Page 28 of Possessive Ink

“The woman of your dreams?” I say breathlessly.

“You gave yourself to me today, didn’t you, Princess?”

“I…”

“I asked to worship you, didn’t I?” he prompts.

“Yes, but…”

“Yes, what?” he growls.

“I…”

Narrowing his eyes at me, he waits expectantly.

“Yes…Sir,” I answer, not sure why I say it, but not hating the way it sounds or feels either.

“Yes, you did. You’re my perfect princess, and I’m your Sir, and that’s all we need to worry about right now. Those are the important things, and everything else is just details, isn’t it?”

Just like before, he waits patiently, and I respond the way he expects me to. “Yes, Sir.”

“Exactly. So let’s get cleaned up, and we’ll go and pack you some things.”

“Pack some things?” I question slowly, feeling like I’ve lost all control of this conversation.

“I’m more than happy for you to stay naked, if you’d prefer,” he answers easily, like he really would be fine with that.

“What?”

His fingers slide off my chin and down the middle of my throat, pausing as he slowly spreads his hand wide until he’s collaring my neck. “In fact…I know the perfect thing for you to wear with nothing at all.”

Dropping his hand, he moves backward, sliding off the side of the bed until he’s standing on the rug, his hard dick bobbing up and down, precum beading at the head. “Stay here. I have something for you.”

Turning, he steps into what I’m assuming is his closet or bathroom, and for a second, I contemplate running until I remember that I’m naked and I have no idea where my clothes are. Before I can even formulate a plan, he steps back into the bedroom with something hanging from his fingers.

“Come here, Princess,” he beckons, holding out his other hand to me.

Unsure what to do, I place my palm on his, and when he closes his fingers around mine and tugs, I let him help me off the bed, pausing when I’m standing in front of him, both of us completely naked.

“Kneel for me, Lemon,” he says, his voice husky and soft.

“What?”

Still holding my hand, he gestures to the soft rug on the floor at our feet, the same rug I knelt on when he asked me to before he fucked me into oblivion.

“Kneel.”

The steely demand in his tone vibrates through me, and I glance at the floor, then him, before I find myself clumsily sinking down to my knees again.

“Jesus, Princess, look at you,” he praises reverently. “Who am I?” he asks.

“Err,” I falter.

“What do you call me?” he prompts.

“Sir?”

“Whose, Sir?”