No More Games

“You’re early.”

The words scraped out of her, dry, rough. Her suitcase handle slipped from her numb fingers, thudding softly onto the plush rug just inside the door. Early? He wasn’t supposed to be here at all. Her flat. Her space. He’d never just been here, waiting.

He sat in her favourite armchair, the one angled towards the city lights that were just starting to prick the bruised purple of the evening sky. He didn’t look at the view. His gaze was fixed on her, a heavy, unreadable weight. The lamp beside him cast his face in harsh planes and deep shadows, carving out the line of his jaw, the stark set of his mouth. He looked bigger, somehow. Denser.

“Traffic was light from Heathrow,” she managed, kicking the door shut with her heel.

The click echoed. Too loud. Her voice sounded thin, reedy. She usually liked the sound of her own voice. Confident. Now, not so much. “And you?”

He didn’t answer that. Just watched. That gym routine he was so religious about… it showed. Even sitting, there was a coiled energy about him, like a spring wound too tight.

The memory of the pictures she’d sent from London flickered through her mind – one with her champagne flute angled just so, the curve of her inner thigh a shadowed promise above the stocking top.

Another, laughing, a little too close to that blowhard chairman from the tech firm, his hand on her waist. For show. For him. To see if he’d… what? Bite? He usually just sent back a terse, “Enjoying yourself?” or sometimes, nothing at all. This silence now was heavier than any of those replies.

She dropped her shoulder bag. Keys clattered inside it. “Long flight,” she offered, moving towards the small bar cart. A drink. She needed a drink. Or ten. “You want something?”

“No.”

Just the one word, flat. It stopped her. His eyes hadn’t left her. She could feel them, like fingertips pressing into her skin. Her skin. Still faintly smelling of hotel soap and recycled plane air. And under that, her own scent, the one she knew he liked. Liked a lot.

She turned slowly, facing him fully. “Okay. What’s up? You look… serious.” An understatement. He looked like a storm front about to break. Or maybe he already broke in Japan and I’m just feeling the fallout.

He rose. Not quickly, but with a deliberateness that made the air thicken. Each movement was precise. Controlled. He wasn’t walking towards her. Not yet. He walked to the window, his back to her for a moment. She watched the breadth of his shoulders, the way his shirt stretched taut. His grunts in the gym… imagine that sound now. A totally inappropriate thought. Or maybe entirely appropriate.

“You enjoyed London?” His voice was different. Deeper, maybe. Or just… emptier. No inflection.

“It was… business.” She shrugged, trying for casual. It felt like putting on a badly fitting costume. “Dinners, meetings. The usual grind.” The picture of her with that smarmy idiot, his arm way too familiar. Had that been too much? She’d thought it was funny, a little nudge.

He turned back. And in his hand, something glinted. Not metal. Dark. Sleek.

“What’s that?” Her voice was barely a whisper. Her stomach gave a weird little lurch.

Not fear, exactly. Something else. Something… tight.

He didn’t speak. He just walked towards her, each step measured, unhurried. The flat suddenly felt very small. Trapped. He stopped a foot away. Close enough she could smell him – that clean, sharp scent he always had. And underneath it, faint, but there, the tang of long-haul travel, a hint of the sterile air of another continent. Japan. What had happened in Japan?

The thing in his hand. It was a collar. Not some cheap pet store thing, or the overtly sexual kind with studs and rings. This was smooth, black, maybe some kind of coated carbon fiber, less than an inch wide, with a small, discreet clasp. It looked… efficient. Expensive. Minimalist. Cold.

Her breath hitched. “What…?”

His eyes. God, his eyes. They weren’t angry in the way she knew anger – hot, explosive. They were cold. Glacial. With a flicker, way back in their depths, of something that looked like… resolve. Or possession. Hard to tell. Maybe they were the same thing.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, his voice still low, still devoid of heat. But the words landed like stones.

“I told you. Work.” Her fingers clenched by her sides. This wasn’t him. Not the him who’d chase her around the kitchen island, laughing, or the him who’d trace patterns on her back until she fell asleep. This was someone else. Someone… harder.

“Sending pictures.” It wasn’t a question. “Little updates. Keeping me informed.”

A sharp inhale. Oh. So it was the pictures. But this reaction… it was wildly out of proportion. Unless… unless she’d misjudged just how much those little games of hers had been… what? Pushing him? “They were just…
fun.” The excuse sounded lame even to her own ears. Her heart was starting to thump, a heavy, dull beat against her ribs.

His mouth tightened, just a fraction. “Fun.” He held up the collar. “Turn around.”

Her mind went blank for a second. Then, “What? No. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move aggressively. But the air around him crackled. “Turn. Around.”

“Are you insane?” She took a step back, bumped into the edge of her discarded suitcase. Trapped.

His hand shot out, not to grab her, but to cup the back of her neck. His fingers were strong, warm against her suddenly cold skin. The touch wasn’t rough, not yet, but it was undeniably firm. A vise. Her scalp tingled. A shiver traced its way down her spine. Not entirely unpleasant, which was confusing and made her insides clench.

“I asked you to turn around,” he said, his breath ghosting her ear. That low timbre vibrated right through her. “I won’t ask again.”

