Obedience Unlocked

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The Ache You Left Behind

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Steam-Bound Goodbye

She’s barely moved since I fucked her raw on the couch.

One leg draped over the armrest, thighs still slick and red from the way I held her down.
My cum is leaking out of her slowly — a mess between her legs, gleaming in the sunset light.

She looks utterly ruined.
Which is exactly how I want to remember her.

I should leave.
But not yet.
Not while her skin still smells like sweat and surrender.

I rise, grab her hand. My voice is low:

“Shower. Now.”

She stirs, wincing deliciously as she stands. Her thighs press together like she’s trying to hold me inside her.

I lead her to the bathroom.
The air thickens with heat as I turn the water on — scalding, punishing, just the way she likes it when she’s soft and aching.

She steps in, head tilted back, letting the water run over her chest.

I follow.
And the second I close the door behind us, I cage her against the wall.

“You think I’m leaving with this pussy still dripping and untouched?”

She gasps. “I—I didn’t—”

“Shhh. Don’t speak.”

I grab her hips and spin her around.

She presses her palms to the tile as I drop to my knees.
The water streams down her back as I spread her open from behind.

She’s so fucking soaked — not just from the water.
I watch a thick drop of my own cum slide down the inside of her thigh.

“Look at this mess,” I growl. “I gave you all of me and your greedy little cunt still wants more.”

I bury my tongue between her folds without warning.
Lick her slow and deep, from the mess at her hole to the sensitive pulse of her clit.
She moans — high, sharp, buckling against the wall.

“Stay still,” I snap, gripping her ass tight.

I eat her until she’s dripping again, cunt throbbing against my face, hands slamming against the wall like she’s praying for mercy.

I stand.

“Now you’re ready.”

I grab my cock, thick and already twitching from the taste of her, and slide it between her slick folds.

I don’t ease in. I take her.

Hard. Deep. In one brutal thrust that knocks a cry out of her throat.

“That’s it. Let me hear how much you’ll miss this.”

My fingers thread into her hair and yank her head back as I fuck her.
Every stroke slams her hips into the tile, her hands barely holding her up.

The water pours over us, but the sounds of sex still echo — wet, loud, unfiltered.

Her cunt tightens around me with every thrust, like it doesn’t want to let go.
Neither do I.

“You’re gonna walk funny tomorrow,” I whisper. “Gonna smell me all fucking day.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whimpers. “Want it. Want you deep. Want you to stay—”

I growl and slam into her harder.
The slap of my hips against her ass bounces off the walls.

She starts shaking.

“Don’t you cum until I tell you,” I hiss. “I want you on edge when I leave.”

She nods, mouth open, eyes wild.

I reach around, rub her clit fast and filthy, and when she’s right at the edge—

“Now.”

She cums hard — loud, violent, pussy pulsing around my cock as I fuck her through it.

I pound her until I feel myself crest.

Then I slam in deep and cum inside her again, spilling everything into the mess she already is — filling her until it leaks down her thighs, mixing with the water on the floor.

We both go still.

Her forehead rests against the tile.
Her body trembling, used, owned.

I press against her back, kissing her neck gently now.

“That’s how I say goodbye.”

She doesn’t answer.
She just breathes.

Heavy. Slow. Satisfied.

I pull out and watch it drip from her, hot and slick.

Mine.

We wash in silence.
I dry her with a towel, soft for once. Kiss her forehead. She leans into it.

I get dressed. She stays wrapped in the towel, glowing and marked.

At the door, she finally whispers:

“That was… goodbye?”

I smirk.

“For now.”

And then I leave her there — soaked, throbbing, filled with me.

Exactly how she wanted it.

 

Ruined Like You Asked

I shut the door behind us, and it’s like flipping a switch.

She’s still standing there in that dress—soft blue, short, innocent.
Her mouth says nothing, but her body screams.
Tense thighs. Bare legs. Lips parted like she wants to be fed.

I step forward, slowly. Let the silence stretch.

“You’ve been teasing me since brunch,” I say, voice low.
“You think I didn’t see you squirming in your seat like a wet little thing?”

Her breath catches. I don’t wait for an answer.

“Take off the dress. Slowly.”

She obeys.
She always does.

Fingers tremble as she unzips it, slipping it down inch by inch.
No panties—good girl. I taught her well.

