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It’s past almost midnight, but I’m not tired.

I’m shivering, the night air sharp but still sweet as he unlocks the door. The blanket is warm and comforting and soft on my shoulders, yet my shivering persists.

I step inside behind him, remove my shoes in the darkness as he fumbles around, already craving closeness that he’s been taunting me with all night.

Every moment of our cheesy date was perfect, and from the moment he held a strawberry to my lips I decided that the minute I got here, I would sign that damn contract and glue myself to him until he gives me what I want, what he’s been dangling in front of my face all night.

More shuffling, and then a faint light turns on above the kitchen island. He sets his keys and the picnic basket down, beside the vase with my gift flowers in it.

I smile, shuffle over to him. “You kept them?”

He gives me a weird look. “What did you think I’d do, throw them out? They’re a gift, Marcus, and they’re beautiful. I’m not throwing them out until two weeks after they die.”

I snort, thinking of the wilted flowers on his island countertop. “Two-week-old wilted flowers? Not exactly the best choice of decor,” I note, leaning forward onto the counter across from him.

He smiles. “How are you feeling? Tired?”

I bite my lip, shift my weight to my left side. The hum of a wildly perfect night is still keeping me awake, has me thrumming with energy even still.

I shake my head honestly. “Not really.”

He raises his brows. “Alright then, you ready?”

I blink as he skirts around the island, passing by me and headed for the stairs. “Ready for what?” I ask.

He stops at the bottom step, and gives me a serious look. “You didn’t think that was it, did you?”

A moment of silence passes as I register his words. “I—uh—I would be perfectly happy if it was,” I mumble nervously, suddenly very aware of him.

I shuffle closer, unsure.

He smiles. “Well, boyfriend, that’s sweet and all, but I’m going to have you come up to my room with me. I want you to strip, and then kneel with your legs apart, with your hands on your knees. Think you can do that for me, sweetness?”

I feel the flush crawl up my neck and onto my cheeks, excitement sending goosebumps racing across my skin. I hurry over to the stairs. “Yes, Sir,” I say, and as I pass him, he pulls me back.

Fingers hooked into the waistband of my pants, he ducks his head forward so that his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of my neck. “Did you bring them?” he murmurs, and then glides the back of his fingers along the lace of my panties, knuckles dragging and bunching the fabric.

I let out a shaky breath, fighting the urge to jump him and have my way with him. “Yes, Sir,” I say, even though he already knows.

He palms my ass hard, his jaw ticking when he finally lets go. A hand at the small of my back pushes me gently, so I continue climbing the stairs.

I can’t help a small giggle, one that, as I look back, makes that signature dazzling smile appear on Sir’s face. The look is his warm green eyes is downright mischievous, so I focus on doing as he’s told and fighting the blush that tries to appear.

I follow directions; remove my clothes until I’m left with only the panties, panties I spent a fortune on specifically for Sir so he’d better appreciate this

I blow my fringe from my face, and just as I’m kneeling, the door opens.

He walks right past me, reaching for the stack of papers on the nightstand. My contract?

“Face the bed,” he orders calmly.

I shift so that I’m a foot away from the side of the bed, facing it with my eyes on the floor.

As he faces me, his footsteps cease.

I frown. That’s either really good, or really bad.

“Holy hell, Marcus . . . that’s beautiful.”

I smile, thank him, as he hastily makes his way over to my kneeling form, tossing the papers onto the bed.

I shiver as he falls to his own knees behind me, warm hands startling me at the bare skin of my backside. I fight to keep still, dig my nails into my thighs as his hands settle on my hips, above the lace. His fingertips press into the dip of my hip bones.

His hold on me tightens, soft lips appearing at my shoulder before they’re replaced by his teeth. “You . . . just . . .” He kisses and bites along my neck and shoulder. “. . . love to drive me insane . . . don’t you?”

I sigh, shift on my knees, feel the need for him rise in me. I hum in response.

“Kiss me,” he demands.

I turn my head over my shoulder, meet his lips in a fierce kiss that has me dizzy. He pushes forward, and forward still, until I’m leaning backward, my bare back finally reaching the cold hardwood floor as he holds himself above me.

He kisses me hard, in a way that almost hurts, makes it hard to breathe, but as he presses me to the floor I know I wouldn’t have any other way.

I’m shaking, getting hard, and he doesn’t stop. I don’t even want him to, not when it feels so impossibly good, but I push at his chest anyway for the sake of my lungs.

“Can’t—breathe,” I moan, feel a rush of warmth when he takes my mouth again, steals whatever breath I had left away from me.

