The ring arrived two weeks after our quiet agreement under the stars. Nothing extravagant—just a simple platinum band with a single emerald embedded flush, the green catching light like her eyes when she cried during aftercare. I didn't do the knee thing. We were past theatrics. One evening after dinner, while she was washing dishes in nothing but an oversized shirt of mine, I came up behind her, dried my hands on a towel, and slipped the ring onto her left finger without a word.
She froze, suds dripping from her wrists, staring at the emerald like it was a foreign object.
Then she turned slowly, eyes already shining.
"Is this…?"
I nodded. "Forever kind of yes."
She launched herself at me—wet hands smearing soap across my shirt, arms wrapping around my neck, legs hooking around my waist. We kissed like teenagers discovering fire: messy, desperate, laughing into each other's mouths. The dishwater soaked through my clothes; neither of us cared.
That night we didn't play rough.
I carried her to the bedroom, laid her down like she was made of glass, peeled the shirt off her slowly. No cuffs. No blindfold. Just skin on skin, eyes locked from the beginning.
I kissed every inch of her—collarbones, the faint scar on her ribs from a childhood fall she'd told me about, the stretch marks on her hips she used to hide, the soft curve under her breasts where the skin was impossibly soft. When I reached her cunt, I didn't tease. I worshipped—long, slow licks that made her sigh instead of beg, fingers curling gently inside her until she trembled.
"Color?" I asked softly, more habit than necessity now.
"Green," she breathed. "Always green with you."
I slid inside her face-to-face, slow and deep, hands laced above her head. We moved together like we'd been doing this for decades—steady rhythm, breath syncing, hearts pounding against each other's chests.
"Look at me," I whispered when her eyes started to flutter closed.
She did. Tears slipped down her temples—not from pain, not from overwhelm, but from something rawer.
"I love you," she said, voice cracking. "Not just the Master part. Not just the slave part. All of you. The quiet boy who reads manga in corners. The man who holds me when I fall apart. The one who's going to be my husband."
My throat tightened so hard I could barely speak.
"I love you too," I managed. "The woman who protected me from bullies. The one who let me break her and still looked at me like I was worth loving. The mother who never got to be soft until now."
The word hung between us—heavy, electric.
She froze for a heartbeat, then her eyes softened into something almost luminous.
"Say it again," she whispered.
I thrust deeper, slower, holding her gaze.
"You're my mother now," I said quietly. "Not in blood. In everything that matters. You shield me. You nurture me. You let me be small when I need to be. And it fucking turns me on—knowing the same woman who cradles me at night is the one I can still tie up and fuck until she screams."
Her breath hitched. A fresh tear slipped free.
"It turns me on too," she confessed, voice trembling. "Being your safe place… and your filthy whore at the same time. It's wrong. It's perfect. It's us."
I kissed her then—deep, claiming, swallowing her soft sob.
We fucked like that for what felt like hours—slow builds, quiet climaxes, no rush to finish. When she came the third time—soft, rolling waves that made her whole body glow—I followed, spilling inside her with a low groan that felt like surrender.
Afterward we didn't move. I stayed buried in her, softening slowly, our foreheads pressed together.
"I want to say it during sex sometimes," she whispered eventually. "Call me Mommy when you're deep inside me. Let me call you my good boy when you're trembling in my arms. Let it be part of us—taboo and tender and ours."
My cock twitched inside her at the words.
"Fuck," I breathed. "Yes."
The next scene tested how seamlessly the new layer fit.
I tied her to the St. Andrew's cross in the playroom—soft leather cuffs, arms and legs spread wide. I blindfolded her gently, kissed her once on the lips, then stepped back.
"Color?"
"Green, my love."
I started with the flogger—soft suede falls warming her skin from shoulders to thighs until she glowed pink. Then my hands—kneading, slapping lightly, tracing welts. When she was trembling and dripping, I pressed against her back, cock hard against her ass.
"You've been such a good Mommy for me," I murmured in her ear. "Taking care of your boy… letting him hurt you… letting him love you…"
She moaned—deep, broken sound.
"Yes… your Mommy's cunt is so wet for her good boy… use it… please…"
I slid into her from behind in one slow thrust, filling her completely. She arched against the cross, chains rattling softly.
"Fuck your Mommy's pussy," she gasped. "Fill her up… make her cum around her son's cock…"
The words hit like lightning. I fucked her harder—deep, possessive strokes that made the cross creak. One hand wrapped around to circle her clit, the other gripping her hip.
"Good boy," she panted. "Such a good boy for Mommy… pounding her like she needs… making her drip… making her scream…"
I growled against her neck. "Cum for your boy, Mommy. Cum knowing you own every piece of me."
She shattered—loud, trembling, cunt spasming around me in violent waves. I followed seconds later, flooding her with a groan that echoed off the walls.
I untied her immediately, caught her as her legs gave out, carried her to the padded mat on the floor. We collapsed together—sweaty, shaking, laughing softly through the haze.
I held her for a long time after—stroking her hair, kissing her temple, whispering nonsense.
"You okay?" I asked eventually.
"More than okay," she murmured. "I feel… whole."
We stayed like that until the room cooled.
Later that week, during a quiet dinner, she set her fork down.
"I've been thinking about the wedding again."
I raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"Small. Intimate. But… I want one thing that's just ours."
"Name it."
"After the vows—when everyone leaves—I want you to take me somewhere private. Tie me up. Edge me until I'm crying. Then fuck me like you're claiming your wife for the first time. Call me Mommy while you do it. Let me call you my good boy. Make it filthy and sacred at the same time."
My cock hardened under the table just hearing it.
"Done."
She smiled—slow, wicked, loving.
The days blurred into soft routine after that.
Mornings of gentle fucks where I whispered "Mommy" against her throat while she cradled my head.
Nights of harder play where she praised her "good boy" while I pounded her into the mattress.
Afternoons of normalcy—grocery shopping, movie nights, arguments over whose turn it was to cook—interspersed with stolen moments of dominance and submission that felt like breathing.
And through it all, the feeling grew—unshakable, undeniable.
She wasn't just my fiancée.
She wasn't just my slave.
She was my everything.
Mother.
Lover.
Partner. Home.
And as the wedding date crept closer, I realized something simple and profound:
I'd never been more owned.
And I'd never felt more free.