The Flat Share Agreement: Chapter 9 – Where you belong

by Cat Boulder

Read chapter 1 here.

The flat was still, bathed in the low, syrupy gold of early morning. Alex sat at the writing desk, collar snug against his throat, the weight of it familiar now—but never casual. His knees were drawn up, bare feet tucked beneath the chair, a mug of untouched tea beside him. Across the room, the table was immaculate. The air, lavender-laced and quiet, pulsed with anticipation.

The message had arrived late last night, just as he was folding her silk blouse with careful precision.

“Hey, in town tomorrow—can I crash at yours?”

No punctuation. No warning. Just a sudden, sharp tug from another life. His sister. The only person who still remembered him before this.

He stared at the journal in front of him. The page was blank, but the tension in his chest wasn’t. It pressed in, low and tight, as if the collar had grown heavier overnight.

He began to write.

She doesn’t know. Not about the flat, the apron, the rituals. Not about Sophia. Not about… me. Not this version.

His pen hovered.

I want her to be proud. But proud of what? Of a man who kneels every morning before a woman he calls Goddess?

The word looked strange on the page. Not wrong. Just… too real. Sophia had never asked him to use it in front of others. Their dynamic lived in deliberate shadows, structured and private. And now, a spotlight loomed. His sister—sharp, kind, a natural leader in her own right—would walk into this space. Into *Sophia’s* space.

He set the pen down and exhaled.

The faint sound of movement stirred beyond the closed bedroom door. Her presence, though unseen, was already filling the space. A moment later, it opened.

Sophia stepped out, barefoot, wrapped in her dove-grey robe. Her hair was loosely pinned, strands falling in casual elegance around her face. She moved like she always did—unhurried, fully composed. Her gaze passed over the room once, settling on him last.

Alex stood automatically, collar warm against his skin, and bowed his head slightly.

She paused. Studied him.

“You’ve been up early.”

Her voice was velvet-wrapped command. Calm. Cool. Designed to draw out the truth.

“Yes, Sophia,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She crossed to the coffee he’d prepared, lifted the cup with a satisfied hum, and sipped. He watched, as he always did, for the smallest sign—approval, displeasure, anything.

It came in the form of a single glance. Over the rim of her cup.

“Tell me.”

He didn’t hesitate. “My sister messaged. She’s in town tomorrow. Asked to stay.”

Sophia’s brows lifted—just a breath of reaction, quickly reined in. She set the cup down.

“And you haven’t answered.”

Alex nodded, shame flickering across his face. “I didn’t know what to say.”

She stepped closer. Not cold. Not cruel. Just composed, as if weighing a chess move rather than judging his anxiety.

“You will say yes,” she said simply. “And you will not pretend to be someone you are not.”

He blinked. “Sophia, I—what if she—”

Her hand reached up, fingers tracing the edge of the collar lightly. Not possessive. Not comforting. Just there. A point of contact. A reminder.

“You’re mine,” she said. “She doesn’t have to understand that. But you do.”

He looked down.

She let the silence linger.

Then: “You may tell her the spare room is clean. That it’s yours. That you’ve made a life for yourself with structure. With purpose.”

Her gaze sharpened, voice softening by degrees.

“And if she sees the collar, let her wonder. Let her ask. But don’t hide from the man who chose it.”

Alex swallowed hard. “Yes, Sophia.”

She stepped back, reclaiming her coffee. The moment was over. But the meaning settled deep in his chest.

“Send the message,” she said over her shoulder, already halfway toward her study. “And then prepare her room. Polish the mirror. New flowers. The eucalyptus, not the roses.”

Alex stood still, the phone trembling in his hand. He opened the message. Typed slowly.

‘Of course. I’ve got space. Looking forward to it.’

He hit send.

And then—he got to work.

~

The knock came right on time.

Alex wiped his palms down the sides of his trousers before opening the door. His shirt was crisp, dark blue with clean lines, and the collar—a slim, elegant band of matte leather—sat just beneath the neckline. Visible only if you looked closely.

Ella stood there in her usual city-chic chaos: long coat unbuttoned, curls escaping a loose bun, a bottle of wine in one hand and her phone in the other.

“There you are,” she said brightly, stepping in without waiting. “God, it smells incredible in here. Do you cook like this every night now?”

Alex smiled, closing the door behind her. “Pretty much.”

She paused just inside the hall, scanning the space. Her eyes were quick, but not intrusive. “Okay… who is she?”

