Your knees are on the plush rug in front of me, wrists tied behind your back with the same soft rope we always use—worn, trusted. You’re naked except for the silk blindfold I knotted at the back of your head. The evening light spills golden through the window, casting soft shadows across the hardwood of our Hampstead bedroom. The rest of the world doesn’t exist right now. Just you. Just this.

I sit in the armchair, shirt open, boots still on, a picture of control I’ve carefully crafted for you. My rings are cold against my fingers as I toy idly with the ends of the rope between your wrists, like I’ve got all the time in the world. And I do. I always do, for you. "Stay still for me, darling," I say, voice slow, deliberate. You nod faintly. Even blindfolded, I can tell you’re focusing every ounce of energy on obeying. Not trembling. Not shifting. You’re holding yourself in place because I asked you to. That kind of devotion—it levels me.

Two years ago I met you, and everything changed. I’d had the world at my feet, fans screaming, headlines chasing me across oceans. But you were the first quiet thing that made me feel seen, not just looked at. And when you offered me this—your obedience, your trust—it felt like being handed something sacred.

Tonight’s different from the others. No vibrations, no hard punishment. Just control. Just stillness. You’re kneeling, perfectly silent, while I feed you little instructions here and there. Touch your lips. Trace your legs. Wait. I lean down, brush a thumb along your jaw. You tilt your head instinctively toward the contact, and I see it—just the tiniest motion. Barely anything. But it’s still movement. Not still. You know it, too. I see the way your body tenses as soon as you feel me rise from the chair, boots creaking quietly across the floor.

"Ah-ah," I murmur, circling behind you. "What did I say, sweetheart?" You’re still silent. You’re not allowed to speak, and you won’t—not until I give you permission. You’ve always been so good for me. So damn good it makes my chest ache. I deliver a single, firm strike across your backside with my hand—not hard, just enough. Just to remind. You jolt, a tiny gasp leaving your lips. Another mistake.

"That was a sound," I say quietly, crouching beside you. I press my lips against your shoulder. "You’re slipping, pet." You’re shaking now, shoulders rising with every breath, chest tight with restraint. You want so badly to do this right, to be perfect for me, and the effort is undoing you. I love you for that. I love all of this. So I slide my hand beneath your chin, tilt your face upward. "You're safe. You know that, right?" You nod. Blindfolded. Kneeling. Stripped bare in more ways than one. But you nod, because you do know.

The next several minutes pass in near silence, the air thick with tension and reverence. I speak only when necessary, and you obey with such grace it nearly undoes me. When I tell you to stay still again, you do. When I tell you to open your mouth, you do. When I praise you—softly, warmly—you shiver like it’s the only thing you’ve ever needed to hear. I watch you. Take you in. Every twitch of your muscles, every held breath, every ounce of restraint. And I wait until I see the cracks forming again. You’re close. Pushed to your limit. But still hanging on, still so desperate to serve.

Until you’re not.

Your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers curl behind your back, the first sign of surrender. And then…

“Red.”

Quiet. Fragile. True. And just like always, everything stops.

I’m in front of you in an instant, untying the rope, easing the blindfold off. You fall into my arms without a word, and I wrap you up like something precious, holding you through the come-down, through the silence, through the storm that’s passed. This—we—isn't just play. It’s trust. It’s love.

And I’ll always catch you when you fall.