Two words and I'm already melting, my knees going weak. I have to grab the doorframe to steady myself.
He comes in, those observant eyes taking in everything about my space. Books everywhere, obviously. Soft colors, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, too many throw pillows on the couch. It's the complete opposite of what I imagine his place looks like - probably all dark wood and minimal furniture and nothing frivolous anywhere.
"This is very you," he says, and it doesn't sound like an insult.
"Disorganized and chaotic?"
"Soft. Welcoming. Like someone actually lives here instead of just existing between deployments." He turns to face me fully. "Where's your list? The updated one with limits?"
I hand him a new one, still laminated because I'm constitutionally incapable of doing things halfway. This one's even more detailed than yesterday's, with hard limits in red, soft limits in yellow, and things I'm curious about in green.
"Hard limits," he reads carefully. "No humiliation or degradation. No sharing with others. No age play beyond dynamic - you want to be little but not childish. Standard and reasonable. Soft limits..." He looks up at me. "Public play, anal, pain beyond spanking. We can work with that. These aren't never, they're not yet."
"Exactly. Not yet. Maybe someday with enough trust, but not now."
"You have a list too, right? You said you had conditions."
He pulls out a folded paper, handwritten in surprisingly neat script. "No permanent marks. No interference with work or family obligations. Safe words always respected without question, end of discussion. Green, yellow, red system that you can use at any time for any reason. And complete honesty from both of us, even when it's hard."
"That's it? That's your whole list?"
"I'm simple. You're the one who needs structure and detailed guidelines." He sits on my couch, pats his lap in clear invitation. "Come here, Charlie."
I go with shaking legs, settling awkwardly across his thighs. He adjusts me easily like I weigh nothing, getting me comfortable in his lap.
"Tell me about Dylan. What did he do that made you leave?"
Not what I expected. "Why do you need to know that?"
"Need to know what damage I'm working with. What behaviors I should avoid. What triggers you might have that I need to be aware of."
I tell him. All of it. The controlling behavior that was disguised as care and concern. The insults that were wrapped up in worry about my health or my appearance. The way he made me feel like I was never enough, never good enough, always falling short of his expectations no matter how hard I tried.
Marshall's hand tightens on my waist as I talk. "Did he ever hit you? Ever get physical?"
"No. Just... made me feel small. The wrong kind of small. Weak instead of protected."
"There's a right kind of small?"
"The kind where you feel treasured and protected, not diminished and weak. The kind where someone makes you feel precious and valuable, not worthless and stupid."
"That what you want? To feel treasured?"
"Yes, Sir."
His hand slides from my waist to my thigh, warm and heavy. "Did you follow my order? About the panties?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Show me."
My breath catches. "Marshall."
"Sir. And that wasn't a request, it was an order."
I stand on shaking legs, slowly lift my skirt with trembling hands. His eyes go wide as he sees I'm bare underneath, already wet and swollen from thinking about this moment all day.
"Christ, Charlie. Look at you. Such a perfect good girl, following orders even when they make you nervous. Look how wet you are for me already."
