Chapter 24: The Games We Play

[al****]

This story picks up where the one before left off, about the shift in dynamics with my second live-in sub 24/7. A whole different game than with the first.

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Sugar Lips was ready to drop everything, leave her life in some cardboard box by the curb, and step into mine. But I stopped her. Told her she had to quit the right way. “No distractions, no loose ends, no excuses,” I said. “Two weeks’ notice. It’s the right thing to do.”

She was young, impulsive, a fuse waiting to be lit. She wanted to walk out right then and there. But this was the first lesson. She was mine to shape, and I wanted her sculpted right, from the ground up. “Two weeks,” I repeated, lying back, feeling her breath on my skin.

She opened her mouth, closed it again. Didn’t question it. Didn’t ask why it mattered. Her eyes fixed on mine as if asking permission to breathe. I didn’t validate or ask if she understood. I didn’t need to. She already knew the rules were simple: no boundaries, no exceptions. And she was all in.

No more talk. Just tangled sheets and twisted limbs, heat radiating between us as her back arched and mouth opened, silent. Tim, ever-faithful behind the lens, hovered just out of focus, capturing every angle, every moment, while we spelled it out without words, our bodies saying everything that needed to be said.

She wanted hotel rooms, a string of rehearsals to keep the fire alive. I shut it down. No halfway loyalty, no more rented sheets. She’d wait, four*** days of silence, left hanging on the edge. Let her burn a little. Then, on the night before it was real, I broke the quiet: Tomorrow, right?

One-word answer, fast and sharp: “Yes.”

I shot back my address, a target to aim for. "See you when you get off work," and topped it with a smiley. Something simple, just a spark. The feeling was like cocking the hammer on a gun, all tension, the barest bit of relief.

The next morning, I was still feeling that pulse, humming under my skin, the thrill of waiting. People want to call it lust, but it’s not that simple. It’s about the gamble, the lead-up, the empty space where anything might happen. When someone says, I’m down, they’re ready to hop a plane, cross time zones, maybe throw their whole life into the mess. It’s the moment before reality hits, the question hanging in the air: will she do it?

For every one that shows, five ghost. There’s the anticipation, the dance. For every girl who turns up at that hotel door, I know another five who let it go cold, fall off the radar, have that last-minute flicker of reality or shame or whatever else you want to call it. That’s an eighty percent chance of disappointment, but it’s that twenty that keeps you reaching. Just enough to keep the *** moving. Enough to make you think, This one might.

And then, just after three on a Friday, the doorbell rings, sharp and clear, like a punch in the gut. I swing the door open, and there she is, like a flash of fireworks on a dreary day. That dress, this explosion of red and blue, some floral battlefield stretched tight over her frame, It’s like she chose it as a statement, as if to make me remember her this time, make this moment stamp itself somewhere it won’t fade. I’d nearly forgotten her face; the curve of her nose, the way her hair falls in this messy, deliberate way, cut just above the shoulders. But that smile. I didn’t forget that. Wide, sinister, but with a magnetic pull; tugging her mouth up like she’s savoring every second.

Her bag hits the floor, and she steps into me, arms around my neck, tasting my lips like she's starved; like she’s been craving this, me, here, in her hands.

My hand finds the curve of her waist as I guide her inside, my fingers pressing just enough to remind her who’s in charge here. "So," I ask, casual, like it’s nothing, "have you slept with anyone since we last met?"

She throws that grin, sly, with just the right hint of trouble. "Who could ever follow you?"

I let her bags drop just inside the door, and the first rule comes out, clean and simple, the way rules need to be. “Clear answers. Yes, sir or no, sir. Now, have you slept with anyone since we last met?”

Her smile flickers, a pause just long enough to make it feel like a game. Then she says what I want to hear. “No, sir.”

"Good," I say, taking pleasure in it, each word like it’s carved from stone. “You’re mine, only mine.” I pause, about to say something about exclusivity when she cuts in with, “Why would I want anyone else?”

I hold up a hand, silencing her. “Don’t interrupt,” I say, slow and with that tone that pulls her right back to me. “We’ve got a lot to cover.”

There’s a pause as she looks up at me, something flickering in her eyes, like gears slipping into place. She processes it, then nods, that wide, wicked grin creeping back, laced with a thrill. “Yes, sir,” she says, and in those two words I feel it, the excitement, the surrender. It ignites like a match, and just like that, I’m hard.

But I don’t rush. I want the tension, want her to feel every loaded second. So I take her through the house, giving her the grand tour, a hint of déjà vu flickering at the edge of my thoughts. “There’s a camera in every room,” I tell her, my voice steady. “Maybe two.”

It’s funny how habits form.

We pass the guest bathroom, the one space untouched, unwatched. I stop, let the fact simmer in the air. “Guest bathroom’s the only exception.” She absorbs it, cataloging every room like she’s making a map. The kitchen, the den, the gym. She’s silent, pulling every element into focus, as if drawing a map of the parts I’ve let her see.