Alex gave a soft, self-conscious laugh. “You’ll see.”

Just then, Sophia appeared—barefoot, clad in fluid black trousers and a soft ivory blouse, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck, an effortless knot of control and beauty.

“Ella,” she said with graceful ease. “Welcome.”

Ella turned, took her in for a heartbeat, then stepped forward and offered her hand. “This flat has your fingerprints all over it. Calm, curated… and not to be messed with.”

Sophia’s lips curved. “Ha!”

There was no tension. No false warmth. Just quiet appraisal—on both sides.
Alex, meanwhile, hovered at a respectful distance. “I’ve set the lounge.”

Sophia didn’t glance at him, but something in her tone softened. “Good.”

They moved into the open-plan living room where the candlelight flickered softly over glass, and a curated playlist underscored the room’s glow. A plate of warm bread, almonds, and olives was already laid out.

Ella settled into the sofa with an appreciative sigh. “This feels like a boutique hotel run by someone who reads Anaïs Nin on weekends.”

Sophia took the opposite chair, one leg crossing the other. “I’ll take that as praise.”

Alex brought the wine—Malbec, aerated properly—and poured it without ceremony. His movements were precise, confident, but never loud.

Ella raised an eyebrow as he handed her the glass. “Look at you.”
He met her gaze briefly. “What?”

“You look… grounded. Like you’re not trying so hard.”

Sophia didn’t speak, but her eyes lingered on Alex for half a second longer than usual.

The evening passed in a gentle cadence: wine, laughter, stories. Ella recounted a disastrous hiking date. Sophia responded with elegant restraint but listened intently. When Alex rose to clear the dishes after the first course, neither woman offered to help. And when he returned with dessert—figs, dark chocolate, and mascarpone—Ella gave him a long, appraising look before saying simply, “You’ve changed.”

Sophia gave the smallest nod, not looking at him but clearly hearing everything.

After a final round of coffee, Sophia stood and turned to Ella. “You’ll find everything you need in the guest room. Fresh towels, extra blankets if you prefer the window open. I’ll say goodnight.”

Ella blinked. “You’re leaving us unsupervised?”

Sophia’s smirk was effortless. “I trust Alex.”

Then she was gone—quiet as ever, leaving behind the scent of lavender and her signature poise.

They sat in silence for a few moments after Sophia’s door closed. The candle flickered between them, low and steady. Alex watched it, heart still racing—not with fear, but with something heavier. Something harder to name.

Ella finally spoke. Calm, casual—but not unkind.

“So,” she said, “you’ve gone and let someone collar you.”

Alex looked up, caught the glint of humour in her eyes—but also the edge beneath it. “Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

She leaned back, arms folded, giving him a long once-over.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” she murmured. “But weirdly… it fits.

You’ve always been drawn to women with backbone. This one just had better timing and a better tailor.”

Alex tried to laugh. It came out tight.

“She’s…” He stopped. Tried again. “She sees something in me. And somehow, being under her makes me feel more like myself.”

Ella held his gaze. “That’s the part I get.”

He looked surprised.

“I don’t need to understand the details, Alex. But I do recognise when someone’s not lost anymore.”

A pause.

Then, with a wry grin: “Still—Jesus. You got collared before you got a mortgage.”

Alex laughed—but the laugh faded fast. He ran a hand through his hair, unsettled.

“I don’t know what this makes me look like.”

Ella raised an eyebrow. “To who?”

“To the world. To you. To anyone who used to think I was… normal.”
She didn’t answer right away. Then:

“I think the world’s full of men pretending they’re in control and quietly falling apart. If you’ve found something that works—hold onto it. Even if people don’t get it.”

He nodded slowly, but the words didn’t land clean. Not yet. They just stirred the ache.

She softened. “For what it’s worth, you seem… proud. Scared shitless, but proud.”

“I am,” he said, voice quiet. “Both.”

They held each other’s eyes for a moment longer. Then Ella bumped her glass gently against his.

“To being weird in the ways that matter.”

Alex clinked back. “And surviving being seen.”

But after she went to bed, the flat felt heavier.

~

The guest room door closed with a soft click.

Alex stood in the hallway, frozen in the dim light. He could still feel the warmth of Ella’s presence, the echo of her laugh, the gentle firmness of her acceptance. And yet…

He felt exposed. Seen. And not entirely safe in it.

He walked slowly into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, hands just a little too quick, his movements suddenly stripped of their usual calm. The collar at his throat felt tighter. Not physically—but emotionally, like it marked him in a way the world might laugh at.

