Knows every inch of my body, but this feels different.
More charged.
Like I'm offering something instead of just being seen.
When I'm completely naked, I stand there waiting.
Not because I have to, because I choose to.
"Kneel," he says.
I drop to my knees.
The position is instantly familiar—muscle memory from the intensive training eighteen months ago, but it feels completely different now.
Then, I was kneeling because I had no choice.
Because he owned me. Because disobedience meant consequences.
Now, I'm kneeling because I want to. Because I trust him. Because this is my gift to give.
"Eyes up."
I look at him. Meet those ice-blue eyes that used to terrify me and now just make me feel safe. Loved. Chosen.
"Color?"
"Chrome."
"Good girl."
The phrase hits different now too.
Then, it was manipulation. Conditioning. Training me to crave his approval so he could control me.
Now, it's just praise. Just acknowledgment. Just him telling me I'm doing well at something I'm choosing to do.
It makes warmth bloom in my chest instead of shame.
"You're so beautiful like this," he says, circling me slowly. "So perfect. I loved watching you kneel during training. But this—this is better. Because you're choosing it. Because you want to be here instead of being forced to be here."
"I do want to be here," I confirm. "I want to give this to you freely."
"Thank you. Stand up."
I rise to my feet smoothly.
Another muscle memory.
Another echo of training transformed into choice.
He leads me to the bed. "Lie down. On your back. Arms above your head."
I comply, my heart racing.
He produces silk rope from the nightstand—clearly prepared for this, clearly hoping I'd say yes.
"I'm going to tie your wrists to the headboard. Not tight. Not painful. Just enough that you can't move them. Enough that you have to surrender control. Is that okay?"