Then we reach the empty room. Bare walls, a thick layer of dust settled across the floor. For a moment, there’s a sharp pull, a vision of what it could be; leather, steel, restraints fixed to every corner, the air thick with purpose. It’s half longing, half determination. The room’s a blank slate, waiting for the right tools, the right arrangement, the order it deserves.

“This is where the playroom goes.” My voice hangs in the stillness. “Guess I’d better get it set up, now that you’ll be here.”

“Playroom?” she echoes, her voice curious, tugging for more.

“I’ll let you imagine the possibilities,” I say, trailing the words like bait. A slow, unreadable smile settles as I add, “No more questions, though. Listen. Don’t talk.”

She’s still. I watch as her mouth opens, ready to fire back, then closes, jaw tight, breathing almost swallowed by restraint as we head up the stairs.

At the top, I nod down the hallway. Four doors in view. “Office, bathroom.” I pause, finger pointed at the door at the end. “That’s my room; the only room off-limits to you.”

She tilts her head, lips curved in a daring smirk etched on a face that’s never learned restraint. Smudged mascara frames her eyes, a chaotic, punk Mona Lisa with a gleam that dares me to make a move. “We don’t sleep together?” she asks, voice dripping mischief, curiosity, like she’s poking the beast just to see if it’ll bite.

I let her question linger, guiding her to the room I’ve set aside for her. Almond walls, cherry wood spindle bed, a cream-and-burgundy comforter stretched neatly across the mattress. Nightstands sit on either side, one with a locked cigar humidor, gleaming under the overhead light; a glass lid just transparent enough to make you wonder.

“This is your room. Camera there, and there,” I point to the two dark lenses watching from opposite corners.

“This is yours,” I tell her, tapping the humidor’s lid. I open it, showing her what’s inside, crisp stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “Five thousand in here; first, last, and security, just in case things between us don’t work out.”

I slide my belt from its loops, the leather slipping free with a soft hiss. Before she can speak, I press her down over the mattress, feeling her body yield, my hand firm on her back. Her skirt hikes up as I adjust her, exposing skin. Then the belt strikes, a crack splitting the quiet of the room, her body jerking in response.

“I asked you to listen, not talk.” My voice is level; the intent unmistakable.

She doesn’t fight it when I pull her hands forward, sliding them onto either side of a spindle on the bedframe. The belt slides easily between, binding her hands fast, the leather thick around her wrists, snug but not tight. Her breathing’s shallow, uneven.

I hook my fingers under her panties, sliding them down, then ball them up and press them into her mouth. “If these fall out, I’ll tape your mouth shut. Nod if you understand.”

She nods, a shiver passing over her skin.

I feel the control, the calm settling over me. My hands move, positioning myself behind her, spreading her legs with mine. She’s already warm, welcoming. I press in slowly, feeling every inch as her body opens for me, her stifled moan vibrating through her gag.

Now, the silence is mine.

In the quiet, I start setting the terms. “If you say ‘no’ or ‘stop,’ this ends. We stop.” My words are as slow as my movements, steady and deep. "If you can’t speak, if you’re gagged, you hold up three fingers. Index, middle, ring. Those fingers mean stop.”

The words slip out calm, practiced. My hips roll in sync with each phrase, the sound of our bodies connecting, filling the room, her muffled breath catching with every drive. "Nod if you understand."

She breathes deep through her nose, nods, her fingers knotted together like she’s holding on for dear life. But then, her right index finger slips free, a single, naked line of obedience stretching out from the tangled grip.

"Good girl," I whisper, just enough for her to hear, letting the words take hold.

I feel her clench around me, and I let that settle, savor it, before continuing.

My voice stays low, each syllable matching a thrust. “If I ask if you like something, and you do, you say, ‘Yes, sir.’” My hips pull back, and I drive into her hard, letting her feel the weight of the rules as they take shape between us. “But if you don’t like something,” I slow down, voice barely a whisper, “you say, ‘If it pleases you, sir.’”

A soft, restrained moan escapes her, the sound almost pleading. She nuzzles her head against the inside of her arm, her breathing deepening to match the pace, her body sinking into the boundaries I’ve drawn. It’s all here; discipline, structure, control, each moment a lesson, each movement an understanding. She’s in her place, and I’m in mine.

My hand moves, gliding through her hair gently, almost absent-minded, like an instructor adjusting a student. "In situations like this," I continue, keeping my tone steady, firm, "one finger means 'yes, sir'. Two fingers, the peace symbol, means ‘if it pleases you, sir.’" It’s simple, structured. Expectations she can follow, and she will follow.

I let my tempo settle into a slow, deliberate stroke; long and deep, pulling almost out to the edge and pushing back in, hard. I ask, “Do you understand so far?”

A nod. An index finger. Silent, obedient.

I keep the rhythm steady inside her, thumb circling that snug opening, teasing, finding the spot calling out to me. “I’m going to fuck you in the ass now. Do you like being fucked in the ass?” The words slip out, blunt, as my hands hold her firm.

