Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter One

Kara Thompson sat at her kitchen island, scrolling through her phone with one thumb while the other hand absently traced the rim of her coffee mug. The house was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards settling overhead. It was a beautiful house—open-plan, high ceilings, tasteful gray tones that she and Ethan had chosen together from a designer’s mood board five years ago. Everything in it was carefully curated, from the marble countertops to the abstract prints on the walls. It looked like the kind of life people posted about. It just didn’t feel like it anymore.

Ethan was upstairs in his home office, door closed, headphones on, finishing a presentation for tomorrow’s client meeting. He’d kissed her forehead on his way up—quick, automatic, the way you pat a dog you love but don’t have time to play with right now. She’d smiled back, said “Take your time,” and meant it. He worked hard. They both did. That was the agreement: good jobs, good money, good life. Somewhere along the line the rest was supposed to follow.

She opened the dishwasher and began unloading it with mechanical efficiency, stacking plates in the cupboard she could reach without stretching. At thirty-one, she still turned heads—dark hair that fell past her shoulders, green eyes that photographed well at parties, a body she kept toned with early-morning runs and the occasional Pilates class. Ethan told her she was beautiful the way people comment on the weather: factual, pleasant, unurgent.

Their bedroom routine had settled into the same quiet predictability. Friday nights if neither of them was too tired. Lights low, missionary, the same three positions they’d discovered in college and never really expanded on. He was gentle, considerate, always asked if she’d finished even when they both knew the answer. Afterward he’d pull her close, murmur “Love you,” and fall asleep within minutes. She’d lie there listening to his breathing even out, staring at the ceiling fan, feeling the faint throb of unmet need fade into a dull, familiar ache.

Lately that ache had started following her into the daylight hours.

It began innocently enough: a book recommended by a friend who’d whispered “It’s spicy” with a conspiratorial grin. Kara read it in snatches—on the train, in the bath, late at night when Ethan was already snoring. The story was about a woman who signed away control to a man who knew exactly what to do with it. The details were explicit, unapologetic. Kara found herself reading certain pages twice, three times, her breath shallow, thighs pressing together under the covers.

After that, the internet became a rabbit hole she visited only after the house was dark and still. Private browsing. Sites with discreet names. Forums where people spoke in calm, matter-of-fact tones about rules and rituals, punishment and reward. She never posted, never commented. She just read, heart hammering, imagining herself in their place—on her knees, wrists bound, voice trembling as she asked permission for things she’d never dared say out loud.

The shame came in waves. She was a grown woman with a mortgage, a 401(k), a husband who brought her coffee in bed on weekends. She wasn’t supposed to want this. But the wanting grew anyway, quiet and insistent, until it colored everything.

One Thursday evening in early December, after Ethan had kissed her goodnight and rolled away, she opened her laptop on the living room couch. The blue glow lit her face as she typed a URL she’d bookmarked weeks ago: a private, vetted networking site for people who shared her hidden curiosity. She’d created a profile on a whim—minimal photo, no real name, just enough information to prove she wasn’t a bot. She hadn’t expected anyone to message her.

But someone had.

His username was simply D. Pierce. The profile picture showed only a strong hand resting on dark leather—no face, no identifying marks. His messages were direct, patient, never crude. He asked questions that made her squirm in her seat: what she feared most, what she craved when no one was watching, whether she’d ever said “no” and wished someone hadn’t listened. She answered carefully at first, then with growing honesty, fingers flying over the keys in the dark.

Weeks passed. Conversations deepened. He required small proofs of seriousness: a photo of her knees on the bathroom tile, a voice note saying his chosen title—Sir—for the first time. Each task left her flushed and breathless, equal parts terrified and alive.

Now, on December 29, 2025, she stood in front of her bedroom mirror after her shower, towel wrapped loosely around her. Ethan was downstairs watching a game, volume low out of habit. She let the towel drop and studied herself critically, the way she imagined he would tomorrow. Smooth skin, faint tan lines from last summer’s vacation they’d spent mostly reading separate books by the pool. She turned sideways, ran a hand over the curve of her hip, wondering if she was still capable of inspiring the kind of hunger she read about.

Her phone buzzed on the dresser.

D. Pierce: Tomorrow, 7 p.m. Wear a dress. Nothing underneath. Shave completely. Bring only your license and your honesty.

Her stomach flipped. She typed back with trembling thumbs.

Yes, Sir.

She deleted the thread immediately, as always. Then she opened her closet and pulled out the simple black wrap dress she’d bought last month and never worn. She laid it on the bed, ran her fingers over the soft fabric, and felt the ache sharpen into something almost sweet.

Downstairs, Ethan called up that he was heading to bed. She answered that she’d be there soon, voice steady, ordinary. She hung the dress back up, turned off the light, and climbed the stairs to join her sleeping husband.

