Chapter Text
You wake slowly.
Not the way you usually do, dragged back into your body by noise or pain or fear, but gently, like something has decided you’ve had enough rest for now. Your eyes open to warmth first. A low golden light, soft and steady, fills the space around you without blinding you.
For a moment, you think you’re safe.
Then you remember the screaming. The sound of claws scraping against concrete. The wet, tearing noise. The way the air itself seemed to scream when the demogorgons tore through Hawkins like it was nothing more than paper. You sit up too fast, breath hitching, hands curling into fists as you scan your surroundings.
You’re not outside. Not in your house. Not anywhere familiar.
The room is… comfortable. That’s the only word for it. A modest living space, clean and warmly furnished, like something pulled straight from a catalog meant to make people feel at ease. Soft couches. A low coffee table. A standing lamp casting a gentle glow. There are no windows, but somehow it doesn’t feel closed in.
Your head throbs faintly, as you’ve slept too hard.
“Oh—easy,” a voice says. “You’re all right.”
You turn toward the sound.
A man stands a few feet away, hands raised slightly in a non-threatening gesture, as if he doesn’t want to startle you. He’s tall, but not imposing. Well dressed in a way that feels intentional without being showy. A vest over a pressed shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. His hair is brown, combed back, just imperfect enough to feel real.
Concern softens his expression when he sees your confusion.
“My name is Mr. Smith,” he says gently. “You’re safe here.”
Your heart is still racing, but his voice does something strange to it. Smooths the edges. Lowers the pitch of your fear.
“Where is here?” you ask.
He smiles, not too wide. Not rehearsed. “Somewhere the creatures can’t reach you.”
That makes your chest ache.
“You… you saw them?” you whisper.
He nods. “I did. I’ve seen them for a long time.”
You swing your legs off the couch, grounding yourself in the sensation of the floor beneath your feet. It feels solid. Real.
“I was running,” you murmur. “I thought I was going to die.”
“You would have,” Mr. Smith says calmly. “If I hadn’t intervened.”
That sends a chill through you, but not the bad kind. The kind that comes with realization. Gratitude. You look at him more closely now. The steadiness in his eyes. The confidence beneath the gentleness.
“You brought me here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He considers you for a moment, like the answer matters.
“Because you were in danger,” he says simply. “And because you listened.”
That confuses you. “Listened to what?”
“To the fear,” he replies. “Most people ignore it. They freeze. Or they run in circles. You didn’t. You followed the pull.”
You don’t remember doing that, but something in you believes him anyway.
“Why isn’t anyone else here?”
“Like I said before, most of them don’t listen.”
“Why can’t you just make them listen? What’s so wrong with that?”
“Not everyone is as willing to listen to me as you are, sweetheart.”
“What about my little brother, Dustin? Do you think you could bring him here?”
Mr. Smith paused, something flickering behind his eyes that you couldn’t quite place. Gears turned in his mind, and he gave a soft smile.
“Dustin Henderson will be safe from the monsters. I may not be able to bring him here, but he will be safe.”
“Promise?”
“I promise, sweetheart.”
You stay there a while. Or maybe you move. It’s hard to tell when time slips so easily between moments. Mr. Smith brings you tea at some point. It tastes faintly of honey and herbs you can’t name. When your hands tremble, he notices before you do.
“Drink,” he murmurs. “It helps settle the nerves.”
It does.
He talks to you while you drink. About harmless things. The weather patterns that preceded the gate opening. How animals can sense danger long before humans ever do. How fear, when properly directed, can be a survival tool instead of a weakness. He slips a few compliments in, seamlessly blending in with his nonsensical rambling. You almost don’t notice them. Just like how you don’t notice how often his gaze drifts to you when you’re not looking.
“How long can I stay?” you ask eventually.
“As long as you need,” he says. “Until it’s safe. Just don’t go into the woods.”
“And when will that be?”
His smile softens. “That depends on Hawkins.”
“And what’s so wrong with the woods? Are there more monsters in there?”
“Precisely. They are heartless creatures, and the thought of you being torn to shreds by one of them? Should scare you more than death itself.”
A small chuckle escapes your lips, although it’s a dry and awkward one. He doesn’t seem to notice your discomfort, as his gaze is locked onto something behind you.
That’s when you start to notice the oddities.
The space changes subtly around you. Hallways appear where there weren’t any before. Doors open into rooms that feel familiar in ways you can’t explain. A bedroom that isn’t yours, but almost is. A wooden hallway without doors. “You built all this?” you ask, half in awe.
