Middle aged dominant male from the cold dark of northern Europe. Poly. Married. Trainer. Caretaker. Kinkster. Neurodivergent. LGBTQ ally. MDNI. Racists and bigots fuck off.
Read pinned.
This is where my stories live. Novellas and fragments. Some polished, some rough, all intentional. I do not write to prove anything. I write because certain fantasies refuse to stay silent. They want breath. Shape. Witness.
If you read slowly, they may begin to echo.
You are welcome to speak to me. To respond. To question. To offer critique, as long as it comes with care and attention. Thoughtlessness is dull. Presence is not.
Asks and DMs are open.
My stories are linked below.
About me:
Middle-aged dominant male from the cold, dark north of Europe. Poly. Married. Trainer. Caretaker. Kinkster. Neurodivergent. LGBTQ ally.
Racists and bigots, fuck off.
If you are a minor, leave now. This space is 18+ and not for you.
My stories
- The ex...
The Waitress
- Part 1
- Part 2
- Part 3
- Part 4
- Part 5
- Part 6
- Part 7
- Part 8
- Part 9
- Part 10
- Part 11
- Part 12
- Part 13
- Kidnapped
The daughter of my colleague.
- Part 1
- Part 2
- Part 3
- Part 4
- Part 5
- Part 6
- Part 7
- Part 8
- Part 9
- Part 10
- Part 11
- Part 12
Disclaimer: This is a work of fantasy exploring various kinks, some of which may be intense, uncomfortable, or triggering for certain readers. If you have any concerns, please review the tags below to ensure this story aligns with your interests and boundaries. Reader discretion is advised.
Home
It is later than you imagined.
Sometime between two and three in the morning. The city has emptied itself out, leaving only long stretches of asphalt and the occasional traffic light cycling pointlessly through colors for no one.
The car hums beneath you as we pull away from downtown. The motion is steady. Predictable. Soothing. Streetlights slide across the windshield in slow rhythm, then fall away as buildings thin and give way to quieter streets.
You sink back into the seat.
The buzz is still there. Softer now, but present. Like a low glow behind your eyes. Your body feels loose, warm, tuned slightly too high for the quiet around you. The drive smooths something out inside you. Each block we pass feels like a small exhale.
You glance at me.
At first it is just curiosity. Then focus takes over.
You notice details.
The veins running along my forearms as my hands grip the steering wheel. The subtle flex there, relaxed but controlled. The way my shoulders shift almost imperceptibly when I change lanes. My jaw. The line of my mouth. My lips pressed together, attention forward, eyes fixed on the road.
You realize you are watching the way I exist when I am not looking at you.
The thought sends a faint ripple through you.
A familiar warmth stirs low in your body. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just there. A quiet reminder that you are still very much alive, still responsive, still open in ways you have not fully sorted out yet.
You shift slightly in your seat.
I notice.
At the next red light, I glance over. Just once. And there it is. That smirk. Small. Knowing. Gone almost as soon as it appears.
Your stomach flips.
You look away too quickly, suddenly aware of your own breath, your own posture. You are not embarrassed exactly. Just caught. Seen in a way that feels intimate despite the silence between us.
The light changes. We keep driving.
The suburbs arrive gradually. Wider streets. Darker houses. Lawns sleeping under streetlamps. Your neighborhood appears almost suddenly, familiar and unreal at the same time, like a place you recognize but do not quite belong to at this hour.
I pull up in front of your house and park.
The engine goes quiet.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then I step out, walk around the car, and open your door. The cool night air brushes your skin. I offer you my hand.
You hesitate.
Just a second.
Then you take it.
My grip is firm. I help you to your feet and release you once you are steady. The shift is immediate. The tone changes.
“All right,” I say, already stepping back. “Thank you again for being such a good babysitter tonight. We really appreciate it.”
You nod, still slightly dazed.
“We’ll be in touch,” I add. “My wife and I. We definitely want to use you again.”
The words are polite. Ordinary.
My eyes are not.
There is that glint again. And just the hint of the smirk, tucked carefully away where only you will notice it.
Your mouth moves before your thoughts catch up.
“Thank you, Mr. Matt…”
The title lands strangely on your tongue. Too formal. Too loaded.
You turn quickly and walk up the path to your door. You do not look back. You are not sure you could handle it if you did.
Inside, the house is quiet. Familiar. Safe. You move through it on autopilot, shedding your bag, your shoes, the last traces of the night. When you reach your bedroom, you sit for a moment, then simply let yourself fall back onto the bed.
The ceiling above you is unchanged.