In the dark, she lay on her back and listened to his quiet breathing, one hand resting lightly on her stomach just above the place that throbbed with anticipation. Tomorrow everything stayed the same on the outside: the house, the marriage, the life they’d built. But inside, something had already begun to shift, slow and inexorable, like a tide she no longer wanted to hold back.

 

Chapter Two

Kara pulled into Damien’s driveway at precisely 6:59 p.m., the engine ticking as it cooled in the winter air. The porch light was on, soft and steady, the only glow in the quiet cul-de-sac. She sat for a moment with her hands on the wheel, wedding ring catching the faint dashboard light, then drew a slow breath and stepped out.

The black wrap dress clung to her skin, cool silk against bare breasts and thighs. No bra, no panties—just as he’d required. Every shift of fabric reminded her how exposed she already was, how far she’d come in a single day. She pressed the doorbell before courage could falter.

Damien opened the door himself. Dark jeans, charcoal sweater, sleeves pushed up. His eyes moved over her slowly, approving, possessive, and something warmer flickered there too—something that made her pulse stutter.

“Right on time,” he said, voice low. “Come in.”

He took her coat, fingers brushing the nape of her neck as he lifted it from her shoulders. The house smelled faintly of sandalwood and leather. He didn’t speak again until they reached the office she’d only seen in photos during their messaging: dark wood, low lighting, the contract waiting on the desk like a promise.

“Sit.”

She lowered herself into the leather chair opposite him. He remained standing a moment, letting the silence stretch, then sat and slid the document toward her.

“We review everything once more. Out loud. Then you decide.”

They went through it line by line. Hard limits. Soft limits. Safewords—yellow and red, simple and clear. Medical notes. Discretion—he understood her situation, would protect it absolutely. Three-month trial, either party could end it with a single message. Aftercare mandatory after every scene.

When they reached the submission clause, he nodded at the page.

“Read it.”

Her voice came out softer than she intended, but steady.

“I, Kara Elizabeth Thompson, freely offer my obedience and my body to Damien Alexander Pierce for the duration of this agreement. I consent to his guidance, his discipline, and his pleasure, trusting him to honor my limits and care for my well-being.”

The words hung in the air, intimate and irrevocable. Heat flooded her cheeks, but she didn’t look away when she finished.

Damien’s gaze held hers. “Any final questions?”

She shook her head.

He placed a pen beside her hand. “Then sign, Kara.”

She wrote her name carefully, the same signature she used on mortgage papers and birthday cards, now binding her to something secret and wild. He signed beneath her, strong deliberate strokes, then set the pen down with quiet finality.

“Stand up.”

She rose. He circled the desk, stopping close enough that she caught the warmth of his body. One hand lifted to the tie of her dress; he tugged it slowly, watching her face as the fabric parted and slipped from her shoulders. The dress pooled at her feet, leaving her bare except for heels and the thin gold band on her left hand.

Damien stepped back, eyes traveling over her with unhurried possession. He didn’t smile, but his expression softened in a way that made her stomach flutter.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Turn slowly.”

She did, feeling his gaze like a touch on every inch of skin. When she faced him again, he closed the distance.

“Hands behind your head. Feet apart.”

The position left her utterly open. His fingertips traced her collarbone, down between her breasts, over the tremor in her stomach. When he reached the smooth, bare skin between her legs, he paused.

“Already wet.” Not mockery—quiet wonder, almost reverence. “Your body knows what it wants before your mind catches up.”

Two fingers slid gently through her folds, gathering slickness, then rose to his mouth. He tasted her without breaking eye contact. A soft sound escaped her throat, half embarrassment, half plea.

He opened a drawer and withdrew the collar—simple polished steel, heavier than she’d imagined, with a small ring at the front. He held it up.

“This locks. I keep the key. You may remove it for work or family, but when you’re here, or when I tell you, it stays on. Do you accept it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He fastened it around her throat, cool metal warming quickly against her skin. The soft click of the lock sent a shiver straight to her core.

“Kneel.”

The rug was thick beneath her knees. He stood over her, hand resting lightly on her head.

“First rule: honesty. Tell me why you’re here.”

The words came easier than she expected, spilling out in the hush of the room.

“Because I’ve spent years pretending I don’t need this. Because gentle and safe stopped being enough. Because when I imagine someone finally taking control… I feel alive.”

His fingers tightened in her hair, not painful, just grounding.

“Good girl.”

He guided her through basic positions—kneel, present, inspect—correcting gently when her back wasn’t straight enough, her knees not wide enough. Each small adjustment came with a touch: a palm between her shoulder blades, a thumb along her jaw. When she hesitated once, he drew her across his lap on the wide leather couch.