It’s dizzying, addicting, and as he grips my wrist in his hand and presses it against the floor by my face, I’m ready to let him kiss me until I run out of air.

He pulls back suddenly, dragging his teeth against my swollen lip as he presses his other hand against my chest.

I breathe shakily, feeling kind of out of it. Sir’s kisses are dangerously addicting.

He’s a little out of breath too. “You like that?” he asks, his hand passing my sternum and pressing gently below my ribs, all as I’m trying to catch my breath. “Not being able to breathe?”

I nod, let my eyes fall shut.

He leans down for another breathtaking kiss. A shudder runs through me as I grow dizzier, my chest hurting a little with lack of air.

As he pulls away this time, he brushes the hair from my face. “Alright, back into position.”

He stands, leaving me feeling weightless, much too light as I return to my former kneeling position.

He blatantly palms the obvious bulge in his pants, throws me a small grin.

“I’m going to go downstairs for a moment, and while I do that, I want you to start looking over the contract. You shouldn’t feel as if you have to sign it immediately, okay? Take your time and feel free to express any concerns.”

I nod, eyeing the stack of papers in front of me.

He was walking toward the door, but stops.

“Yes, Sir,” I hurry, unhooking the pen from the top of the papers and burying my face into my work.

He laughs to himself. “That’s what I thought.”

I roll my eyes as he leaves the room. Sir is cocky. Luckily for him, it’s not obnoxious enough to affect his cuteness.

The first article basically just says I have to brush my teeth. No big deal, onto the next.

But the second article . . .

Sub shall maintain clean shaven genitalia, legs and arm pits at all times, unless instructed otherwise by Dom.


I huff, and circle the number two.

I circle number four as I reach that one, as well.

Sub shall journal daily including but not limited to—thoughts, concerns, what was learned and possible new interests to explore.

The idea of keeping a journal is outrageous to me, since the last and only time I ever kept one, my best friend read it and told our entire fourth grade class about it. I shudder. No way.

I’m only on article six when Sir comes back.

He walks directly over to the nightstand, and sets down an opaque red bag.

I eye it curiously, Sir raising a brow but not immediately reprimanding me. “What’s in it?” I dare to ask.

He smiles. “You’ll find out soon enough. Show me what you’ve got,” he says, and sits down on the bed before me.

I scoot forward until I’m between his legs, present the barely marked contract to him with both hands. As he takes it, I wrap my arms around his right leg, almost like I’m hugging it, and rest my head on his knee.

He spares me a small smile before continuing to read. “Okay, so right off the bat you’ve got a few concerns. Number two?”

I bite my lip. “Do I have to shave? I kind of like my hair . . . . Sir what if I get cold in the winter?”

He laughs. “Alright, how about a compromise. You shave all of your leg and arm pit hair, and I’ll let you get away with your pubic hair. You have to keep it in check, though—”

“Sir,” I mumble, embarrassed. ”Of course I do that, I’m not a Neanderthal . . .”

He shrugs. “Just specifying. Now, number four. Why is that an issue?”

I squeeze his leg, feeling stressed out just thinking of my bad diary experience. “Last time I kept a journal, my best friend passed it out to the whole fourth grade class . . . I never even got it back. I don’t like the idea.”

I focus on the light bouncing off the button of his pants, avoiding his eyes.

His knuckles brush against my cheek. “I can assure you whatever you write in that journal stays between us. I think it’ll really help you focus and have more control over your thoughts.”

I look up at him. “We have to hide it really, really good then.”

He smiles. “We will.”

He checks off that number, and we discuss each question after, all the way until nineteen.

He reads it aloud, just like all the articles prior. ”Sub shall count each stroke when being punished by flogging, caning, etc. and also must thank Dom following each stroke. I presume there’s no issue here?”

I grin, squeeze his leg. “You presume correct, Sir,” I say cheekily.

He gives me a flat, yet amused look, turning the papers back to me. “Limits,” he says simply, and hands me a sheet with a bunch of blank numbers I can fill out.

I don’t hesitate, write piss on the first line and circle hard limit.

He laughs. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

I smile back. “I’m just specifying that you need to abstain from pissing on my face, is all.”

“I’ll make sure to remember that,” he assures.

After completing almost the entire list, I pause.

“What is it Marcus?”

He’s looking at me, waiting patiently.

I smile. “How can you even tell?”

He shrugs. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I shift. “My knees are starting to hurt,” I admit.

He smiles. “Come here, then.”

He lends a hand to help me up, which I have to do slowly. I didn’t expect to be spending so much time on this. As I stand, he closes the gap between his legs and pats his thigh. “Sit.”