Your body is not.
You lie there, staring, sorting through fragments. Images. Sensations. Words. You know, vaguely, that you should feel something sharper. Confusion. Anger. Regret.
Instead, you smile.
It is small. Private.
Your hands drift down between your thighs, almost without permission, almost as if they are following a thought you have not fully formed yet.
Not because anything is slipping. Because everything is held.
We already did the work. The talking. The boundaries, the yeses, the noes, the language that fits your mouth. The way you like to be handled when you go under. The way I like you when you stop negotiating with your thoughts and start following.
Now it is simpler than words.
Breath. Heat. The steady rhythm of you giving in.
I watch your face first, not your body. Your face tells me where you are before anything else does.
Your eyes lose focus. Lashes flutter. Your mouth opens on a sound you cannot quite shape. It is not pretty on purpose. It is not for me.
It is real.
Good.
Your hands reach and claw for something solid, then fail, tied as they are. Fingers still grabbing at air like your body is trying to anchor itself while your mind drifts lower and lower.
I tighten my grip just enough to remind you where to come back to.
“Look at me,” I say.
You try. Your gaze catches for half a second, then slips away. You make a soft, wrecked sound and your chin lifts anyway, like your body knows the rule even when your words cannot keep up.
“Words,” I tell you. Calm. Exact. “Short.”
You swallow air. “Sir.”
That one word lands heavy.
Not a plea. A signal.
I lean closer, voice low.
“Deeper?”
Your answer comes instantly, breathless. “Yes.”
I watch the next wave take you. Throat tightening. Shoulders tensing. Your mouth opening again, and this time the sound is louder, rougher, like your body is asking for permission to fall apart properly.
I give it to you.
My hand steadies you. My voice pins you in place.
“Breathe. Let it happen.”
Your eyes roll shut. Your whole body trembles. The noise you make is not a scream, not a sob, but something between them. Something grateful. Something relieved.
You are in subspace now. I can see it in the moment you stop bracing and start receiving.
I know what you want when you are here. You want to go down. You want the last thin threads of control lifted from your hands and held safely by mine.
“Tell me,” I say. “One word.”
You fight for it, like it has to be dragged up through your ribs. Then it breaks free.
“More.”
I smile, slow and satisfied.
“Ask properly.”
Your voice comes out ruined, almost nothing. Begging without decoration. Begging without pride.
“Please.”
That is all I need.
I keep you right there, inside that small private universe we built, and I guide you deeper with the calm certainty you crave.
saw this being debated and just wanted to talk about it too.
"is it rude if I politely ask a writer if they use ai or chatgpt on their works because I'm almost certain they do?"
yes, it is rude. no matter how polite you are being when you ask them this.
you say you are almost certain. so you are not absolutely certain.
unless you are absolutely, undoubtedly certain — with actual proof — that their writing is ai generated, never ever ask an artist if their work is ai generated.
I know several writers who would stop writing and delete all of their works if they were ever accused of using ai. so it doesn't matter if you are polite when you ask them this, you are suggesting that their works are ai generated, that they didn't create the works they could have spent hours, days, weeks, months or years working on.
ai and chatgpt are trained on real humans' works, they are trained to mimic the way real humans write. so if you say a genuine writer's work "looks ai", I'm gonna have to ask you what you think ai was trained on.
a writer whose English isn't their first language may also write in a way that "looks ai" to some, if they write in English and have to rely on translator.
using em dash isn't a sign of ai. I do it all the time. my fellow writers all love em dash.
having long paragraphs with "overly described scenes" isn't a sign of ai. I do it all the time, and so do my fellow writers.
all the "ai signs" are actually just what most writers actually do. they get mistaken for "ai signs" because sometimes the way writers write or describe a scene in a fanfic or an original work is different than the way people talk or text. because they're writing a fic and describing a scene, not chatting with a friend. the way I talk is different than the way I write my fics.
if you suspect a work was ai generated, but are not 100% sure, you can always just stop reading said work without saying anything.
if someone does use ai to write, they will either a.) deny and continue using ai to write or b.) admit because they see nothing wrong with it and continue using ai to write.
if a genuine writer was wrongly accused of using ai, they may stop writing altogether.
asking a writer if they use ai or chatgpt to write will always do more harm than good. witch hunting will always do more harm than good.
you are not "fighting against ai" by throwing around such accusations. you are harming genuine writers and artists.
I’ve also run some of my own writing through AI detectors and got "high chance" of AI-written on work I actually wrote.
So yeah.