Mr. Smith chuckles. “I didn’t build it. I shaped it.”
You don’t question that.
Every time unease stirs in your chest, he’s there. A hand at your elbow. A quiet reassurance murmured close to your ear.
“You’re doing well.”
“There’s no need to be afraid here.”
“They can’t hurt you anymore.”
The thought settles deep in your bones.
They can’t hurt you anymore.
At some point, you realize something else. You don’t feel hungry. Or tired. Your body feels…distant. Like it’s wrapped in something warm and heavy, separate from you. When you mention it, Mr. Smith nods as he expected it.
“This place prioritizes your mind,” he explains. “Your body is resting. Healing.”
“That’s…possible?”
“For you,” he says, almost amused, “yes.”
A flicker of doubt sparks in you then. Brief. Unformed.
“Who are you?” you ask.
He meets your gaze without hesitation. “Someone who understands the monsters better than anyone else.”
That should scare you.
Instead, it comforts you.
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Hours pass without a sound from him.
At first, you try to be normal about it. You sit on the edge of the couch, then the armrest, then the floor. You flip through a magazine you don’t remember bringing with you. You check the clock once, twice, three times. Each time the hands seem to mock you, inching forward with deliberate slowness.
He’d said he was going to a store nearby. Said it casually, like it was nothing at all. Asked if you wanted anything, head tipped slightly, that easy smile tugging at his mouth. When you’d shrugged and said you were fine, he’d laughed softly and told you he’d buy you something special anyway.
You never asked what.
Now, with the house too quiet and your thoughts beginning to gnaw at themselves, curiosity gets the better of you.
You wander.
The house is larger than it first appeared, the hallways stretching just a little longer than they should. Your footsteps sound muffled, like the carpet is swallowing them whole. There’s a faint hum in the air, almost electrical, but you can’t tell where it’s coming from. You stop in front of a bedroom door that’s already ajar.
Inside, the room feels…older. Not dusty, not abandoned, just preserved, like it’s been sealed off from time. The bed is narrow. The sheets are neatly tucked, corners sharp. A desk sits by the window, its surface cluttered with relics of another life.
You step inside carefully, like you’re trespassing.
On the walls are old family photos. A mother with a tight smile. A father standing stiffly, hand resting on a young boy’s shoulder. The boy looks nothing like the man you know, not really, but something about the eyes makes your stomach twist. Too intense. Too knowledgeable for someone so young.
You pick up a frame, tilting it toward the light.
The glass is cool beneath your fingers.
On the desk, there are books stacked in uneven piles. Some look untouched, spines unbroken, pages pristine. Others are worn soft, margins filled with cramped, meticulous notes. You recognize a few titles, but most are unfamiliar, strange, and almost esoteric.
Then there are the drawings.
You freeze when you see them. Sheets of paper scattered like they’d been dropped in a hurry, each one covered in careful, obsessive sketches of spiders. Not crude doodles, but detailed renderings. Legs articulated precisely. Eyes shaded dark. Webs drawn so intricately that they make your head ache if you stare too long.
They’re beautiful, in a disturbing way.
“Okay…” you murmur to yourself.
You swallow, setting the frame back where you found it.
Does he really sleep here?
The idea feels unlikely. This room feels like a museum. A place for ghosts. You can’t imagine Mr. Smith lying here at night, relaxed and smiling, one arm thrown behind his head. The thought unsettles you more than you expect. You back out of the room, pulling the door closed gently, like you’re afraid of waking something. That’s when you notice another door down the hall.
It wasn’t open before. You’re sure of it.
Your steps slow as you approach, heart thudding just a little harder with each pace. When you push it open, the sight inside steals the breath from your lungs. It’s your bedroom.
Not a copy. Not an approximation. Yours.
The layout is identical. The furniture. Even the tiny scuff on the baseboard near the door. The air smells faintly of brown sugar, warm and sweet, like a candle that’s just been blown out. The scent wraps around you, comforting and disarming all at once.
“How…?” you whisper.
You step inside, half-expecting the room to vanish if you blink too hard.
It doesn’t.
Your closet stands open, and when you peer inside, your stomach flips again. Clothes hang neatly along the rack. Dresses you recognize. Sweaters you love. Even a few things you swear you haven’t worn in years.
