Halloween night. London feels alive in that strange, restless way—streetlights flickering off wet pavement, laughter echoing from somewhere below the flat. I’ve been waiting for you, mask on the table, candles burning low. It’s been weeks since we’ve had time like this, and I can feel it under my skin—the need to reset you, and myself, in the only way we know how.

The mask stares back at me from the dresser. That familiar white grin. I slide it on, adjust the strap, and take one last look around the bedroom. Everything’s in its place. Rope coiled neatly, collar folded beside it, the air already warm from the candles. Control in order. Calm before the shift.

The sound of the door pulls me downstairs. Keys, your voice, the tired rhythm of your movements. You look drained when I see you—eyes heavy, shoulders tense. I stay quiet for a second, just watching. Then, steady: “Come here.”

You pause, glance up at the mask. I see the way your breath catches. Recognition flickers first, then that faint smile that always gives you away. You walk closer, slow, almost cautious. I take your coat, fingers brushing the nape of your neck. You’re warm from the cold outside, your pulse quick beneath my thumb. I keep my voice low, even. “Long day?” You nod, “Then you don’t have to think anymore,” I tell you. “I’ve got you tonight.”

Your body softens at that—tiny, involuntary. I guide you upstairs, hand resting at the base of your spine, steering you with quiet pressure. The candles throw long shadows across the room. The ropes wait on the dresser. “Undress,” I say, tone calm but firm. “Then kneel.”

You hesitate only for a heartbeat before you obey. I watch in silence as you undress, piece by piece, until you’re bare in front of me, all the noise of the day stripped away. When you kneel, I feel that familiar weight settle in me—a mix of protectiveness and possession. I walk to the dresser, slow on purpose, letting you hear the quiet sound of leather sliding through my fingers. “Hands,” I say when I come back. You lift them without a word. I crouch in front of you, one knee on the floor, the other bent for balance. The collar goes on first—cool leather against your throat, the faint click as it locks in place. My fingers linger there, feeling your pulse jump.

“Good girl,” I murmur, voice rougher now. “That’s it. Breathe.”

Your breath shakes a little when you exhale. I take your wrists next, bring them together, and wrap the rope around them in practiced loops. Not tight—just enough for you to feel the boundary. The knots slide into place with quiet precision.

I look up, meeting your eyes. “You trust me?”

You nod. That’s all I need. I rise to my full height, watching you for a beat, the shift of candlelight across your skin. There’s a quiet tension now—thick, electric, pulling both of us taut. I let it stretch before I speak again. “Get on the bed.”