Through The Door

I’ve learned that true happiness comes from finding something that’s entirely my own—not another person, not success, not money, but an ember within me. A natural calling that, when given breath, becomes a blaze no one else can claim, but everyone desires to find. A life giver. It’s been my mission for as long as I can remember to find mine.

And ten years ago, I did.

That ember had been a quiet, powerful urge I carried since childhood—but one I had learned to silence. Decades of control and bullying, at home and everywhere else, taught me to live small, to shrink instead of becoming who I could be. When I became an adult and chose to start over—away from my past—I finally felt safe enough to unlearn that small living and instead let myself embrace the urge I had buried.

Four years later, that urge became my first novel.

It wasn’t a great novel. Amateur at best, and no one’s read it, but creating it changed everything within me. It changed how I saw the world and myself. Life went from grayscale to color.

Since then, I haven’t stopped. My passion only grows. Each story pulls me deeper. And in that depth, I feel strong. But when the words falter—when the block hits—it’s painful. Grief fills me. Ideas still crowd my mind, but when my hands hover over the keys, everything jams.

Maybe it’s fear—I have no fanbase, no readers, no affirmation. Maybe my words don’t flow, maybe I’m not enough. Maybe my stories are too weak.

Right now, that block is strong and impenetrable. And I am lost.

I’ve been working on this new novel for nearly two years now. Everything is there. The ideas. The plot. The characters. Most of the book is finished, just not the last chapter.

I don’t want years to pass still saying, ‘I need to finish this.’ When I start something, I follow it through. Someday soon, I want to hold the book in my hands while posing for a goofy selfie to add to my board of inspiration. A reminder to myself that I am capable.

Not finishing suffocates me; everything is ready, but when I try the ending… silence, and silence is agony for someone who breathes through words.

That’s when I met Steven…

…

SMACK. I gasp, jolted from the paralysis at my keyboard. Fingers stalled. Screen blank.

“Naughty girl, who said you could stop typing?” Stern, his voice rumbles with challenge.

“Sorry, Sir.” I glance over my shoulder, my voice a low murmur as a moan slips through. My teeth gently grasp my bottom lip, a silent, seductive invitation that wordlessly whispers, ‘I liked it.’

The sting clears the fog in my head, a pulse of warmth following in its wake. My body hums, and with it—an idea sparks, alive and urgent. I turn back excitedly, fingers flying over the keys as the words pour from me, ignited by the pain and thrill still pulsing through me.

In my block’s cold grasp, his warm hands glide over my back, tracing the curve of my spine. His lips brush my skin with a deliberate tenderness, slowing the world around me, making it easier to focus. Maybe the block will finally break this time—not because he forces it, but because his steadiness lets me let go.

Steven was a lucky accident: we met at a creative writing workshop, paired for a few projects. Writing and critiquing together, we became friends—and then, something deeper grew.

One morning, while I made us breakfast, he found my struggling manuscript. I told him everything—my block, my fears. He listened, empathised. He didn’t dismiss my needs; instead, he offered a solution. One I had never thought of before: using the connection between us, and the intimacy we were building, to help me finish my novel, tapping into passions I hadn’t known.

We started small.

After each date, he’d give me a writing assignment I had to finish to earn the next date. Each one challenged me a little more—and rewarded us with exploration too—not only of mind and spirit, but of the subtle ways our bodies responded, learning each other in quiet, teasing gestures. I found myself craving the tasks, each one a promise of touch and attention, eager to do them well, aching for his feedback. Each new assignment grew longer, more complex, pushing us further.

A dynamic began.

After a few months, I realized my block wasn’t about skill, while that still needs practice—it was more about loneliness. I love writing, and I love sharing what I write, but part of that love also requires engagement. Steven did that for me. He read a lot of what I wrote and gave feedback. And whenever I talked excitedly about writing, he participated. Feeling seen, read, and appreciated inspired me. It powered my ambitions and fueled my motivation in ways I can’t do for myself.

…

“I have a new assignment for you, baby girl,” he purrs in my ear, leaning close across the small dinner table in the restaurant he chose for our date night.

“Tell me,” I breathe.

“I want you to finish your novel.”