There’s a pause. Her hands stay clasped, her head buried in her arm, almost shrinking into herself. Then, with a slow, intentional motion, her fingers part and she raises two fingers, a peace sign. Her answer. Satisfaction swells, a tight thrill crawling through every nerve. I bring my hand to my mouth, saliva pooling as I coat my palm, a slow ritual that sets the tone. I position myself, pressing forward, inch by inch, my left hand grounding me while my right knots into her hair, lifting her just enough to glimpse her face. Her voice smothers into the fabric she bites, each sound raw as I push deeper until we’re sealed, flesh on flesh. The cameras capture it all, her form poised, exposed, contained.

“When I give a command, like when I tell you not to speak.”

I withdraw, the space left in my wake hollow, her body shifting to reclaim itself, resisting the memory of my shape. Holding there, I make her feel the absence, the ache. “When I say don’t talk,” I pause, then thrust forward, filling her completely, forcing out a strained cry, and I say, “You better fucking listen.”

I pull out, reach for her mouth, and slide the pink panties from between her teeth. “Do not talk,” I say, a command, soft yet cutting. Her underwear, damp and warm, drags down my length as I wipe myself with it, folding it and placing it on the bed by her head, a wordless reminder. My body molds back against hers, pressed to the heat of her skin as I lean in close. “Don’t talk,” I breathe into her ear, “Do you want my cock inside your pussy?”

She nods, lifting one finger, a quiet signal, unmistakable. “Good girl,” I tell her, sliding back into her, feeling her warmth wrap around me, soft and welcoming, pulling me closer. “Good girls get it like this.” I hold a steady rhythm, each stroke calculated, letting her feel everything, inch by inch. My hand traces up her body, pressing her back to my chest, her heartbeat pulsing against mine. I drag my thumb over her nipple, circling, teasing, drawing it taut. “Do you like that?” I ask, watching her tighten, feeling her grip around me. “Do you like my big cock in your pussy?”

That finger pulsing like a silent chant: yes, yes, yes. I let her linger right there, every inch of her straining toward release, and just as she’s about to break, I pull back. I shift, pressing back into that tight, forbidden place. She gasps, her body tense, resisting, and then, instinctively, surrendering.

“Bad girls don’t get to cum,” I growl, each thrust a rule, each word etched into her skin.

“Your room stays clean,” I drive forward, steady.

“The house stays spotless,” pulling back.

“You wear only what I allow you to wear,” pushing in, deeper.

“You keep your body firm,” pulling out.

“You’ll anticipate my needs before I speak them,” I say, sliding back in, feeling her tighten. “And you’ll serve them without question.”

My release hits, a flood, muffling her scream against the mattress. Words might be spoken, maybe not; I let it drift, dissolving in the calm that follows, in the reminder of why we’re here. I slide out, slow, steady, then back in with a steady pulse, anchoring us both.

“And to answer your question,” I say, keeping the pace, “if I want to sleep here with you, I will. If I want to sleep alone, you’ll be alone.” I feel the last of myself merge with her, stroke her hair, smoothing it down.

“There’s more to discuss.” I pull out, her breath hitching, a small gasp. I press a kiss to the back of her head, hands tracing down over her hips. Unbinding her wrists, I draw near and whisper “You can talk now.”

I flip her onto her back, looming over her like a shadow with a whip of leather in my hand. My eyes don’t leave hers, solid and unblinking. I drop the key to the humidor into her palm, the metal cold, the silence loud enough to *** on.

“Is this too much, do you want to open your box?” I ask, the question hanging between us.

She looks back, mascara streaking down her face, eyes black and sharp. “Fuck no."

That was the moment. Whatever common thread between her and anyone else, gone. And right now, holding the belt, feeling the weight of it in my hand, I know she doesn’t need it. Not for this.

It’s quick, loud, a flash of heat, but it won’t leave the mark I need her to feel, the one that sticks. Discipline isn’t in the sting; it’s in the endurance, in making her hold on through something deeper, something she’ll feel for hours after. Marks fade, but the lesson? That has to burn itself in.

Her “no” should’ve been the warning bell, that gut-shot echo telling me what was coming.

Maybe a contract, like she wanted, could’ve saved us. A form she’d sign, something with expectations laid out, each rule and boundary boxed up and numbered.

And on paper, I’m the guy who’d want that too. Everything in order, no surprises, every line clear, every box checked. Rules lined up like commandments. Boundaries so marked you’d have to be blind to miss one. A fix that looks flawless.

But the truth? I need the risk. It’s the blind spots that keep me coming back, the lure of “what if,” of never quite knowing if she’ll say yes or if she’ll turn with that same wild look and say, “Fuck no.” That thrill, that raw edge, that’s the itch. A contract is just knowing the punchline to every joke before you hear it. Order might calm the mind, but it doesn’t fill the pulse in your veins. Knowing every answer, every outcome, just leaves you numb.

We didn’t get perfect. Not in thir*** months, not close. But every day, that question mark kept me hooked, held just out of reach, pushing me to see what came next.

[al****]

This chapter. Fast. Too fast. Things I meant to dig into about myself? Brushed past. But the word count, 2,500 to 3,000, that’s the mark, and I hit it. Craving Sweetness, The Games We Play, A Tale of Two Subs; somewhere in those lines, I hope Sugar Lips's story came through, rough edges and all.