THE INVITATION

THE INVITATION

By naceswo

I have lived alone for too long. This house, surrounded by trees and silence, has been my refuge, my temple, my fortress. Here, no one judges me. Here, I set the rules. But the silence also weighs heavily.

When I invited him, it wasn't a whim. It was a thoughtful decision. I had been reading his words for months. That profound style, that way of understanding submission as something more than sex. Philosophy. Surrender. Devotion. He is not just any ordinary slave.

The first night will be one of observation. I want to see him walk barefoot through my house, feeling the cold wood beneath his feet. I want him to understand that here, every object has its place, every gesture has its meaning.

I will make the rules clear: silence when I read, knees when I speak to him, eyes downcast unless I order otherwise. But also, the freedom to breathe, to exist without fear, because a frightened slave is useless.

I will have him clean. Not to humiliate him, but because I want him to know every corner of this house as if it were his own. He will scrub the floors on his knees, organize my books, wash my underwear by hand, folding it carefully, feeling the texture of the cotton that has been against my skin. Each task will be an act of devotion.

At night, when the fire is lit and the lights are low, I will have him sit at my feet. I will talk to him about philosophy, control, power. I will ask him how he feels when he obeys. If he is afraid. If he is excited. If he needs it. And I will wait for his answers, because I know he thinks more than he says.

Then, sex will come. But it won't be brutal or quick. It will be slow, calculated, measured. I will undress him slowly, studying every mark on his body, every scar that tells a story. I will run my hands over his back, his ass, his legs, as if I were reclaiming territory. And when I finally penetrate him, it won't be to satisfy myself first. It will be to remind him who is in charge, who decides when it starts and when it ends.

I will come inside him. Not because it's a fetish, but because I want him to feel my semen sliding down his thighs as he cleans the floor afterwards, as he prepares dinner, as he kneels at my feet again. I want him to know that he carries me inside.

There will be difficult days. Days when he wonders what the hell he is doing here, away from his life, locked in a house with a man who demands absolute obedience. On those days, I will test him more. I will give him harder orders. I will ignore him for hours. I will leave him waiting on his knees until his joints ache. Because I need to know if he can handle it. If this is real or just fantasy.

But there will also be tenderness. Nights when I hug him after fucking him, when I caress his hair, when I tell him he has done well. Because a Master who only punishes is not a Master. He is a sadist without control. And I have all the...