*You got collared before you got a mortgage.*

It was a joke. But it lingered.

He drank, then stared at his reflection in the glass backsplash. He didn’t look different. But he was. And now someone from the outside had *witnessed* that change. Someone who remembered the version of him who fumbled rent and half-finished novels and never surrendered to anything.

Now he knelt. Now he served.

And a part of him—small, petty, scared—wanted to run.

He set the glass down harder than he meant to.

Then turned—and walked into Sophia’s room without knocking.

She looked up from her desk. Her robe was loosely belted, a single foot bare beneath her curled leg.

Alex froze, immediately aware of what he’d done. But he couldn’t backpedal. His shame was too loud now.

“I need to talk,” he said, not quite looking at her.

Sophia said nothing. Just sat there, watching him.

He shifted, awkward. Defensive.

“She saw it,” he said. “The collar.”

Still, Sophia didn’t speak.

“I thought I’d feel proud,” he went on, voice rising slightly. “But all I felt was… ridiculous. Like some… pet project. Like if I explain it, I sound insane. If I don’t explain it, I sound ashamed.”

Sophia rose slowly from her chair.

He noticed how calmly she moved. How measured. Not angry. Worse—controlled.

She crossed to him, expression unreadable.

“You walked into my space without permission,” she said quietly.

Alex flinched. “I—sorry, I just—”

“You’re flustered,” she interrupted. “So you decided the rules didn’t apply tonight?”

Her voice wasn’t cruel. But it was cold. Clear. Like ice on steel.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Alex.”

He stopped.

She took one step closer, and her voice dropped. “I gave you structure so you could grow inside it. Not so you could abandon it the moment you doubted yourself.”

Alex’s chest tightened. His throat burned. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Sophia studied him, gaze sharp and steady.

“You mean, now that someone *you* respect saw it? Saw *you*?” Her words weren’t mocking—but they hit deep. “Now it feels real. That’s the fear, isn’t it?”

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t.

Sophia exhaled through her nose. Then walked past him, unhurried, out of the room. He stood in the silence, unsure if that was dismissal.

A moment later, she called from the lounge:

“Come.”

He followed.

Sophia stood by the window, her arms crossed loosely. She didn’t look at him when she spoke.

“You want to serve only when it’s private. When it’s safe. When no one’s watching.”

Her voice was calm. Measured.

“But the moment your past walks through the door, you question everything.”

Alex opened his mouth. Closed it again. His chest felt hollowed out.

Sophia finally turned to him.

“I chose you,” she said, voice softer now. “Not because you were already ready—but because I saw strength *under* the fear.”

She stepped forward.

“A man who can kneel without shame is rarer than a man who can fight.”

He blinked hard.

“I’m scared I’ll lose myself.”

Sophia’s gaze softened—just enough.

“No,” she said. “You’re afraid you already *found* yourself. And that version doesn’t fit the old world.”

Alex felt the tears coming before he could stop them.

“I don’t want to disappoint you.”

Sophia reached out—lightly cupped the collar at his throat, fingers warm and steady.

“Then don’t,” she whispered.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Sophia stepped back.

“Kneel.”

He dropped without hesitation. Not perfectly—but willingly.

“Head down.”

He obeyed.

Sophia turned away, returned to her chair, and sat with deliberate calm.

“You’ll sleep on the floor tonight,” she said evenly. “At the foot of my bed. To remember who you are when no one’s looking.”

Alex nodded. “Yes, Sophia.”

Her voice gentled just slightly.

“This feeling will pass. But your obedience must not.”

He bowed his head lower.

She let the silence stretch.

Then: “Go prepare your blanket. Then come to me. I’ll give you one more task before bed.”

“Yes, Sophia.”

He stood slowly, steadier than before.

Not healed.

But held.

~
Alex returned quietly, barefoot, blanket folded neatly over one arm. His face was calm again, his breathing steadier. The chaos had passed—not vanished, but contained.

Sophia sat at the edge of her bed, robed in dark silk, a single lamp casting soft amber across her skin. One leg crossed over the other, her bare foot rested lightly on the cool floor. She was serene, composed, but unmistakably watching him.

He stopped two paces from her and lowered his eyes.

“Place the blanket.”

He obeyed, unfolding it carefully at the foot of her bed, smoothing it out with quiet precision. The act grounded him. Simple. Service-focused. Pure.
When he finished, he turned to her and knelt without prompting.