“I’m not sure I can.” I shake my head.

“Would it help if I were there to inspire you? I can be very persuasive.” His eyes darken, fingertips trailing seductively across my collarbone.

“And how will you do that?” I ask.

A devilish smile creeps across his lips.

…

His groans are low and hungry, rumbling up from deep inside him, sending shivers along my spine as my bare body slips into his warm embrace. Dinner is a distant memory now; we’re stretched out naked across my bed, wrapped in heat and anticipation, ready for the challenge he’s given me.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” He checks in.

“Yes, very much,” I answer eagerly.

Slowly, he sinks inside me, thick and pulsing, fighting the grip of my tight embrace. His chest against my back, I feel him move.

“Focus,” he murmurs over my shoulder. “Breathe. My cock is your warden; it won’t give you what you want until you’re done. It will torture you slowly instead, so you earn the pleasure you’re begging for. Go on,” he taunts. “Earn it.”

Each thrust, each groan, sends heat racing through me, making me ache, craving more.

I want to be his good girl. I want to finish this novel.

Instinctively, my hands fist the sheets below me, my hips and back flexing, moving in tandem with him. He presses in deep and stills, keeping me from thrusting back against him.

“Still those hips, baby girl. The only movements I want to see from you are your fingers typing.” He warns.

Flat on my belly, legs stretched, he straddles my thighs. Each thrust presses me into the bed, teasing and torturing. My laptop rests under my hands—waiting for me to press fingers to keys.

“For every sentence you complete, I thrust. Complete them all, finish the scene, and your book, and as a reward, I’ll fuck you as you’ve never been fucked before.” His words roll over me like honey. I swallow, then begin to type.

My breasts flatten against the bed, my body pinned under his weight. My hands bound — not by rope, but by his rule. Type, write my story, and when it’s finished, he will reward me.

“Don’t think, baby—feel. Go to that place where you come alive, where the writing carries you. Forget what others want to read; what do you want to say?” Even through the pleasure, he holds enough control to guide me—slowing the moment, steering me exactly where I need to go.

I take a deep breath, “I left this story off right when he finally catches her.”

“Tell me about it.” He presses forward, then stops — seated fully inside me. He doesn’t move. He makes me feel the stretch, the weight of him, the choice to stay open.

“He’s all around her, with her back pressed against the wall behind her.” My voice is thick with need, “He cages her in. She’s shaking—not from fear of him, she’s not afraid of him, but from what catching her might mean.”

He brushes my hair aside, lips grazing my neck. “And what does it mean?” He pulls back out. His pace is like agony.

“She’s afraid of what she wants when he’s close. She runs because once he stops chasing, she’ll have to choose—to step toward him instead of away.”

“And she doesn’t want that?” His breaths in tempo with his movements.

My eyes shut, but only for a moment, “Mmmm… She does.” My breath trembles. “That’s the problem.”

I swallow, searching for the truth instead of the prettiest words to give him. “His presence doesn’t feel like a cage. It feels like a door. Like something opening. Something bigger than either of them alone. But she’s terrified that when she reaches for the handle, he won’t be there to walk through it with her.” I start to ramble, but that rambling is turning into realisation.

“She’s afraid of being alone?”

“No.” My brow furrows. “She knows how to be alone. She’s good at it. She’s afraid of being chosen halfway. Of choosing fully and not being chosen back.”

“What is she hoping for?” He encourages me, his fingers tracing over my back when I don’t immediately continue, lending me his presence while I think. There’s something awakening in me, a thought, a feeling, but it’s fuzzy.

“For him to bring her to her knees. She wants someone she can lose control with, someone to be a real partner with, where they can have one another’s backs as they experience life.” My hands pause. With Steven holding me in this vulnerable naked state, both in pleasure and in feeling, my mind is clearing. “

He’s not a tool—he’s the one who knows the darkness within her, the one she can let her walls down for. She wants to be seen, understood, and loved so deeply that desire—and herself—can move without restraint. She wants trust and joy with him.”

“And what do you hope he does when she stops running and faces all of this?” His body presses against me, lending me warmth, support, and safety to explore my thoughts and the story before me.

