Chapter 9: The Velvet Cake

[al****]

This true story continues after Chapter 7: Graduation Day, so if you haven't read then I'd recommend giving that a read first..  I had a lot of intention of this difficult chapter to explore our dynamic outside the bedroom, my goal with each chapter is to have a target of about 1500 words, some things may have been missed but I hope you enjoy.

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The video camera in my grip freezes every member of this impromptu tribe I call mine. It's a makeshift family, cobbled together from misfits and mavens. Clustered on one couch, my digital warriors, a duo who dive deep into the virtual ether, splicing videos, curating images, weaving the web into something resembling support and semblance. They're the heartbeat of this operation, unseen but omnipresent. On the opposing couch sits Tim, our lighting guru, casting us all in the best possible light, alongside a mercenary of talent, a guy who doesn't punch my clock but still fills our ranks with fresh faces on a commission basis.

In the comfort of the reclining chair, boasting an allure that commands the room and injects a dose of courage into every soul present, sits my fluffer, Sara. And then, there she is, the crimson-haired princess, effortlessly monopolizing a piece of pizza with elegance and allure. She, who over the past twelve months, has steered the helm of phone communications and treasury duties of the studio.

Dave, the rookie behind the camera, fresh out of film school, captures my momentary lapse, my gaze lingering just a tad too long on her. In that glance, three years' worth of memories, of the profound happiness she's woven into my life, swell at the edges of my consciousness. His inquiry slices through the fog, "With as much as you get laid, why do you even need a slave?"

Our relationship has never fit the mold Dave's words suggest; Master/slave, Dom/sub, are titles too constricting for the likes of us. Labels have always been more of a noose than a badge, except for the ones we choose for ourselves.

"It's not about the sex," I find myself saying, my voice trailing off as I dive deep into the rabbit hole of our past, pondering the path that led us to this exact moment.

My thoughts snag on a memory, not too distant, just over a year back, in the kitchen of my West Palm Beach home. "Good morning," she greets, her voice threading through the quiet, "Breakfast's on its way." There I am, bleary-eyed, bare-skinned, a man of scant words, as she passes the coffee into my hands before the thought even crosses my mind. "Thanks," I mutter. I wander over to the sliding doors facing the yard, the blinds thrown wide, unbothered by the prospect of eyes on me, with nothing but the vast, blue ocean stretching beyond. Embracing the morning, I relish the edge of the forbidden, imagining unseen watchers from afar. Cracking open the door, I pull in a lungful of the salty ocean breeze and whisper to no one, "life is good." Her voice flutters back, as though she's the intended confidant, "It sure is." Pivoting, I observe her, the breakfast finding its place on the table, her figure, barely into her twenties, radiant in white lingerie. Every detail within my gaze is precise, ordered, as though my existence is curated within a museum's walls. 

As I take my seat for breakfast, she inquires softly, "What's on the schedule today?" The omelet she's crafted, a vibrant medley of mushrooms, green peppers, sausage, and spinach, greets my palate with a richness of flavors as I outline my schedule, "Negotiations with Amanda at one, then it's off to Miami for back-to-back shoots at three."

"Expecting to return around ten?" she probes.

A nod conveys my agreement as I praise the meal's excellence.

"Thanks," her voice carries a smile, as she slips beneath the table.

Our communication is a dance of minimalism, rich in subtext. My reference to negotiations isn't just about the day's tasks; it's a reminder of the mental preparation needed. Her inquiry about my return time signals deeper matters awaiting our attention.

Beneath the sturdy mahogany, she moves unseen, not just by me but by the vigilant eyes of the security cameras that oversee my domain. With my attention divided between the culinary masterpiece and the morning's brew, she operates with a liberty defined by the game's boundaries I've set. Her fingers trace a silent message along my legs, a clandestine caress under the table, a testament to her mastery of the unspoken rule: "no hands." This gesture, subtle yet significant, signals her awareness and willingness to navigate within the framework I've established.