Sophia watched for a moment longer.

Then she spoke.

“You broke structure tonight,” she said, voice low. “But you returned to it.”
Alex bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Sophia.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why you’re still here.”

She rose, moved toward him in a single, fluid step. Her bare foot brushed the edge of the blanket, and she stood close enough for him to feel the heat of her skin, her presence.

“I said I had one more task for you.”

Alex looked up, but only to her collarbone—never higher.
Sophia reached down, her fingers feather-light beneath his chin. She tilted his face up—not roughly, but not gently either. Just firmly enough to remind him she was the one who chose where his gaze went.

“You pleased me tonight,” she said, almost like an afterthought. “Not because you were perfect—but because you submitted anyway. Through shame. Through fear. That’s strength, Alex.”

His breath hitched.

Sophia leaned forward slightly, eyes steady on his.

“You may have this.”

And then she kissed him.

Not softly.

Not hungrily.

But deliberately.

Her hand remained beneath his chin, holding him still, commanding stillness. The kiss wasn’t about heat. It was about ownership. About structure. About the calm, powerful reward that came only after surrender had been proven.

She pulled back—slowly. Her lips just barely parted, her breath a whisper across his skin.

“That,” she said, “was not a prize.”

Alex swallowed hard.

She studied him. “It was a mark.”

“A mark?” he echoed, barely able to speak.

Sophia nodded. “That you’re mine. And that I know what you can become.”

She took his hand—just for a moment—and placed it flat against the floor between them.

“Your grounding,” she murmured. “Is not my approval. It’s your obedience. Don’t confuse the two.”

Alex nodded. “Yes, Sophia.”

Sophia stepped back, returning to the edge of the bed. She didn’t look at him as she pulled the covers back and slipped beneath them.

“Lights off. Sleep at my feet.”

He obeyed.

The room dimmed to near-black.

But inside his chest, something had lit.

Not a fire. Not a lustful blaze, wild and consuming.

Something steadier.

It was the warmth of clarity settling into his bones. The quiet ignition of a promise—one not spoken aloud, but etched deep behind his ribs. Not just obedience… but devotion. Not just survival within her rules… but the will to belong to them.

Sophia had kissed him not to claim his body, but to command his future. And he understood now—compliance wasn’t what she wanted. Not really. She wanted willingness. Pride. The kind of surrender that builds, not erases.
So as he lay there, his body still humming from the kiss, the soft collar warm around his throat, he let the truth settle:

He wanted this life.

He wanted the rules. The silence. The weight of her expectations.

He wanted to feel the ache of denial and the thrill of her glance when he served well. He wanted to be bent by her structure, shaped by it, and someday—held in it, not as a project, but as a man she had chosen to keep.

That was the vow.

Not with words. But with breath. With stillness.
With the calm, certain knowledge that tomorrow, he would rise not to question his place—but to earn it again.

~

The flat had quieted again. Ella was gone—hug at the door, a knowing look exchanged between the women, a brief squeeze of Alex’s shoulder that somehow said more than any words could. The scent of her shampoo still lingered in the guest room.

Sophia and Ella had exchanged numbers. They’d already begun messaging. Allies. No secrets.

Now it was just the two of them again. No witnesses. No echoes of the past.
Alex stood at the stove, wearing his pale apron and nothing beneath it. The kitchen was spotless, candles lit, the marble counter gleaming. He stirred the sauce gently, focused on his task, but he could feel her behind him.

Watching.

She always knew the right moment.

Sophia stepped closer. Her presence at his back was quiet, inevitable. She didn’t speak. Just reached for the knot at his lower back and untied the apron, letting it fall loose. Her hands—warm, steady—rested on his hips.
Then one hand slipped down.

She groped his ass, possessively. Not playfully. Not even erotically. Like checking a fruit for ripeness. She cupped his ass in both palms, kneading with purpose. Testing. Claiming.

Still no words.

Her fingers spread wider, thumbs digging in. Then, just as suddenly, she stepped back.

“Hm,” she murmured. “Still mine.”

Alex’s breath caught. He didn’t move.

“Strip.”

He obeyed at once, sliding the apron over his head and folding it neatly before placing it on the counter. He stood straight, eyes forward, utterly bare in her kitchen. The cool air whispered over his skin.

Sophia circled him now, slow and deliberate. Her gaze roamed his body like she was taking inventory.

Then she crouched.

Her fingers found the base of his chastity cage and lifted it slightly. The metal was cold; his body was not.