Her nipples are hard, her inner thighs glistening, and fuck—she’s beautiful.
Obedient. Edged with need.
Her silence is part of the game. Part of her offering.

“You liked sitting across from me like this?”
I stalk toward her, circling. “Full of my cum, pretending to be polite?”

She nods once, shivering.

“I could’ve fingered you under that table,” I whisper into her hair.
“Made you cum while the waiter refilled your coffee.”

A small sound escapes her throat. I grab her jaw.

“No. Not yet. You’ll speak when I say, cum when I say, break when I say.”

She gasps as I spin her around and slam her back to the door.

Her legs wobble. I press my body against hers, one hand snaking between her thighs.
Soaked.

“Fucking dripping. You sat through an entire meal like this?”

“Yes, Sir,” she whimpers.

I don’t praise her. Not yet.

Instead, I lift her dress—just enough to expose her—and unbuckle my belt with one hard, deliberate motion.

The sound alone makes her moan.

I line myself up behind her, one hand gripping her throat from behind, the other pinning her wrist to the door.
And I take her.

No warning. No buildup.

Just a brutal thrust, full and deep—she chokes on a cry, her body arching against mine.

She’s so tight it’s fucking unreal.
Hot, trembling, soaking wet, wrapped around me like a vice.
Perfect.

I slam into her again. And again.
The door rattles. Her moans echo off the walls, raw and shameless.

“You wanted this,” I growl into her ear.
“Wanted to be wrecked, used, stuffed full again.”

She nods, gasping.

“You were such a sweet little thing at brunch,” I sneer.
“All polite and glowing. But this is what you are.”
I thrust harder. “A mess. My mess.”

She cries out when I slap her ass.
It stings loud and sharp, and her cunt clenches around me like she’s about to cum.

“Don’t you dare cum yet,” I snap.
“Hold it.”

She whimpers, her hands clawing at the door like it might save her.
It won’t.

I grab her by the hair and pull her upright against me.
“Who do you belong to?”

“You, Sir.”

“Who owns your holes?”

“You do.”

“Then cum for me now.”

She explodes—moaning, screaming, falling apart as I fuck her through it.
Legs shaking, eyes rolling back.

I don’t stop until I feel her pulse around me.
I thrust deep one final time and cum hard inside her, groaning as I fill her again.

Her body collapses against the door, spent and shaking.

I hold her there a moment longer, both of us breathing like we’ve run miles.

Then I gather her into my arms, lift her up—so light, so soft—and carry her to the couch.

I wrap her in a blanket, settle her on my lap. Her cheek rests against my chest.

I kiss the top of her head.

“You did well,” I murmur.
“So good. So fucking perfect.”

She doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t need to.

Her body says everything—
Safe.
Wrecked.
Loved.

Mine.

 

Wait is Over

Him (closing the door behind them):

Take off the dress. Slowly.

You’ve been teasing me since your first sip of coffee.

Did you think I wouldn’t notice?

Her (unzipping, lips parted):
I hoped you would.
I thought about you under the table.
My thighs were shaking for hours.

Him (stepping closer, lowering his voice):
And you were wet.
I could smell it when you crossed your legs.
You carried my want between your thighs like a secret offering.

Her (dress slipping down her hips):
I liked the ache.
Liked sitting there dripping with your come
while the world thought I was just glowing.

Him (brushing knuckles down her spine):
You walked beside me like you were mine.
Because you are.
You obeyed in silence, and that obedience was loud as sin.

Her (knees tightening):
Every word you said felt like pressure between my legs.
I wanted you to drag me into a corner
and remind me how I’m meant to be used.

Him (gripping her jaw):
You belong on your knees. Not for my pleasure—
but because it’s where you need to be.

Her (sinking, eyes wide, trembling):
I crave the weight of your hand in my hair.
The pull. The power.
I want your cock down my throat until I forget how to say “no.”

Him (unzipping):
Then open.
Let me fuck the good girl out of you with every inch.
You’ve been so obedient—
Now let me ruin that quiet.

Her (lips parted, desperate):
Yes, Sir.
I want to be wrecked.
I want to feel your need inside my mouth, my throat, my cunt.
I want to be nothing but yours.

Him (thumbing her lip, voice like gravel):
And you will be.
From the bruises I left last night
to the tremble in your breath now—
everything you are belongs to me.

Her (whispering):
Then take it.
Take all of me.
Break me open until there’s nothing left but your name in my mouth.