With each forkful of the morning's offering, I find myself glancing at the microwave clock, noting the minutes as they ascend, each more satisfying than the last. Her approach is gentle, yet firm enough to make its presence felt, her movements so fluid that my coffee remains undisturbed, quick as if guided by purpose and a keen awareness of my schedule. It's a slice of euphoria, a moment suspended in the perfect now, the kind I'd wish to capture and live in endlessly, a glimpse of what paradise might feel like. Yet, reality calls, and as the final morsels of my breakfast disappear, and the last draught of coffee washes over my taste buds, a sigh of profound satisfaction escapes me. "Here it comes," I announce, as I reach the climax of this morning's indulgence.

The microwave minutes continue their march, unfazed, as she persists, dedicated to ensuring my complete approval of her efforts. Then, in a moment marked by both conclusion and revelation, she rises from beneath the table, showcasing the result of her effort before swallowing in a single, submissive gesture. It's an act that signifies more than the end; it's a reflection of the journey we've traversed together, the depth of connection we've forged. Basking in the moment's serene afterglow, I softly pose a question, inviting further intimacy: "So, what do you want to talk to me about?"

"I've been thinking," she starts, her words threading the air with a mix of curiosity and resolve, "about what it might be like to work for you."

The question caught me off-guard, "But we had an understanding about you not being on camera?" My confusion was evident, mingling with a hint of concern.

"Not like that," she clarified, "I was hoping for a different role, something behind the scenes." A brief silence hung between us before she added, "Now that I've got my G.E.D., I need to know what my next purpose in life is." She offered a smile that hinted at depths beyond our defined roles, adding, "beyond the obvious."

"Being on set is a whole different beast. You think you're ready for that?" I asked.

"I've watched you with others," she countered with assurance.

The thought of merging my separate worlds was unsettling, yet the responsibility to steer her growth and advancement was mine to bear. Training her as the office manager, a role I sorely needed to fill, could prove mutually beneficial. "I'm known to be a demanding boss," I admitted with a degree of reluctance. "It's not like I can fire you if we do this. Does this mean we carry our dynamic over to the workplace?" my query dense with implication.

Her nod is thoughtful, "I guess that would make sense," she agreed. "What position are you considering?"

"If we do this," I began, the hesitation in my voice mirroring the gravity of my next words, "then I can't go easy on you. Fail me, and I will need to punish you in all the ways I see fit." The warning was stark, a necessary clarity for the path we were contemplating.

She took a moment, the significance of my words sinking in, before responding with a resolve that spoke volumes. "You've upheld our agreement, shaped me for the better," she acknowledges, her trust in me evident. "So, what role do you envision for me?"

The moment shatters, Sara's voice slicing through the haze of memories, anchoring me back to the present with a mundane, "Cake is here, AleXxX."

"Where's it at?" My voice feels detached, automatic.

"In the kitchen," she responds, an undercurrent of empathy in her tone for my distracted state.

"Thanks. I'm stepping outside for a smoke first," I mention, signaling I'm not quite ready to regroup.

"Sure thing, boss," she answers, her smile a fleeting comfort.

A single glance at the cake's inscription in the kitchen, my mind is catapulted back to a week ago. On my deck, with the ocean's breath as our backdrop, there sat my red-haired princess, radiant in the glow of the firepit. Clad in my robe, with an 18-year-old scotch cradled in my grasp, and her in the red lingerie I had selected, the background music a soft echo to our private scene when she drops the bombshell: "I want to go to college."

"Really?" My response is tinged with skepticism, my heartbeat accelerating, anticipating the trajectory of our conversation.

"It's time for me to say goodbye," her voice carries a weight of melancholy.

"What?" I pressed, a part of me clinging to denial.

Her expression, tender yet resolute under the moon's gaze, conveyed her growth, "I've outgrown what we have here."

"Is this about the other night?" I challenge, referring to her earlier request to bend my rules about sharing my bed.

"No," she hesitates, then, with a sigh, "Well, partly. It's been three years, AleXxX," she pauses, searching for the right words, "What I'm looking for now, I don't think you can give me," her voice trails, hinting at deeper desires, needs I can no longer fulfill.

Faced with a junction I had never envisioned, I understood any concession from my side would only be a disservice to her journey.

