His To CONTROL

CHAPTER 9 - SYDNEY

Morning light falls through the sheer curtains of my window, laying pale squares across the floor.

I sit on the sofa with black coffee and the uncomfortable awareness that I slept badly for reasons entirely unrelated to Meg's safety.

The guest-room door opens.

Meg emerges wearing my oversized cardigan and a satisfied expression that would be insufferable on anyone else. She walks carefully, accepts the tea I prepared and lowers herself onto the opposite end of the sofa.

"You look like you survived," I say.

"More than survived."

"How do you feel?"

"Sore. Happy. Slightly rearranged."

"That last one is not medically reassuring."

She laughs, then winces and adjusts the cushion beneath her.

I need details because details are how I assess risk. Meg knows this. She also enjoys making me ask questions I would rather pretend do not interest me.

"Talk to me about the physical reality," I say. "From the booth, it looked overwhelming."

Meg set her mug on the coffee table, leaning back against the cushions. "It was intense beyond words. When they were preparing me, the warmth of the oil and the suction on my n*****s had my whole body buzzing. But when they entered me together... Sydney, the pressure was incredible. It was this deep, heavy, unbelievable stretch that felt like it took up every inch of my body. You feel the thickness of both c***s moving inside you, completely filling you, and for the first few seconds, your brain wants to panic because it feels impossible."

"And then?" Sydney asked softly.

"And then they talked me through it," Meg whispered, her hazel eyes glowing with memory. "They didn't rush. They supported my hips, adjusted the angle, told me how well I was taking them, and kept me grounded. The moment I stopped fighting the fullness and just yielded to it, the pressure turned into pure, overwhelming pleasure. It strips your mind completely clean. You don't have to make decisions. You don't have to manage anything. You just exist in their hands."

Her description should embarrass me.

Instead, my mind returns to the observation booth. The pressure of the railing beneath my hands. Jamerson's body behind mine without contact. His voice at my ear.

You respond to patience.

He is right, which remains irritating.

"Are you going back?"

"Next Thursday. We have a follow-up consultation before I sign anything longer."

"You're signing a contract?"

"If the review goes well. They earned my trust."

I study her face. Meg is excited, not dazed. She repeats the limits she set the previous night and explains which ones she may reconsider later. Her certainty reassures me more than the dreamy smile.

"Now stop deflecting," she says. "What happened after you left me?"

"Jamerson gave me a tour."

"A tour."

"Of the lower floors."

"Did his trousers remain on during this tour?"

"Yes."

"Tragic."

I throw a cushion at her. She catches it and looks pleased with herself.

"We talked," I say. "About power. Boundaries. Why he became a Dom."

"And why he has been staring at you for months?"

"He does not stare."

"Brian says he looks at you as though every other person has become furniture."

That knowledge sends an unwelcome warmth through me.

I tell Meg about the vault. About Jamerson's insistence that a submissive must remain visible inside surrender. I do not repeat the way his gaze held mine when he said he wanted someone who remained herself while kneeling.

Some words feel too intimate to survive retelling.

"He asked for one night," I admit.

Meg becomes still. "Do you want to give it to him?"

"Wanting isn't the only consideration. His company is a major client. He is Brian's brother. If it goes badly, I don't lose only a date."

"And if it goes well?"

I look down at my coffee.

That is the more frightening question.

My life works because I manage it carefully. I left gymnastics at sixteen when the sport began demanding every future version of me. I studied accountancy because numbers reward precision. I saved for my flat, built my career and avoided relationships with people who interpreted independence as a challenge.

Jamerson does interpret it as a challenge.

But not, I think, one he wants to destroy.

"I don't know how to hand over control," I say.

Meg's expression softens. "Maybe that is why you need someone who knows how to receive it."

"That sounded suspiciously wise."

"I had a transformative night. Wisdom is included."

After she leaves, I clean mugs that do not need cleaning and open my laptop. An email from Jamerson waits in my personal inbox.

No persuasion. No deadline. If you wish to ask questions, I will answer them anywhere you choose.

I read it three times.

Then I ask him to meet me at a quiet café near Liverpool Street.

He arrives without a driver and orders coffee instead of alcohol. For two hours, I question him as if he is a high-risk acquisition.

What happens if I freeze?

He stops.

What if I agree and panic later?

He stops.

What if I hate it?

He takes me home and never raises it again.

What if I like it?

His eyes darken.

"Then we discuss what comes next after you have slept and decided with a clear head."

He does not touch me when we leave.

That restraint makes me want his hands more.

On Monday evening, I send him one sentence.

Tuesday. One night. I want every term in writing first.

His reply arrives immediately.

Of course, Sydney.

No triumph. No pressure.

Only certainty.

I sleep even less that night.