Him (pulling her up, slamming her to the door):
You’ve begged for this all day.
Now I’m going to ruin you properly.

Beneath the Table

Him (sipping coffee, gaze steady):

You’ve been shifting in your seat for an hour.

Is your cunt still full from last night, or are you just aching for more?

Her (blushing, voice velvet):
Both.
It’s hard to focus when I’m leaking into my thighs, Sir.
You marked me deep.

Him (smiling faintly):
Good.
Every step you take is a reminder:
You’re used.
You’re owned.

Her (tracing the rim of her glass):
And every word you say drags me deeper.
I feel your voice like a hand between my legs.

Him (leaning in slightly):
If I slipped my hand under that dress right now—
Would I find you dripping?

Her (swallowing hard):
Yes.
You wouldn’t even need to touch.
Just your fingers near me would make me tremble.

Him (voice low, calm, deadly):
You want me to wreck you again, don’t you?
Right here.
Right now.
If I told you to excuse yourself and wait for me in the restroom—
Would you?

Her (breath hitching):
Yes, Sir.
Without question.

Him (smiling into his coffee):
But not yet.
No.
You’ll sit there and suffer for me.
Smile when the waiter speaks.
Pretend you’re not soaked and ruined and mine.

Her (legs crossing tighter):
You’re cruel.
And I’m aching for it.

Him (brushing fingers over her wrist):
You’re glowing.
Everyone thinks it’s love.
But we know better.
You’re in heat, little one—
And I’ll be the one to put that fire out when we get home.

Her (whispering, desperate now):
How long do I have to behave?

Him (grinning darkly):
Until I’m done enjoying your restraint.
And then I’ll bend you over the nearest surface and fuck the good girl out of you.

Her (a shaky exhale):
Yes, Sir.

Her Wordless Obedience

She doesn’t speak a word of submission.

She doesn’t need to.

From the moment we step inside the café, her entire body shifts.
Her posture softens—but it’s not weakness. It’s surrender. The kind she offers only to me.

She walks a half-step behind me. Not overt, but intentional.
It tells me she’s in her space—that gentle headspace where she’s attuned only to my voice, my presence, my permission.

When we sit, she waits—just long enough—for me to gesture before settling into her seat.

A tiny glance, upward and sideways, barely noticeable to anyone else.
But I see it.
It’s her asking: May I?
I nod. She exhales.

Her fingers trace the condensation on her glass as she listens to me speak.
It’s not idle—it’s grounding. She’s focused, but her world is narrowed. Quieted.

She doesn’t interrupt. Not once.
When she speaks, it’s measured. Thoughtful. Polished—but not performative.
Her tone is soft. Not shy—controlled.

And her eyes—God, those eyes.
They flick to my hands constantly. Watching for a gesture. A signal. A shift in my expression.

She reads me like scripture, and responds with the smallest of things:
—knees pressed a little tighter
—shoulders straighter when I look at her
—a subtle parting of her lips when I mention how she looks

Then there’s her collarbone.
Bare. Exposed beneath the dip of her dress.
She tugs it once—slowly. A silent reminder. I remember who I belong to.

Her coffee arrives.
She stirs it the way I like mine, even though it’s her cup.
Then she pushes it toward me, just a little.
An offering.
I take a sip. She smiles—satisfied, like she’s just pleased me with the smallest act of service.

There’s a moment—quiet but potent—when she shifts in her seat. Crosses her legs, uncrosses them. Her breathing changes.
I know that look.

She’s wet.
From just the tone of my voice and the memory of my hand on her throat the night before.
No one else sees it—but I know every flush in her cheeks, every tension in her thighs.

When I brush my foot against hers beneath the table, she freezes for a breath. Then relaxes into it.

In Plain Sight

It’s just brunch.

Two people, a Sunday morning, a sunlit café with crooked chairs and the scent of fresh pastries in the air.

To anyone watching, we could be any couple—laughing, leaning close, trading sips of coffee.

But I feel the charge beneath her skin like a live wire.

She wears the dress I chose for her—soft blue cotton, just a little too short when she crosses her legs. No bra.

My command. Her compliance.

I watch her from across the table as she runs a finger along the rim of her glass.

Eyes lowered. Shoulders relaxed. But her mouth curves into a knowing smile.

She’s glowing. Not because of last night—but because she’s mine. Still marked, inside and out.