“Mmmmm… I want him to smile, to take her hand in one of his and grab the doorknob with the other. You know, the classic power Dom move with few words but so much expression sitting just inside his eyes, completely vulnerable and transparent for her to see.”

“To be kept. You want him to choose her, to see her, and to keep her.” His voice is gentle, guiding, but strained a bit in the pleasure he doles out.

“Yes…” I whisper, trembling under him, every nerve alive.

“I think that’s meaningful, and perfect for an ending. Write it, make this novel one that you want to read, fuck everyone else.” He traces his fingers gently down my spine as he joins our bodies together in a rhythm that keeps me present.

Kissing his way down my body, his lips move like commas, offering me time to think, to process, and to develop the way we express together. With Steven, I feel seen, exposed not just in body but in spirit, open to the story forming in both of us. My breath quickens as he explores with his tongue.

Each touch writes itself on my skin, pulling me toward completion. The closer I get, the easier it is to let the story take me, surrendering with every breath.

In the last scene I write, the cliffhanger I plant, the man doesn’t just take her hand and guide her through the door like she wants him to do; instead, he lifts her up and carries her through with him. A conclusion that leaves its readers wondering where the door brought them, and what new challenges await them once they make it through. A seed planted for a sequel.

By the time I hit the last period, he grabs my computer, pulling it aside.

“That’s my good girl!” He praises as he flips me around to face him.

“How did that feel?” he asks.

“Mmm, sinful.” I purr.

He smiles, and a gust of breath escapes him, “Not my tongue, the writing, how did it feel to finish your novel?”

“I don’t think I can find the right words… It’s invigorating, like the spark is back with this wildness calling me to start proofreading. I think I can really get this done; my editor will be so happy.”

“Are you happy?”

“Why don’t you let me show you what I’m feeling?” Slowly, I grab his face and bring him closer, licking at his lips until he opens them. When he does, I take him in a deep, worshipful kiss. I pour so much of my feelings into how our tongues trace one another, how our lips push together and merge, telling him everything I’m feeling with no words, just this.

“Fuck. I think I should help you write everything, even your grocery list if that’s how you kiss me afterwards.”

“Thank you, you really supported me through something that means so much to me, and I don’t know how to even begin to show my appreciation.”

“Well… I know of a way.” Steven takes both of my wrists in hand, lifting my arms above my head, his pins them down, “These little cherries,” he growls, “have been teasing me all day.” His hands are rough on my skin, groping and possessive, as he latches onto a nipple and sucks. The sharp sting of his teeth follows, making me cry out.

He enters again, dragging me deeper into heat, the coil of desire winding tighter. His lips stay sealed around my nipple as his gaze lifts to meet mine, and a devil’s smirk curves his mouth. His hand grips one of my breasts, his other wraps around my throat, then he pushes upright and drives into me with raw force.

“I’m so… uungh, proud of you… fuck!” He praises as his hips slam against me, the head of him barreling into my core. “Such a fucking…. Ungh! Good… Mmff.. Girl.” Hearing his words come out strained, filled with pleasure and pride… for me. I shatter. My core tightens around him, free and open in my moment of welcoming everything that he gives me.

And he follows.

We slow together, panting, pulses syncing in the aftershock. Collapsing back, he pulls me into his arms. A warm smile fills his eyes and spreads from ear to ear.

“What’s that look for?” I ask, smiling in return.

“Just replaying how you looked when I made you cum.” He teases.

“And how did I look?”

“Like you fully trusted me, like you shed all your walls and let me see all of you, even the part of you that belongs to me. It was beautiful. The look on your face when you shattered, what was going through your mind then?”

“I was picturing our door.”

“I didn’t carry you through it; we went through it as one instead.” He kisses my forehead, and a warm, happy feeling of trust fills me. I get to my knees and settle myself on his lap. My tongue traces his length, circling his tip while our eyes lock. He watches, lips parted. I take my time, losing myself to his feel, his taste. Then tension coils again.

His cock stiffens, pulsing against my tongue, a new demand.

“What are you doing with that pretty mouth, baby?” His eye darkened again.

“Finding another door… both in the story, and in myself.”