She swallows. I can hear it.
I crouch, just enough to let my fingers slide through her hair, gathering it at the nape of her neck, tugging just hard enough to make her gasp.
“If you move,” I murmur, “if you so much as twitch out of place before I get back…”
A pause. Tension coils in the silence.
“…you won’t be enjoying the punishment you’ll receive.”
I release her hair and stand tall again.
“And don’t even think about crying,” I add, turning toward the door. “That won’t save you.”
Then I leave, the sound of the door clicking shut behind me as she stays there, exactly where she was told.
Waiting.
Two hours pass.
She doesn’t know it yet, but the silence—the waiting—was the point. I didn’t leave because I had to. I left because, after all this time, brats still deserve gifts.
It’s now dawn, and I should be mad we fought instead of spending the night fucking, but on occasion, even I have to digress.
She stayed on her knees the entire time, earning her reward without even knowing it. Not because she's obedient, not really. But because she knows better now. Because the moment she even thinks about testing me, she hears my voice in her head.
Because control isn’t just about the hand at her throat, it’s about the space I leave behind. The absence that fills her mind with me.
And while she knelt on the cold floor, heart pounding and thighs clenched, I was giving her exactly what she wanted.
It’s all part of the same play. My obsession with her, my control. I want everything she does to be touched by me. Everything she’s provided, all that she consumes, everything she knows. Me.
Because if I want to keep her leash short, and I do, I have to be smart enough to give her a little lead now and then. Let her run in circles. Let her believe, for a fleeting moment, that she has room to breathe.
Only to tug her back when she forgets who’s holding the chain.
When I return, she’s exactly where I left her, her spine tight, her breath shallow, her eyes flicking up the second the door creaks open.
I say nothing at first. Just stand in the doorway and watch her.
Then I walk through the room to my adjoining bathroom and wet a washcloth with warm water to wipe my cum from her skin.
I crouch down in front of her, pleased that she hasn’t moved, and wipe her off. Once satisfied she’s clean, I gently take her hands in mine.
“Up,” I say softly, guiding her to her feet like she’s something breakable. She rises, stiff, like she’s unsure if this is still a game or the part where the punishment begins.
Instead, I hand her a folded bundle, one of my sweaters, thick and worn soft with time, a heavy wool coat, and a pair of socks. Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t speak.
“Put these on,” I murmur.
She obeys, slipping into the oversized clothes, drowning in the scent of me, just how I prefer her. She pulls the coat tight around her like armor, still confused, still trying to solve a puzzle she hasn’t been given all the pieces to.
“Where are we going?” she finally asks.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I lead her through the house, down the quiet hallways, into the kitchen.
When we reach the back door, she stares at it like it’s a trick. I nudge it open and gesture to the wellies waiting on the mat, sliding my own on. She slips them on wordlessly, still watching me like she’s trying to catch me in a lie.
