I leaned forward, reverent, pressing a kiss to the head of his cock.My tongue traced slowly down the underside, tasting skin and tension, heat, and salt.Every motion deliberate.Every breath shared.
Creed exhaled, not a growl.A sigh.As if my touch settled something deep inside him.
His hand slipped into my hair.When he spoke, his voice was low, clear.“Take it in your mouth.At your pace.Only what you want.”
I opened.
Leashed.Collared.Chosen.Instructed.
My lips closed around the head, and I eased him in, slowly.Learning him again.His breath caught, and the leash between us pulled gently, a thread of presence.
“You’re perfect like this,” Creed said.“Focused.Present.Mine, in the way we agreed.”
His praise sank into me.Grounded.My moan around him was soft and deep, vibrating through both of us.
He began to move, slow, measured strokes.And I adjusted, followed, and responded.My lips sealed tighter.My throat opened inch by inch.
The pull on the leash tightened, just enough to remind me.
Of our dynamic.
Of our agreement.
Of his responsibility.
“You’ve missed this,” he said.“The structure.The care.”
“I have,” I whispered when I surfaced.“All of it.”
“Deeper,” he said, and I nodded before taking him again, slowly, consciously.Not to endure.But to choose.
His voice grew rough.“Peyton.You know what this means to me, don’t you?”
I held him still, lips around him, eyes up.
He paused, then slipped free.He crouched in front of me again, his gaze anchoring mine.
“I want to hear it.You still consent to this?”
“I choose this,” I said.My voice didn’t shake.“I trust you, Sir.”
That’s what turned his breath to fire.
It wasn’t my mouth.
My choice.
Creed nodded once, satisfied, and tugged the leash softly.“Crawl to the bed.”
The motion was grounding, palms to the floor, knees aching with effort.Each movement intentional, shaped by my consent.The leash trailed behind me like a tether, not binding me, but connecting us.
The earlier spanking still echoed faintly across my skin, a quiet throb reminding me of the discipline we’d shared.The soreness was no longer pain; it was presence, layered into every step.
When I reached the bed, I knelt.
“Arms up,” he instructed.“Back arched.”
His voice was low.Assured.Instructional.