“You’re quiet,” I say, reaching out to touch her hand.

She smiles up at me. “I like being watched.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you talking about me or everyone else in here?”

Her blush gives her away.

I lean forward. Voice low. Calm.

“They have no idea, do they? That you’re sitting there with my cum still inside you. 

That I could snap my fingers and have you follow me to the restroom without a word.”

Her pupils dilate. I feel her thighs tense beneath the table.

“You wouldn’t,” she breathes.

“I wouldn’t,” I say. “Not today. Today you just get to be pretty for me. Obedient. Soft.”

She bites her lip. Her eyes dart down.

“Color?”

She looks up, instantly. “Green, Sir.”

Good Girl.

Morning Light

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After the Storm

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On My Command

She waits for me exactly as thought—

Naked, on her knees, back straight, 

hands behind her, eyes lowered.

I shut the door behind me and let silence stretch.
She doesn’t dare look up. Good girl.

“You were late texting me?”

I walk slowly around her, 

the click of my boots on the floor loud in the quiet room.

Her breath hitches—she knows what that tone means.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she whispers.
I grip her chin, lifting her face to mine.

“You will be.”

I take my time. I strip in front of her, 

but not for her—this is mine, this moment.

She looks up at me through lashes heavy with submission, 

need swirling in her eyes.

I grab a fistful of her hair and drag her forward. 

She stumbles but doesn’t resist.

She knows better.

“You want to be used?”
“Yes, Sir.”

I push her down.

My cock hits her lips, and she parts them like a prayer.
Her tongue works in practiced devotion, messy, eager.
Tears well in her eyes as I fuck her throat mercilessly—
no words now, just rhythm and dominance and control.

I use her mouth like a toy, then pull out with a growl.
“Get on the bed. Face down. Ass up.”

She obeys instantly—no hesitation, just that beautiful obedience.
Her body on display, vulnerable and waiting.
I grip her thighs and spread her wider.

My hand cracks against her ass—once, then again.
She gasps. Her skin blooms red beneath my palm.

“Count.”

“One... thank you, Sir.”
“Two... thank you, Sir.”

I don’t stop until her body is trembling, her thighs slick.
I slap her pussy once—hard. She cries out, but pushes back into me.
Perfect.

I grab her hips and slide into her in one brutal thrust.
She cries into the mattress.

She is soaked and tight, clenched around me like she was made for this.

I pound into her, hips slamming against her with each stroke.

The bed rocks. The room fills with the sounds of skin, moans, and power.
She claws at the sheets—
but she doesn’t run. She takes every inch.

“You’re mine,” I growl, gripping her throat from behind.
“Yes, Sir—yours, always.”

I thrust harder. Faster. I want her wrecked.
I want her broken open for me and no one else.

I flip her onto her back, grab her ankles, and fold her in half.
I fuck her deep, rough—her cries growing louder, her nails raking my shoulders.
“Sir—please—I’m going to—”

“Cum for me.”

She shatters beneath me.
Back arching, legs shaking, voice breaking.
I don’t stop. I fuck her through it, chasing my own release—
and when it hits me, I empty into her with a grunt, burying myself as deep as I can.

Silence follows. Only breath and heartbeat remain.

She lies beneath me, dazed and glowing.
Her body marked. Her mouth parted.

I lean down, kiss her temple, and whisper,

“Good Girl.”

Her Late-Night Invitation

My phone buzzes. Midnight.

Three words on the screen:

“I’m alone.”

A pause. Then another:

“No panties.”

Then one more—

“Door’s unlocked.”

I don’t smile.
I don’t need to.
Because this isn’t an invitation.

It’s a surrender.

She knows what she’s doing—
using words like a leash,
pulling me in from across the city
with that sweet, aching need she only shows me.

I stand.
Grab my keys.
No hesitation.

Because I know what I’ll find:
Her — on the edge of obedience and desperation.

Knees drawn up.
Lips parted.
Pussy wet and waiting like a prayer.

She thinks she’s calling me over.
But really, she’s summoning the storm.

I won’t knock.
I never do.

I’ll walk through that door,
strip the silence from her room,
and remind her who she belongs to.

I’ll bend her over whatever surface is closest.
Sink into her without a word.

Fuck her until she remembers my name in gasps, not sentences.

Because when she says come over,
what she means is—

Take me.
Own me.
Don’t stop until I’m wrecked.

And I will.
Every time.