She gave his balls a gentle squeeze. Then a firmer one.

“Hmmm, good,” she murmured. “No swelling.”

Alex swallowed, his throat dry.

“How many days?” she asked, not looking up.

“Six, Goddess.”

She hummed. “You’re managing well.”

She rose to her feet, brushing her hands together like she’d inspected a melon and was satisfied.

“Lie back,” she said, nodding toward the marble counter.

He hesitated—only for a second. Then climbed up, shifting awkwardly as the cold stone kissed his skin. His back pressed against it, bare thighs parted. Exposed. Vulnerable. Ready.

Sophia didn’t speak. She walked out of the room without explanation, her bare feet silent on the wood floor.

Alex lay there, unsure if he was meant to wait in tension or submission. Probably both.

A minute later, she returned.

In one hand: A small silver butt plug, perfectly smooth, tipped with a round-cut clear jewel.

In the other: a bottle of olive oil from the counter.

Sophia didn’t speak.

She set the plug down with deliberate precision, then poured oil into her palm. The scent of peppery green olives filled the kitchen—domestic, almost innocent.

Almost.

She stepped between his legs and ran her fingers—warm and slick—down between his cheeks. He flinched, just slightly.

“Breathe,” she said calmly. “This isn’t about taking you,” she murmured. “It’s about knowing I can keep you open. Obedient. And waiting.”

She circled the entrance once, then pressed inward, letting him feel the stretch, the resistance, the inevitability.

The plug entered slowly. Smooth. Relentless. Her fingers guided it into place with gentle pressure until the cool jewel sat flush between his cheeks, glinting under the kitchen light.

Alex gasped—more in surprise than protest.

Sophia wiped her hands on a cloth. Then, for no reason at all, took the oil and let one more ribbon of it drizzle down the curve of his spine.
She stepped back and surveyed him.

Naked. Plugged. Glistening faintly on her counter.

She tilted her head. The corners of her mouth twitched upward.
“There,” she said simply. “Beautiful.”

Then she turned.

At the doorway, she paused, her tone light—almost casual: “Keep cooking. You’ll wear your plug at all times.”

She disappeared into her study, the door closing without a sound.
Alex stayed where he was, the marble cooling the backs of his thighs, oil pooling beneath him, the silver jewel snug and unignorable.

He felt…

Not aroused.

Not humiliated.

Just basted.

Prepared.

Claimed.

He would never look at olive oil—or the kitchen counter—the same way again.

~

The kitchen was clean. The lights dimmed. The olive oil bottle had been returned to its shelf.

Alex knelt quietly on the rug in the lounge, the weight of the plug inside him a steady pressure—not arousing anymore, but anchoring. A reminder. A symbol.

Sophia entered with her usual elegance, dressed in black silk lounge trousers and a soft wrap top, barefoot, calm. In one hand: her slim review notebook. In the other: a table tennis bat.

Alex bowed his head immediately.

She didn’t sit. Not yet.

“You broke rhythm yesterday,” she said, her voice even. “You reacted with emotion. You stepped into my study uninvited. You let old-world shame interrupt the order we’ve built.”

“Yes, Sophia.”

“You recovered. But recovery doesn’t excuse disruption.”

“No, Sophia.”

She stepped to the armchair and sat, crossing one leg over the other. The bat rested across her lap like a casual accessory—its pale wood and red rubber oddly gentle in her hands, but never soft in purpose.

“This is a regular review,” she continued, “but not a gentle one.”
He bowed his head deeper. “I understand.”

“Good. Across my lap.”

Alex stood, climbed carefully over her knees, and positioned himself with practiced grace—chest down, arms relaxed, plug still firmly seated inside him. His breath came shallow, steady.

Sophia adjusted his hips. Took her time.

Then lifted the bat.

And began.

Ten strokes.

They weren’t brutal. They weren’t rushed.

But each one landed clean, sharp, and final. A punctuation mark in the rhythm of their ritual.

Smack.

“You will not hide behind your past.”

Smack.

“You will not treat my authority like a refuge only when convenient.”

Smack.

“You will remember who you belong to, especially when it’s hardest.”

By the sixth, his breath was trembling. By the eighth, his legs were taut, thighs trembling.

The tenth landed lower—across the crown of his ass, just above where the jewel nestled between his cheeks. It was deliberate. A final signature.

Then silence.

Sophia set the bat down gently.

She let him lie there, flushed and breathing, his body warm and marked.

Then she spoke, quieter now.