"AleXxX," her tone soft yet firm, "you've been wonderful, but this life isn't for me. My future is in college, a career, a family."

The scotch, an 18-year-old brew steeped in sherry casks, known for its vibrant fruity and nutty essence, felt lifeless as it grazed my lips. "How can I support you?" I found myself asking, the liquid's usual vivacity drained, mirroring the void in my chest.

"Three things," she starts, "Your blessing first; I need to be set free. Second, I want the Lantana house for a fresh start."

"And the third?" I asked, apprehension building.

She hesitates, a long, drawn-out silence filling the space between us before she finally speaks. "When we say our goodbyes, you must promise to take me to the training room and strip away the illusion that I'm still your princess."

Her demand stuns me into silence. "You're serious?" I manage to *** out.

Her resolve, as unyielding as ever, cuts through the silence, "I've fulfilled your every command, and I'll do so until you decide otherwise. But when the moment arrives for you to let me go, I need it to be unforgettable. You've got to show me something so final, so defining, that even when college tests me beyond measure, I'll push through, fully aware that coming back isn't an option."

"Promise me, AleXxX," she implores, her voice laden with the strain of impending change and the frustration of a soul seeking liberation.

Another taste of the scotch offers no comfort its taste as void as the promise feels significant.  "I promise," I respond, the words etching a pact that marks the end of an era and the beginning of her journey beyond the life we've known.
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-To be continued

[An****]

Looking forward to the next part.

[al****]

I have been working on my book to add depth to existing chapters bout me and the women in my story.

This is the updated Chapter 9: The Velvet Cake

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The video camera in my grip freezes every member of this impromptu tribe I call mine. It's a makeshift family, cobbled together from misfits and mavens. Clustered on one couch, my digital warriors, a duo who dive deep into the virtual ether, splicing videos, curating images, weaving the web into something resembling support and semblance. They're the heartbeat of this operation, unseen but omnipresent. On the opposing couch sits Tim, our lighting guru, casting us all in the best possible light, alongside a mercenary of talent, a guy who doesn't punch my clock but still fills our ranks with fresh faces on a commission basis.

In the comfort of the reclining chair, boasting an allure that commands the room and injects a dose of courage into every soul present, sits my fluffer, Sara. And then, there she is, the crimson-haired princess, effortlessly monopolizing a piece of pizza with elegance and allure. She, who over the past twelve months, has steered the helm of phone communications and treasury duties of the studio.

Dave, the rookie behind the camera, fresh out of film school, captures my momentary lapse, my gaze lingering just a tad too long on her. In that glance, three years' worth of memories, of the profound happiness she's woven into my life, swell at the edges of my consciousness. His inquiry slices through the fog, "With as much as you get laid, why do you even need a slave?"

Our relationship has never fit the mold Dave's words suggest; Master/slave, Dom/sub, are titles too constricting for the likes of us. Labels have always been more of a noose than a badge, except for the ones we choose for ourselves.

"It's not about the sex," I find myself saying, my voice trailing off as I dive deep into the rabbit hole of our past, pondering the path that led us to this exact moment.

My thoughts snag on a memory, not too distant, just over a year back, in the kitchen of my West Palm Beach home. "Good morning," she greets, her tone threading through the quiet, "Breakfast's on its way." There I am, bleary-eyed, bare-skinned, a man of scant words, as she passes the coffee into my hands before the thought even crosses my mind. "Thanks," I mutter. I wander over to the sliding doors facing the yard, the blinds thrown wide, unbothered by the prospect of eyes on me, with nothing but the vast, blue ocean stretching beyond. Embracing the morning, I relish the edge of the forbidden, imagining unseen watchers from afar. Cracking open the door, I pull in a lungful of the salty ocean breeze and whisper to no one, "life is good." Her reply flutters back, as though she's the intended confidant, "It sure is." 

Pivoting, I observe her, the breakfast finding its place on the table, her figure, barely into her twenties, radiant in white lingerie. Her red hair, smooth and perfectly styled, falls around her shoulders like a frame meant to showcase the soft curves of her body. There’s a calm precision in the way she moves, each gesture deliberate, almost rehearsed. Her pale skin glows under the soft light, and her lean form stretches out across the bed with the kind of natural elegance that makes her seem as if she were crafted for this exact moment. Every detail within my gaze is precise, ordered, as though my existence is curated within a museum’s walls.