Her head was screaming no, but her body… her body was doing that weird, traitorous thing it sometimes did when he got that specific tone in his voice, that edge of absolute command. It wanted to lean into his touch. It wanted to… submit?

No. That’s not me.

But arguing felt… pointless. Like trying to stop a wave with her bare hands. The air was thick with something she couldn’t name, something primal and unsettling. And a tiny, perverse part of her, the part she usually kept locked down tight, was… curious. Terribly, dangerously curious.

Slowly, her muscles stiff, her gaze locked on the predatory stillness in his, she turned. Her back to him. Exposed. Vulnerable. She could hear his soft exhale, feel his presence directly behind her. The fine hairs on her neck prickled.

Cool. Smooth. The collar settled against her skin. Colder than she expected. He was deft, his fingers working at the clasp. There was a faint click. Final. It wasn't tight. Not choking. But it was there. A distinct, undeniable pressure around her throat.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the words almost a caress, yet carrying the weight of a decree. His voice was still low, rhythmic, the anger a low hum beneath the surface. “You always did like playing games.”

She swallowed. The collar moved with her throat. “This isn’t a game.”

“Isn’t it?” His hands settled on her shoulders, not heavy, but enough to keep her in place. She could feel the heat of his palms through the silk of her travel blouse.

“You seemed to be enjoying your part. Setting the rules. Pushing the boundaries.”

The memory of the last picture she’d sent – her reflection in a darkened hotel window, nothing but the city lights behind her and the shadow of her nipples against the thin fabric of her camisole. Sent with no caption. Daring him. Or his grunts… the way he handles stuff… Yes. She’d been enjoying it. Poking the bear.

The bear was awake. And apparently, he was pissed.

“Where did you even get this?” she asked, her voice a little shaky. The collar felt alien. Permanent.

He didn’t answer. Instead, something else pressed lightly against her lower back. A leash. She knew the sound of the clip, a small metallic snick, before she even processed what it was. It attached to a discreet ring at the back of the collar. She felt the slight tug.

“Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Her voice was sharper now, a spark of defiance igniting. Or maybe it was just fear finally finding its voice. “I just got home. I’m tired.”

“I know.” The word was soft. Almost sympathetic. Which made it worse. He took a step back, and the leash tightened, a gentle but insistent pull. “This way.”

He started walking towards the hall, towards the bedrooms. Her bedroom? No. He veered right, towards the spare room. The one she hardly ever used. The one that was mostly empty except for a few forgotten boxes from her last move.

She stumbled, forced to follow. Her feet, still in their smart travel heels, scraped on the polished wood floor. “Wait.” The pull. Unyielding. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t get… bored,” he said over his shoulder, his voice cool, level. The light from the living room didn’t quite reach this far down the hall. It was dimmer here. More shadows.

She could smell the faint scent of dust from the spare room as they approached the closed door. And something else. New paint? Or was it… lemon oil? Polish? Her mind reeled. What had he been doing in her flat while she was away? He had a key, of course. For emergencies. This felt like one, just not the kind she’d ever anticipated.

He reached the door, opened it with one hand, the leash held steady in the other.

He didn’t look back at her. Just pulled.

Her heart hammered. What if I just… sat down? Refused to move? But the image of him, his face, that cold resolve… She knew he wouldn’t shout. He wouldn’t plead. He’d just… pull. Until she moved. The unspoken power play was suffocating. He wasn’t asking. He was telling. And her body, damn it, seemed to understand the language better than her brain did.

“This is crazy,” she breathed, as he guided her over the threshold. The leash. He held it like he’d held one a thousand times before. Natural. Easy. The casual way he held it. The way he talks… the way he looks. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking into the room.

The room wasn’t empty anymore.

Not at all.

Her breath caught in her throat. A sharp, audible gasp. It wasn’t a bedroom. Not now. It was… something else. Dimly lit by a single, shaded lamp in the corner, casting long, dancing shadows. There was a… structure in the middle. Gleaming metal. An X-shape. Padded restraints.

Her gaze flew around. A low table, covered in a velvet cloth. On it, an array of objects that made her blood run cold, then strangely hot. Whips. Paddles. Gags.

Things she’d only ever seen in… well, she hadn’t really seen them. Only imagined them, late at night, when her mind went to places it shouldn’t. How big his biceps are… or his eyes. His eyes were on her now, watching her reaction, as she took it all in.

“Surprised?” he asked. Still that quiet, calm tone. The calm of the storm’s eye.

She couldn’t speak. She could only stare. At the room. At him. At the leash in his hand, connecting them. Her thoughts were a chaotic jumble of the pictures, the teasing messages, the long-distance frisson she’d cultivated, thinking it was a harmless game of cat and mouse. She’d always liked being the cat.

Looks like the mouse had other ideas. Had been planning them for a while.

His fingers tightened on the leash. A small tug. Forward. Towards the X.

“You’ve had your fun,” he said, his voice dropping, getting rougher now, the first real edge of his anger finally seeping through. “Showing off. Teasing. Making me wait.” He paused, his eyes dark, intense, boring into hers. “Now. It’s my turn.”

Oh fuck. The thought was sharp, visceral. She hadn't expected this. Not this level of preparation. Not this cold, calculated fury. The room smelled of new leather, metal, and something else… anticipation.

His, she realized. And, terrifyingly, a reluctant flicker of her own.