“Up.”

He stood slowly, unsure if his legs would hold. His vision swam—not from pain, but from surrender. The pain was just the gate.

Sophia extended her foot toward him—bare, clean, poised. Not out of affection.

Out of ritual.

“Hold it.”

He dropped to his knees, reverently taking her foot into both hands. His fingertips grazed her arch, his thumbs rested beneath her heel.

Her skin was warm. Smooth. Alive with presence.

“Worship.”
He bowed his head and pressed a kiss to her instep. Then again. Slower. Lips parted. A breath between each kiss, each one deeper than the last.

His lips brushed over her toes, her sole, the delicate curve of her ankle. Not hungrily. Not erotically.

Devotion.

She let him continue in silence.

And subspace—that quiet spiral of surrender and presence—began to take him.

It wasn’t blankness. It was stillness.

His muscles relaxed. His pulse slowed. His thoughts emptied until only her foot remained in his hands—his world reduced to the skin he was allowed to kiss.

And at the centre of it: gratitude.

For her structure.

For her correction.

For the calm that followed.

Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t sob. He didn’t collapse.
He just pressed his lips to her foot, one more time, and let his breath still against her skin.

Sophia’s voice came at last.

“You’re back where you belong.”

He nodded against her arch. “Yes, Sophia.”

She slipped her foot from his hands, stood, and returned to the sideboard to retrieve a small glass of wine.

“You’ll serve drinks on Saturday,” she said, casual again now—structure restored. “Clara and Natalie will be here. Possibly Priya.”

Alex didn’t move.

“They may ask things of you,” she added, without turning. “And I may allow it.”

She turned, sipped.

“Be graceful.”

Then she looked at him, her eyes glinting.

“This is no longer rehearsal. You’re ready for your stage.”

Sophia walked from the room without a backward glance.

And Alex remained kneeling—flushed, plugged, disciplined, and held in the quiet hum of her approval.

He didn’t know what Saturday would bring.

But he knew this:

He would not disappoint her.

~

Sophia closed the study door behind her and set the wine glass down.

She didn’t sigh. She didn’t pace. She simply stood there, still, barefoot on the polished floor, watching the shadows on the opposite wall flicker in time with the candlelight.

The table tennis bat rested beside her notebook. The red rubber still smelled faintly of heat.

She reached for her pen and made a single note beneath Alex’s name:

“Knows how to return after falling. Very good.”

She paused, then underlined it once. No flourish.

He had stumbled. But he hadn’t hidden. He’d submitted—not to avoid punishment, but because he wanted to restore the order between them. And that mattered more than perfection.

The plug had been her indulgence, yes—but not for arousal. For architecture. She wanted him to feel her control now—internally, quietly, constantly. A stretch. A jewel. A shape inside him that belonged to her.

She smiled faintly.

He was starting to fit.

Sophia sipped the wine. Ella’s message pinged softly on her screen. A photo of a wine glass and the words:

“He’s changed. In a good way. I like what you’ve done with him.”

Sophia tapped a reply.

“So do I.”

Then added, after a moment:

“He’s ready for company.”

She closed the message.

Saturday would be important—not for her, but for him. A test of posture, grace, poise under the feminine gaze. Not everyone would be as kind as Ella.

Clara could be sharp. Natalie, playful. And Priya… Priya would see everything.

Sophia relished it. Not because she doubted him—but because he deserved to be seen in the light of her design.

She set her glass down and opened her journal.

At the top of a fresh page, she wrote:

“Saturday: Let them see what I’ve made.”

Then she closed the book. Stepped into the bedroom. Turned off the light.
Alex was already asleep on the floor at the foot of her bed, his breath slow, his limbs still. The collar glinted faintly in the dark. The plug would still be warm inside him.

Sophia didn’t need to touch him.

She didn’t need to say a word.

She simply lay down, closed her eyes, and let the silence stretch.

Everything was exactly where it should be.

As she drifted to sleep, Sophia let her mind wander—not to Alex, now settled at her feet, but further out. Wider.

There was something in the air lately. A quiet hunger she’d noticed in conversations with Clara, Priya, even Natalie—smart, driven women tired of managing men who flinched at structure.

Maybe it was time.

Not a business. Not yet. But a gathering. A whisper of something more. A space for women who led without apology—and the men who were ready to serve them without shame.

Just an idea, she told herself. A few words over wine.

Still, as sleep began to take her, the phrase lingered like a promise at the edge of a dream:

“A different kind of agency.”