As I take my seat for breakfast, she inquires softly, "What's on the schedule today?" The omelet she's crafted, a vibrant medley of mushrooms, green peppers, sausage, and spinach, greets my palate with a richness of flavors as I outline my schedule, "Negotiations with Amanda at one, then it's off to Miami for back-to-back shoots at three."

"Expecting to return around ten?" she probes.

A nod conveys my agreement as I praise the meal's excellence.

"Thanks," her voice carries a smile, as she slips beneath the table.

Our communication is a dance of minimalism, rich in subtext, a preferred method of mine that allows us to connect without the clutter of excess words. My reference to negotiations isn't just about the day's tasks; it's a reminder of the mental preparation needed. Her inquiry about my return time signals deeper matters awaiting our attention.

Beneath the sturdy mahogany, she moves unseen, not just by me but by the vigilant eyes of the security cameras that oversee my domain. With my attention divided between the culinary masterpiece and the morning's brew, she operates with a liberty defined by the game's boundaries I've set. Her fingers trace a silent message along my legs, a clandestine caress under the table, a testament to her mastery of the unspoken rule: "no hands." This gesture, subtle yet significant, signals her awareness and willingness to navigate within the framework I've established.

With each forkful of the morning's offering, I find myself glancing at the microwave clock, noting the minutes as they ascend, each more satisfying than the last. Her approach is gentle, yet firm enough to make its presence felt, her movements so fluid that my coffee remains undisturbed, quick as if guided by purpose and a keen awareness of my schedule. It's a slice of euphoria, a moment suspended in the perfect now, the kind I'd wish to capture and live in endlessly, a glimpse of what paradise might feel like. Yet, reality calls, and as the final morsels of my breakfast disappear, and the last draught of coffee washes over my taste buds, a sigh of profound satisfaction escapes me. "Here it comes," I announce, as I reach the climax of this morning's indulgence.

The microwave minutes continue their march, unfazed, as she persists, dedicated to ensuring my complete approval of her efforts. Then, in a moment marked by both conclusion and revelation, she rises from beneath the table, showcasing the result of her effort before swallowing in a single, submissive gesture. It's an act that signifies more than the end; it's a reflection of the journey we've traversed together, the depth of connection we've forged. Basking in the moment's serene afterglow, I feel a clear mind, ready to hear her question and give her the attention she needs. I softly pose a question, inviting further intimacy: "So, what do you want to talk to me about?"

"I've been thinking," she starts, her words threading the air with a mix of curiosity and resolve, "about what it might be like to work for you."

The question caught me off-guard, "But we had an understanding about you not being on camera?" My confusion was evident, mingling with a hint of concern.

"Not like that," she clarified, "I was hoping for a different role, something behind the scenes." A brief silence hung between us before she added, "Now that I've got my G.E.D., I need to know what my next purpose in life is." She offered a smile that hinted at depths beyond our defined roles, adding, "beyond the obvious."

"Being on set is a whole different beast. You think you're ready for that?" I asked.

"I've watched you with others," she countered with assurance.

The thought of merging my separate worlds was unsettling. If issues cropped up at work, they’d bleed into our home life like spilled ink on crisp paper. I had a responsibility to steer her growth, to push her advancement. Training her as the office manager, something I desperately needed, could be mutually beneficial or a ticking time bomb. "I'm known to be a demanding boss," I admitted, the weight of the words heavy. "It's not like I can fire you if we do this. Does this mean we carry our dynamic over to the workplace?" My question hung in the air, thick with implication. Typical workplace disappointments? Not in my playbook. The corrections I had in mind were different, far more… personal.

Her nod is thoughtful, "I guess that would make sense," she agreed. "What position are you considering?"

"If we do this," I started, hesitation creeping into my tone, "then I can't go easy on you. Fail me, and I will need to punish you in all the ways I see fit." The warning was stark, the clarity cutting through the murkiness of our path.

