The ache built slowly.Molten.Relentless.He edged me carefully, intentionally, each cycle another lesson in patience.
“Please, Sir,” I sobbed finally.“Please, I want to come.I want to release...for you.”
The silence stretched until I thought I might shatter.
Then he said, “Come.”
I broke.The orgasm tore through me, violent, holy, volcanic.I crumpled, muscles failing, tears streaking down my cheeks.
Creed caught me.His arms around me.Heat at my back.His presence calm, strong, sure.“You’re safe,” he whispered.“You’ve earned your place.”
And I had.
Through trust.Instruction.Choice.
Because with Creed Kirkland, obedience was not submission to his ego.
It was devotion to something far deeper.Discipline.Connection.And the power of being truly seen.
* * *
IBARELY HAD A CHANCEto crawl onto the bed and catch my breath before Creed moved behind me, calm, present, entirely in command of the moment, not through force, but with intention.His hands skimmed over my shoulders, fingers brushing the collar with gentle authority.When he pulled the leash, it wasn’t a yank.It was a reminder.
The heat of his naked body radiated like an oath behind me.The slow, deliberate way he touched me, each finger trailing fire along my spine, wasn’t lazy.It was precise.Controlled.Every move earned its place, and every inch of skin he marked was done with awareness.
“You still think trust is something earned in a night?”he asked.His voice wasn’t mocking, it was challenging.Evaluating the foundation we’d already built.
I bit my lip, my breath shaky.“No, Sir.”
“Good girl,” he said, affirming.The warmth of his mouth brushed my ear, sending a shiver through my bones.“Then follow me.Breathe.Listen.”
His words didn’t strip me of power.They gave me focus.
His hands framed my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks with surprising gentleness.The kiss that followed was slow, controlled, deepened by restraint rather than urgency.
I felt him guiding me into position, each adjustment made with reverence.He wasn’t manipulating me.He was shaping our moment together.I responded with my body, my voice, my choices.Not because I was collared.But because I had chosen this.
He reared back.Watching as a leader seeing a willing student poised to learn.I felt the anticipation burn hot and rooted in the pit of my belly.
“You want to earn my trust?”he asked as if my answer still mattered.His voice was velvet and steel.
“I do, Sir.”I pressed my forehead to the cool sheets.Grounded.Ready.
His silence wasn’t emptiness.It was space for me to breathe, to absorb, to align.In that pause, power shifted again.Not away from me, but toward something we held together.
Every touch carried instruction.When he shifted me closer, it was with intention.When he drew back, it was to make me follow.The rhythm built through alignment, breaths syncing, tension tightening, release delayed just long enough to feel like devotion rather than demand.
“Look at me,” he said again.
I did.And this time, when his control tipped into want, he didn’t hide it.He trusted me with it.
My body tensed with anticipation.Because this was a man who didn’t act without care.
“You feel that?”he asked.“That’s trust.Built.Earned.”
I swallowed hard.“Yes, Sir.”
“Despite everything.Your honesty.The fact that you stayed,” he said quietly, fingers trailing lower.“That means something.”
