Chapter 7
Three weeks into our dynamic, there’s a big shift.
It's subtle at first, like the way Ty's touches linger a little longer, the way his eyes track me with heat instead of just care.
The way I find myself leaning into him more, wanting more, needing more than just structure and rules and gentle correction.
His kisses last longer, sometimes are so fierce my lips tingle and swell.
We're at the cabin again on a Saturday night. It's become our ritual, we spend weekends here, while the weekdays are spent navigating our separate lives but always connected by text, by check-ins, by hour long conversations and occasional dinner dates. His work schedule is intense and there have been a day or two when I don’t hear from him. I’ve learned that as soon as he is able, he will send a text or a quick call to let me know he is okay.
But the weekends? They belong to us, or at least, so far they have.
I’ve embraced my little side with him in the cabin and discovered I love, and I mean love, arts and crafts.
Last weekend, he surprised me. He put a second desk next to his and fully supplied it with a stack of coloring books, markers, crayons, paint and even glitter.
I happily make picture after picture that he hangs on his fridge.
We’ve wrestled around, and yes, I’ve even had a spanking or two.
Not like the first one, these are on the spot correction as he calls it.
A quick fury of swats applied to my poor behind.
After each one, my clit is throbbing and my underwear is soaked.
If he’s noticed how my body responds, he hasn’t mentioned it.
I think he’s going slow sexually with me because I brought up how fast we were moving a few times.
If women blue balls were a thing? I’d have them.
I’m determined to break through to him this weekend.
I'm curled up on the couch with my laptop, supposedly editing photos for next week's content schedule. But really, I'm just watching him move around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, sexy forearms bared, completely at ease in his space.
Our space, I correct myself. Because, as he told me, it is now. Mine too.
“You're staring,” he says without looking up from the vegetables he's chopping.
“I'm admiring the view.”
His mouth curves. “Uh huh.”
I close my laptop and set it aside. “Can I help?”
“No, little girls don’t mess with knives. You can sit there and look pretty.”
“I already do that for a living.”
He glances at me then, and there's heat in his eyes. “Not like that, you don't.”
My breath catches. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says, setting down the knife and crossing to me, “when you look at a camera, you're performing. When you look at me like that, you're real. It means your audience doesn’t get to see this side of you, your little side. Only Daddy is lucky enough to explore that. And it means, no one else, and I mean absolutely no one else, better see you in nothing but a long tunic shirt and underwear. I’m the only one who gets to stare at the curve of your ass when you bend over. I see the way you are looking at me.”
He sits beside me, close enough that our thighs press together, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“Like what?” I ask, even though I know. Even though the answer is written all over my face.
“Like you want something.”
“Maybe I do.”
His hand slides to my knee, fingers splaying wide. “Then tell me what it is. What does my baby girl want?”
I swallow hard. “You. I want you. I want... more.”
“More of what, sweetheart? Use your words.”
Heat floods my cheeks, but I push through. “I want you to touch me. Really touch me. I want to know what it feels like when you're not just taking care of me but taking me. Inside of me. Owning me.”
His eyes darken. “That's very direct.”
“You said you don't do indirect.”
“I don't.” His thumb strokes the inside of my knee, and the sensation makes me shiver. “But once we cross this line, everything changes. Once I take you, I won’t stop taking you.”
“I want it to change.”
He studies me for a long moment, and I can see him thinking, see him weighing risks, considering consequences, making sure this is right.
“Stand up, baby.”
I do, on shaking legs.
“We're going to establish some things first. Safewords, limits, what you want and don't want. Because sometimes, in the bedroom, kinky play can turn intense pretty quickly.”
“I already told you my limits,” I say, impatient. I don’t want to go over any of this again. I want him to throw me on the damn couch and fuck my brains out.
“Tell me again. Out loud. So there's no confusion.”
I take a breath. “Nothing that leaves marks I can't hide. Nothing degrading. And I want to feel safe, even when you're in control.”
He nods. “Safeword?”
“Red to stop. Yellow to slow down. Green means keep going.”
“Good. And if you can't talk—if you're too overwhelmed or too deep in subspace to use words—what's your nonverbal signal?”
“I... didn't think about that.”
“Three taps,” he says, taking my hand and demonstrating on his own thigh. “Anywhere on my body. Three deliberate taps mean red. Can you remember that? If my cock is down your throat and you can’t speak, if you have a gag in, if you can’t vocalize, I need you to tap me three times.”
“Yes, sir.”
His expression softens. “One more thing. This isn't just sex, Madison. This is me claiming you. Fully. Completely. Are you sure you are ready for that?”
My pulse is in my throat. “Yes.”
“Then bedroom. Now.”
The walk down the hall feels like miles. My heart is pounding so hard I'm dizzy with it. But when we step into his bedroom—our bedroom—and he closes the door behind us, everything else falls away.
