The thread was still around my neck when I opened the café.
It hadn't left a mark, not on my skin. But it had carved something deeper. Something under the surface. Every time I swallowed, I felt it. A phantom pull. A memory of fingers tightening without ever clenching.
James hadn't come back.
Not since that night on the floor. Not since I begged him without shame. Not since he watched me cry and called it beautiful.
It had only been two days. But in the new rhythm of my world, that felt like weeks. Like years. Like abandonment.
I wiped the same counter three times.
Emily, my shift partner, gave me a look. "You okay?"
I nodded. Lied.
She kept talking, but her words blurred. All I could hear was the silence James left behind. It wasn't emptiness, it was the kind of quiet that waits with a knife.
At noon, the phone buzzed in my pocket.
Key: Don't speak to anyone male today.
No hello. No explanation.
Just control.
And I obeyed.
Even when the delivery guy asked for a signature, I scribbled without a word. Even when my manager tried to joke with me, I smiled but didn't speak.
I wasn't sure if it was power or sickness that curled in my chest.
I just knew it felt good.
And that scared me more than anything else.
By the time I got home, the thread felt tighter. Or maybe I was just more aware of it.
The burner phone vibrated as I was slipping off my shoes.
Key: Turn off your phone. Tape the camera.
I stared at the message, heart thudding. Not just from the command, but from the fact that I wanted to do it before I even read it.
I followed the instructions like gospel. Duct tape. Silence. Then I sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
Another buzz.
Key: Kneel.
I slid off the bed.
Key: Send me a voice message. Say you missed me. Say please.
My throat went dry. The real phone was off. All I had was this outdated, preloaded audio recorder. I opened it. Hit record.
"James," I whispered, voice unsteady. "I missed you. Please. Please come back."
I hit send. My heart galloped. No reply came.
I stayed kneeling until my knees throbbed. Until my hips ached. Until it became devotion, not pain.
Then the door clicked.
And I knew.
He'd never truly left.
He said nothing when he entered. Not a sound as he closed the door, not a word when his shadow stretched across the floor and met the bow of my spine.
I didn't look up. I couldn't. Something sacred anchored me there, face tilted down, mouth slightly parted, arms loose by my sides.
His fingers ghosted over my shoulder, then down the slope of my back.
Still silent.
When he finally spoke, it was in a voice low and thick, like honey drowning in ash.
"You said please."
I swallowed. "I meant it."
"I know."
He moved past me, circled like a predator inspecting prey that had already surrendered.
"But I don't give rewards for begging," he said. "Not unless you beg with your body."
I inhaled sharply. My thighs pressed together on instinct.
He crouched beside me. His hand brushed my jaw.
"Take off the thread," he said, "and give it to me."
My fingers trembled as I reached for the knot.
He took it from my hands like a ritual object, then slid it into his coat pocket.
"You'll earn it back," he whispered.
Then he pulled out a length of black silk.
Something new.
Something worse.
Or better.
I didn't know yet.
But I knew I was ready.
He didn't use the bed.
He had me crawl to the wall, my knees raw against the hardwood, and brace my arms high over my head. The silk wasn't for my throat this time. It bound my wrists to the curtain rod above me, elbows trembling with strain.
"Open your mouth."
I did.
He slipped something in. Fabric. Dampened with his scent. I moaned behind it, tasting the leather, the spice of him. Then he tied it in place.
"Good girl."
Every nerve I had flared at the praise.
I didn't see what he did next. The blindfold came fast. But I heard the click of his belt, the creak of his boots as he circled.
I was suspended in anticipation, vision gone, limbs aching, heart punching against my ribs.
He didn't rush. Every second he withheld felt like a new kind of torture, a new kind of permission.
When he touched me, it was brutal and slow. His hands charted me like a thief committing the curves to memory. His mouth was everywhere I couldn't see.
When I cried into the gag, he groaned like it fed him.
And when I broke, shaking and slick, he held me afterward, still silent, still watching, still in control.
He didn't take me all the way.
Not yet.
But I knew he would.
Soon.
Because when he whispered in my ear before leaving, it wasn't a threat.
It was a promise.
Key : You'll be mine everywhere next time. Inside and out.