She took a moment, the significance of my words sinking in, before responding with a resolve that spoke volumes. "You've upheld our agreement, shaped me for the better," she acknowledges, her trust in me evident. "So, what role do you envision for me?"

Obedient. Precise. Perfect, like the way I demanded. She had mastered the art of submission, following every command to the letter. And yet, this new opportunity to push her, to punish her again after so long, stirred something deeper in me. The thrill of control, the excitement of correction. It was a chance to reshape her further, to test her limits, feeding that part of me that craved novelty, the part that needed new challenges to stay sharp. I couldn't help but wonder if this path would satisfy that hunger or only make it grow.

Then, like a pin to a balloon, reality snapped back. The moment shattered, Sara’s voice slicing through the haze of memories, anchoring me to the present, stark and mundane.

“Cake’s here, AleXxX”

"Where's it at?" My voice feels detached, automatic.

"In the kitchen," she responds, an undercurrent of empathy in her tone for my distracted state.

"Thanks. I'm stepping outside for a smoke first," I mention, signaling I'm not quite ready to regroup.

"Sure thing, boss," she answers, her smile a fleeting comfort.

As I turn to leave, the faint sweetness of the cake wafts through the air, a bittersweet reminder of celebrations. One glance at the kitchen, the cake's inscription barely registering, and my mind catapults back to a week ago. On my deck, with the ocean's breath as our backdrop, there sat my red-haired princess, radiant in the glow of the firepit. Clad in my robe, with an 18-year-old scotch cradled in my grasp, and her in the red lingerie I had selected, the background music a soft echo to our private scene when she drops the bombshell: "I want to go to college."

"Really?" My response is tinged with skepticism, my heartbeat accelerating, anticipating the trajectory of our conversation.

"It's time for me to say goodbye," her voice carries a weight of melancholy.

"What?" I pressed, a part of me clinging to denial.

Her expression, tender yet resolute under the moon's gaze, conveyed her growth, "I've outgrown what we have here."

"Is this about the other night?" I challenge, my voice cutting through the tension. She knows my space is mine, my bedroom off-limits. Yet she'd asked me to bend that rule, just for one night, to share my bed. My refusal still lingers between us. And now, here we are, circling back to it.

"No," she hesitates, then, with a sigh, "Well, partly. It's been three years, AleXxX," she pauses, searching for the right words, "What I'm looking for now, I don't think you can give me," her murmur trails, hinting at deeper desires, needs I can no longer fulfill.

Faced with a junction I had never envisioned, I understood any concession from my side would only be a disservice to her journey.

"AleXxX," her tone soft yet firm, "you've been wonderful, but this life isn't for me. My future is in college, a career, a family."

The scotch, an 18-year-old brew steeped in sherry casks, known for its vibrant fruity and nutty essence, felt lifeless as it grazed my lips. "How can I support you?" I found myself asking, the liquid's usual vivacity drained, mirroring the void in my chest.

"Three things," she starts, "Your blessing first; I need to be set free. Second, I'd like the Lantana house for a fresh start."

"And the third?" I asked, apprehension building.

She hesitates, a long, drawn-out silence filling the space between us before she finally speaks. "When we say our goodbyes, you must promise to take me to the training room and strip away the illusion that I'm still your princess."

Her demand stuns me into silence. "You're serious?" I manage to *** out.

Her resolve, as unyielding as ever, cuts through the silence, "I've fulfilled your every command, and I'll do so for as long as I belong to you. But when the moment arrives for you to let me go, I need it to be unforgettable. You've got to show me something so final, so defining, that even when college tests me beyond measure, I'll push through, fully aware that coming back isn't an option."

I pause, soaking in her request. The atmosphere of that Florida night feels hot, humid, heavy like the weight of her words.

"Promise me, AleXxX," she implores, her voice laden with the strain of impending change and the frustration of a soul seeking liberation.

Another taste of the scotch offers no comfort its taste as void as the promise feels significant.  "I promise," I respond, the words etching a pact that marks the end of an era and the beginning of her journey beyond the life we've known.