Back to My Reality
Continuation: After the edge.
I might be her Master, but she is the one who taught me all this.
Taught me how power could be soft. How control could be an act of love. How trust—real, soul-deep trust—could live in the quiet moments after the ropes are untied, when the games are over and what's left is raw, honest skin.
Mitchell lay on her side now, pressed into my chest, still trembling from everything I'd just put her through. Her collar was still on. So were the faint tears drying on her cheeks. I held her tighter.
"You did so well, babygirl," I whispered against her hair.
She nodded into me, her voice hoarse. "Thank you, Sir."
That "thank you" always hit differently. It wasn't just about release. It was about surrender. About letting me into the places no one else got to see—the places she didn't even let herself feel unless I was there to hold the weight with her.
I reached over to the bedside table, grabbed a warm cloth, and gently cleaned between her thighs. She hissed softly, overstimulated, but didn't flinch. She trusted my hands, even when they had just broken her down.
Once she was clean, I massaged her thighs—slow circles, calming her nervous system, helping her float back down from subspace. Her body relaxed under my touch like it remembered this part just as deeply as the pain and pleasure.
"You hungry?" I asked softly.
She nodded, eyes still half-closed.
I got up, pulled on sweatpants, and moved to the kitchen. Fried up two eggs, warmed some leftover pap, poured her a glass of cold mango juice—her favorite. When I came back, she was sitting up now, tucked under the blanket, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy but glowing.
I fed her the first bite. She leaned into the spoon, lips parting gently, eyes never leaving mine.
"You spoil me," she said.
"No," I answered. "I honor you."
She smiled, and that smile—after everything—was the most intimate part of the night.
Because Mitchell gave me her body, yes. But she also gave me her mind. Her submission. Her faith.
And in return, I gave her this: safety. Structure. The freedom to fall apart in my hands, knowing I'd always put her back together.
That's the part people don't understand. They see the ropes, the bruises, the commands. They miss the heartbeat underneath it all.
She may be my submissive.
But she's also my teacher.
My mirror.
My obsession.
And when she curls into me afterward, whispering "I love being yours," I don't just hear it—I feel it.
Right down to the bone.