I sit, gratefully, with my back to his chest, legs beside his. He rests his head on my shoulder, his arms strung loosely around my waist.

I’m hyperaware of his arms against my bare stomach, half afraid he’ll start tickling me, but he doesn’t. Instead, as I’m finishing up, he begins to torment me, rubbing my thighs with warm, slightly calloused hands, far too close to my panty-clad member for comfort.

“Sir,” I mumble in complaint.

He ignores me, kissing along my throat and shoulder, before kisses turn to sucking, and from there, dragging his tongue up from my collarbone to my ear, making me quiver and squirm on his lap.

He holds me tighter to him with the arms around my waist, pulling me back and lifting his leg until he’s effectively gotten me hard again.

"Sir . . .”

I flush—that was more of a moan than anything.

"You’re so sexy in those pretty little panties, Marcus . . . I’m so hot for you right now . . ..”

His voice is low and raspy, sends shivers through me as I haphazardly scribble my signature across the dotted line.


He snatches the papers from me, flicking through them quickly before signing himself. Then, he tosses the contract on the nightstand beside the red bag, and suddenly flips me around onto the bed.

“Face down, ass up, sweetness.”

My nerves are lit with anticipation. I do as he says, pressing my knees and face to the mattress, hands laid flat on either side of my head. “Yes, Sir.”

He stands and retrieves the red bag with less patience than I would expect. It almost makes me laugh, but I hold it back, not wanting to start this off with a punishment.

From the bag, he pulls out heart-shaped, red padded handcuffs.

I giggle. “You’re joking—”

I don’t get to finish my comment when he slaps my ass so hard I move forward into the bed. I groan—the slap was not only hard as hell, but unexpected. He held nothing back.

“The only words I want to hear come out of your mouth are ‘Yes’ and ‘Sir’, is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” I bite out, gritted teeth because I’m still trying to get over the pain of it.

He runs a soothing palm over my sensitive skin; I can almost feel it turn bright pink in the imprint of his hand. “I think your choice regarding these—” he hooks a finger under the lace and follows it all the way down my ass until he’s so, so close to touching me where I desperately need him to. “- calls for a reward.”

I sigh, completely ready for that.

“However,” he says darkly, “In light of your attitude, I’m beginning to reconsider.”

Unfair—I barely had any sass . . . I moan in protest. “Please, Sir . . .”

He smiles cruelly, digs his fingertips into the blighted skin of my ass. “Yes, Marcus. Keep begging.”

I bite my lip, half tempted to remind him that he just recently limited my vocabulary to ‘Yes’ and ‘Sir’, if I wouldn’t literally get punished for it.

Instead, I beg my Sir. “Please, Sir, I need you to touch me—only . . . only you make me feel like this, I need it—”

“Are you going to be a good boy from now on?”

"Yes, Sir! Anything you want, just please touch me Sir . . .”

As my reward, he unhooks his finger from the lace of my panties to cup my bulge through the thin layer of red lace that barely hides it from view.

I shudder, already leaking a little and moving my hips into his hand for some much-needed friction.

“That’s sweet, Marcus,” he allows. “Now, how do you feel about hot wax?”

I shudder at the thought, feel the flood of warmth that washes over me as a flood of pre-come leaks from my swollen tip into the panties. ”Fuck yes,” I say, don’t regret it when he slaps my ass again. I lurch forward into the mattress, trying and failing to escape the way it burns and getting dizzy as the stinging fades into something far more addicting.

“Mouthy brat,” he accuses, but I know he likes it.

He reaches over to the bag, first pulling out a red ribbon. I watch in anticipation, contemplating the many uses for a simple ribbon, until he begins wrapping it around my ankles.

I bite my lip, fight the urge to reach down despite my cuffed hands and give my poor hard-on some much needed attention. My ankles are tied so that they’re close together, but still allow me the flexibility to spread my legs for my man.

And then suddenly his hands are on me, warm and slick. I shudder again, the heel of his palms dig into the muscles of my lower back, his fingertips dragging along my spine and putting pressure on either side as he works his way up.

My muscles grow loose and relaxed, my shoulders relaxing as Sir kneads the oil into my bare skin. He takes his time, covering every inch of me, the sensation of his hands petting every curve and edge of my body bringing me into a calm, serene headspace.

He puts down the oil, and picks up a simple white candle.

Our eyes meet, his ever-green and glimmering with something I can’t decipher. As he lights the candle, as the flame flickers to life, it reflects in his irises.

I smile to myself. “Dick me good, Sir.”


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