. Wrapped me in it. Held me. Then whispered:

"If you really want to submit to me, you need to understand this. I don't need all the extremes. That's your fantasy. But if you're mine, then my boundaries are what matter. Not yours."

I stared at him, heart slamming against my ribs. He wasn't rejecting me. He was guiding me.

And in that moment, I understood what real submission meant.

"I'm yours," I whispered, tears on my cheeks. "Not in how I want to serve--but how you need to be served."

He nodded. Then I smiled, breathless, giddy with the gravity of it all. "Marry me," I said.

And he said yes.