The seventh night arrived like a storm that had been building for weeks. The collar around my neck felt tighter today — not from the leather, but from the weight of everything we’d done. Every mark on my body, every bruise, every faded wax spot, every shallow scar from her razor — they all whispered her name. Riya. Mistress. Monster. Mine.
No text came during the day. At work she avoided my eyes completely. She wore a high-neck blouse for once — hiding the faint purple hickeys I’d left on her throat two nights ago. But when she passed my desk to get coffee, her fingers brushed the back of my hand. Just once. Hard enough to sting. A promise.
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