It had been over a week since that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I could still feel him—his hands gripping my skin, the weight of his breath on my neck, the way his gaze pinned me down as if I belonged to him. And yet, after all that, he’d disappeared. No calls, no messages.

Each day dragged, my mind swinging between replaying every moment we shared and questioning why he hadn’t reached out. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to him. Maybe it was just a one-time thing. The thought stung, but I couldn’t stop myself from hoping.

Then, last night, my phone buzzed. I wasn’t expecting much—a notification, something mundane. But when I opened it and saw his message, my breath caught:

“Are you free tonight? I want to see you.”

I stared at the screen, my thoughts spinning. What should I say? Should I even respond? But my fingers moved before I could stop them: Yes, come over. The message sent, final and irreversible, and I felt a rush of embarrassment. What would he think of me? Did I look too eager?

Time moved strangely after that—too quickly, yet agonisingly slow. I couldn’t predict what to expect, but I knew I wanted to be ready. I showered, did my makeup, and chose a dress that hugged me in all the right ways—effortless but deliberate. I wanted to look perfect for him, though I hated myself a little for caring so much.

When the knock came at the door, my heart leapt.

I opened it, and there he was, standing there as if no time had passed. He didn’t say much—just a quiet, “Hey.” But the way his eyes lingered on me, dark and intent, made my stomach tighten.

I stepped aside, and before the door even closed, he was on me. His lips crashed against mine, his hands gripping my waist, pulling me flush against him. It was hungry, almost desperate, as though he’d been waiting for this as much as I had.

We barely made it to the bedroom. His hands tugged at my dress, sliding it off my shoulders with ease, and soon it pooled around my ankles. He didn’t stop to admire or tease; instead, he pushed me back onto the bed and climbed over me, his weight heavy and commanding.

His hand was on my face before I could even process it. Fingers gripped my jaw, firm and unyielding, forcing my lips to part. My heart raced, caught between anticipation and surrender. Without hesitation, he spit into my mouth, deliberate and unapologetic.

The warmth hit my tongue, and I froze, breathless, as he held me there, his grip on my face keeping me still.

“Swallow,” he growled, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip.

I obeyed, trembling, as his thumb moved to press against my throat, a silent but possessive reminder of his control.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Before I could recover, he leaned in and spit again, this time letting it trail messily down my chin and onto my neck. His hands followed, smearing the wetness across my skin in deliberate strokes, as though he were marking me.

“You’re filthy,” he muttered, his voice low and taunting. “And I’m going to make you filthier.”

I gasped softly, the weight of his words making my stomach twist. His thumb pushed into my mouth, and I instinctively wrapped my lips around it, his dominance wrapping itself around me like a second skin.

“You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?” he asked, his tone almost amused.

I nodded, barely able to form words.

“Say it,” he demanded, his hand sliding to grip my throat.

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

“Good girl,” he said, the approval in his voice sending shivers through me.

What followed was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. He bound my wrists behind me with his tie, his movements effortless and sure. Testing the restraint, I found it unyielding, and something about that made my pulse quicken.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispered against my ear.

He moved me as he pleased, positioning me on my knees, pulling my hair to arch my back, and whispering filthy promises that made my skin burn. His hands explored every inch of me, finding spots I didn’t even know were sensitive.

He pushed me further than I thought I could go, making me beg for things I didn’t even realise I wanted. For his touch, for release, for more of the dominance that made me feel completely and utterly his.

At one point, he pinned me to the bed, his hands spreading me open as his mouth explored me, relentless and unyielding. I gasped and writhed beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of his focus. Even when I begged for him to stop, he didn’t—he pulled more from me, breaking me down piece by piece.

Each time I thought I couldn’t take any more, he found a way to pull me back in, to push me further. He spat into my mouth again, watching me with dark satisfaction as I swallowed without hesitation. The look of approval on his face sent me spiralling, my body trembling under the weight of his control.

When he finally let me collapse onto the bed, I was spent—every inch of me raw and hypersensitive. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath, but all I could feel was him—his touch, his voice, the way he’d claimed me completely.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over my thigh. His voice was softer now, but the weight of his words lingered, leaving me trembling in their wake.

By the time he was finished with me, I was shaking, unable to move, my body and mind utterly consumed by him.