Back to My Reality
Continuation: My flat, my rules.
She lay there—arms stretched, wrists tied tight to the bedframe, blindfolded, breathing shallow. Her body already responding to my voice, my silence, the weight of the moment. I stood at the edge of the bed, just watching.
Mitchell squirmed slightly, her thighs pressing together.
"Don't move," I said.
She froze.
I sat beside her slowly, letting the mattress dip under my weight, letting her feel the anticipation like static in the air. I leaned in, lips near her ear. "Did I say you could squirm, girl?"
"No, Sir," she whispered.
I ran a single finger down her stomach—slow, deliberate. Her body trembled beneath it.
"You've had your little holiday. You were spoiled at the farm," I murmured. "You think just because you got fucked in a barn and came three times a night that you've earned rest?"
She whimpered.
"No, Mitchell. Now you work for it."
I stood and undressed in silence, letting her feel the space shift around her, hearing only my movements, my breath. When I returned to the bed, I brought the flogger. Soft leather, perfect weight. Her favorite, even if she'd never say it out loud.
I brushed it across her inner thighs, teasing her soaked skin. She gasped.
"Count."
The first strike landed lightly. Just enough to sting.
"One."
Again. Firmer.
"Two…"
By the fifth, she was moaning through the numbers. By ten, her voice was trembling, soaked in pain and pleasure.
I dropped the flogger and climbed on top of her, straddling her hips, grinding just enough for her to feel how hard I was for her submission. My hand wrapped around her throat—not tight, just enough to remind her who she belonged to.
"You've been such a good girl," I murmured. "But I'm not done with you yet."
I leaned in and bit her bottom lip, then whispered, "You're going to cum for me, but only when I say. And not a second before. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir."
I slid two fingers inside her—slow, deep, curling just right. She arched up into me, helpless against the ropes. I worked her slowly, rhythmically, bringing her right to the edge again and again, only to stop and pull back. She cried out in frustration, hips lifting off the bed.
I slapped her inner thigh. "No. You'll take what I give you. Nothing more."
"Yes, Sir," she whimpered, cheeks flushed, body shaking.
When I finally let her cum, it was explosive—her entire body convulsing, her mouth open in a silent scream, wetness soaking my hand, the sheets, everything.
But I didn't stop. I kept going. Over and over. Until she was gasping, overstimulated, tears leaking from beneath the blindfold.
And only then did I untie her.
She collapsed into my arms—spent, wrecked, glowing.
I held her close, wiping her tears, pressing soft kisses to her temple.
"Good girl," I whispered again. And this time, it wasn't about dominance. It was devotion.
Because when Mitchell surrendered, it wasn't weakness—it was worship. And when I took control, it wasn't cruelty—it was care.
She was my sub.
I was her Master.
And here, in my flat at the corner of Schoeman and Pretorius, that truth was carved into every wall, every breath, every bruise.