They’re not great at spotting it.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fantasy exploring various kinks, some of which may be intense, uncomfortable, or triggering for certain readers. If you have any concerns, please review the tags below to ensure this story aligns with your interests and boundaries. Reader discretion is advised.
Landing
For a while, you do not move.
You are aware of the couch beneath you, the way it presses into your back and legs, but it feels distant, like something remembered rather than touched. Your body is still humming. Not sharply anymore, but everywhere at once. A low, steady vibration under your skin.
Your skin still feels electric to your own touch. Just more relaxed now. Like a deep sea current.
What just happened?
The question arrives without panic. Just curiosity. Loose. Floating.
You blink slowly. The room comes back in pieces. The light. The walls. The familiar shape of furniture. You are still here. Still breathing. Your chest rises and falls, uneven at first, then steadier.
I am nearby.
You feel that before you look. The warmth. The presence. When your eyes finally find me, I am no longer looming, no longer watching in that precise way. I am seated close, turned slightly toward you. Hands relaxed. Posture open.
Something in your chest loosens.
I feel so alive.
The thought surprises you. It lands softly but firmly, like a truth you were not prepared to admit. Your fingers twitch. Your toes curl slightly. Sensation moves through you again. Gentler now. Slower. Still vivid.
Then you notice the shaking.
Your hands tremble faintly in your lap. Your legs feel weak. Not unpleasantly so. Just unsteady, as if they have carried you much farther than you realized.
“I’m shaking,” you murmur, mostly to yourself.
I hear you anyway.
“That’s okay,” I say calmly. “Your body is coming down. Nothing’s wrong.”
I gently place a blanket over you. The fabric is like a breeze against your naked skin.
Coming down.
The words give shape to what you are feeling. Not falling. Not crashing.
Landing.
A glass appears in your hands. Water. Cool against your palms. You sip carefully. The sensation of swallowing feels strangely important. Like proof that you are still here. Still whole.
Did I just…?
The memory flickers. Fragments surface. Images without order. Heat. Sound. Your own voice. The camera. The way you felt seen.
Your stomach tightens briefly. A spark of something like embarrassment. Like disbelief.
No.
Not exactly.
But…
You take another sip of water. Your hands are steadier now.
It felt… good.
The admission is quiet. Internal. Almost shy. You do not look at me when the thought forms. You are not ready to see what my face might tell you. But the truth does not go away. It settles instead. Warm. Undeniable.
I shift closer, slowly, giving you time to notice. I do not touch you at first. I just sit within reach. When my hand finally rests against your back, it is gentle. Grounding. Nothing like before.
He’s so warm.
Your shoulders drop as you lean into it. The contact feels different now. Not demanding. Not electric. Just safe. Your breathing deepens, syncing with the steady rhythm of the room.
I gently pull you to me and hold you.
Why does it feel so amazing when he holds me?
The question lingers. You do not answer it. You do not need to. For now, it is enough to feel the way your body responds to simple care.
Time stretches.
Minutes blur into longer spans. You drink more water. You sit. You lie back. You sit again. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you do not. I check in quietly. Ask if you are warm enough. If you are dizzy. If you want to move.
At some point you realize that something has shifted.
Not just in your body.
He’s different now.
The thought comes with no accusation. Just observation. The tone of my voice is softer. The way I look at you has changed. There is no pressure in it. No expectation. Just attention.
It almost feels like he’s a different person.
The realization makes your chest ache in a strange, tender way.
Do you miss what I was before?
Eventually, I help you gather yourself. Clothes are returned to you carefully. Without hurry. You dress slowly, deliberately. Each movement reclaiming a sense of control. When you button your blouse, your fingers pause for a second. You realize you do not feel ashamed dressing in front of me. Then you continue.
Before we leave, you ask quietly if you can use the restroom.
Inside, the light is harsher. More honest. You lean over the sink and splash cool water onto your face. It shocks you just enough to sharpen your senses. When you look up, you barely recognize yourself.
Your hair is a mess. Your eyes are bright. A little glassy. Your cheeks are flushed. You look undone.
And real.
You tilt your head slightly, studying your reflection. There is something open there. Something unguarded. You do not look polished or composed.
You look honest.
You realize you like what you see.
The thought settles with quiet certainty.
When you step back into the hallway, you feel steadier. Tired, yes. But grounded. Present. The night waits outside. Ordinary. Unchanged.
As we leave, you glance back once. Just briefly.
Not with regret.
With recognition.
Whatever this was, it is now part of you. And as the elevator doors close behind you, you know that the landing is still happening.