“Strip,” he says quietly. “Slowly. I want to watch.”
My hands shake as I reach for the hem of my shirt. His eyes never leave me as I pull it over my head, leaving me standing there in my bra and underwear. I reach for the back of my bra, but he clears his throat and makes a circular motion with his finger.
“Turn around.”
I do, and I feel his gaze like a physical touch, tracking every curve, every line.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Absolutely perfect. Now the rest.”
I reach back to unhook my bra, let it fall. Then slide my panties down, stepping out of them with as much grace as I can manage while completely naked and vulnerable.
“On the bed,” he says. “On your back.”
I climb onto the mattress, acutely aware of how exposed I am. He circles the bed slowly, looking at me from every angle, and the way he's studying me should feel clinical.
Instead, it feels like worship. He’s memorizing every dimple, every freckle and every curve on my body. Looking at me like a starving lion about to devour his prey.
He strips off his own shirt, revealing a body that's all lean muscle. There are scars, more than most men carry. Some are faded, some newer and I want to ask about each one. Want to map them with my fingers and my mouth. I want to know him as intimately as he knows me. I reach for him.
“Later,” he says. “Right now, this is about you.”
He joins me on the bed, settling between my thighs but not touching me where I desperately need him to.
“I'm going to make you feel good,” he says, voice low. “And you're going to let me. No hiding. No holding back. If it's too much, you use your words. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good girl.”
His hands skim up my thighs, his touch is feather-light, barely there, making me squirm. When I try to press closer, his hands clamp down, holding me in place.
“Stay still. Take what I give you.”
The command settles over me like a physical weight. I force myself to go still, to let him set the pace. It’s much harder than I thought it would be.
“That's better.”
His mouth follows the path his hands traced, and he kisses along my inner thigh, getting closer and closer to where I'm aching for him. My clit is pulsing and I want so badly for him to touch it, lick it, do something to it… When he finally puts his mouth on me, I cry out, arching off the bed.
He pins my hips down with one forearm and works at eating me out with devastating precision.
His tongue and lips apply just the right amount of pressure.
Enough to drive me fucking insane but not enough to hurt.
I feel the orgasm building and when I try to squirm away from the intensity, he tightens his hold.
“You can take it,” he says against my skin. “I know you can. You are going to be a good girl and orgasm for me.”
And he's right. I let go of all control and lay there, with this beautiful man between my thighs, lapping at my clit.
It feels good. So damn good. He inserts a finger into me and the first orgasm hits, so intensely I see stars.
But he doesn't stop. He works me through it and right into another one, not letting up until I'm shaking, oversensitive, begging incoherently. I’ve never had back-to-back orgasms; never knew it was possible.
He pulls back, wiping his mouth with a satisfied expression.
“You taste like heaven,” he says. “And you look even better when you come apart for me.”
I can't form words. Can barely form thoughts. I'm floating, weightless, completely wrecked. He strips off the rest of his clothes, and my mouth goes dry. He's gorgeous and his cock is hard and ready.
He reaches for the nightstand and pulls out a condom. I watch, as he rolls it on. Even after two orgasms I realize I need more. I need to feel him inside of me, completing me as I know only he can do.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
“You. Inside me. Please.”
He lines himself up and pushes in slowly, so slowly I could cry from the anticipation. The stretch is intense, perfect, exactly what I need.
When he's fully seated, he pauses. “You okay?”
“More than okay.” If this man checks in with me one more time…
As if reading my mind, he thrusts forward and starts a controlled rhythm, hitting exactly the right angle with every thrust. His hand fists in my hair, roughly tilting my head back so he can kiss my throat.
“Mine,” he growls against my skin. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp. “All yours.”
“That's right.”
He picks up the pace, and I wrap my legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust. The pleasure builds again—impossibly, overwhelmingly—and I'm right on the edge. A third orgasm might just kill me.
“Come for me,” he commands, bringing his hand between our bodies and rubbing at my clit. “Now, Madison.”
I shatter, screaming his name into the room. He follows seconds later, groaning as he pulses inside me.
We stay locked together for a long moment, both breathing hard. Then he pulls out carefully and disposes of the condom before returning to gather me into his arms.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
I nod against his chest, completely boneless. “More than okay.”
“Good. He presses a kiss to my forehead. Because we're just getting started.”
The promise in those words makes me shiver. “That sounds like a promise.”
“It is.”
Later, after we've showered and he's made us dinner, we curl up on the couch together. I'm wearing his shirt and nothing else, and his hand rests possessively on my thigh.
“This is my favorite version of you,” he says.
“Half-naked and freshly ravished?”
“Content. Safe. Mine.”
I smile against his chest. “I am now, you know. Yours.”
“I know. And I'm never letting you go.”