And then there are things you don’t remember owning at all. New fabrics. Softer. Darker. Colors you’ve always liked but never quite dared to wear. You pull a dress free, letting it drape over your arm. The material is luxurious, as if it were chosen with care.
“Did he…buy these?” you murmur.
You try on a few things, more out of disbelief than vanity. Everything fits perfectly. Like it was made for you. Like someone knew exactly how you’d look in it. How it would cling here, fall there.
A shiver runs down your spine.
Your gaze drifts to the bed. There’s a gift box resting at its center, wrapped neatly with a ribbon tied into a perfect bow. You approach it slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of the mattress as if to steady yourself.
Carefully, you open it.
Inside is a record, your favorite song pressed into glossy black vinyl. Beneath it, a small assortment of chocolates, each one wrapped individually. Nestled between them is an envelope. Your name is written on the front in elegant handwriting. You sit on the bed before opening it, suddenly aware of how quiet the house has become.
The letter slides free easily.
“My dear,
I hope you’re making yourself comfortable. I hated leaving you alone, but some things simply couldn’t wait. I promise I’ll make it up to you.
I’ve been watching you for a long time. Longer than you might think. I know what you like. The music that makes you sway without realizing it. The sweetness you pretend you don’t crave. The way you light up when someone surprises you.
Consider this a small taste of what’s to come.
When I return, I intend to keep my promise. I’ll rock your world, darling, in ways you didn’t even know you were missing. Gently, of course. I do so enjoy taking my time.
Yours,
Mr. Smith”
Your fingers tremble as you fold the letter back up. Heat pools low in your stomach, a confusing mix of flattery and unease. The words linger, intimate in a way that feels earned…and dangerous.
You glance around the room again, suddenly aware of how deeply you’re surrounded.
By him.
Somewhere in the distance, a door clicks open.
Your heart jumps.
He’s home.
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Dinner is already waiting when he calls you downstairs.
You catch the smell first. Warm and clean, not heavy. Citrus and herbs, something gently toasted. It pulls you along the hallway before you even realize you’re following it, bare feet padding against the floor until the kitchen opens up in front of you.
Mr. Smith is there, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair slightly mussed like he’s actually working for this. The table is set for two. Real plates. Real silverware. A single candle burning low between them, flame steady, patient.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say, hovering at the threshold.
He looks up and smiles like he’s been waiting for you to appear exactly there.
“I wanted to,” he replies easily. “Besides, you deserve something nicer than takeout.”
He gestures for you to sit. You do, still a little unsure, watching as he brings over the plates. It’s a simple meal. Lemon-roasted chicken, a light salad with vinaigrette that smells faintly of honey, bread still warm enough to steam when he tears it open.
Nothing extravagant. Just… thoughtful.
“You’re a good cook,” you say after the first bite, genuinely surprised.
His mouth curves. “I had to learn early. It was either that or starve.”
That earns a small laugh from you, but when you look up, his expression is distant for half a second. Not sad. Just old.
“Did you grow up alone?” you ask gently.
He shakes his head. “No. Not alone. Just… misunderstood.”
You tilt your head. “That sounds lonely.”
“It was,” he says simply, then takes a sip of water. “My family expected a certain version of me. One I couldn’t be. I learned quickly that it was easier to stay quiet. To keep things to myself.”
Something in his voice pulls at you, honest without being vulnerable. Carefully measured truth.
“I get that,” you say after a moment. “Growing up with Dustin, I learned how to be the responsible one fast. Someone had to keep him from doing something stupid. Or getting himself killed.”
He chuckles at that, soft and genuine.
“He talks about you,” Mr. Smith says. “Even when you’re not around.”
Your brows lift. “He does?”
A beat, then you speak again. “You know my brother?”
“Constantly,” he replies. “You’re his anchor. He feels safer knowing you’re nearby.” Then, he adds, “Yes, I know of him. I’ve worked at the high school before, seen him play his little board game and such.”
Your chest warms at that. “I worry about him all the time. I try not to let it show, but… yeah.”
There’s a pause, comfortable and strange all at once. You eat. He watches you when he thinks you’re not looking.
Eventually, dessert appears. A small dish of berries and cream, lightly sweetened. Nothing too indulgent. Still intimate.
It’s when you’re setting your spoon aside that the letter creeps back into your mind.
“Can I ask you something?” you say.
He nods. “Of course.”
“The note,” you begin, fingers brushing the tablecloth. “Was that… serious? Or were you just being charming?”
His gaze sharpens, but his smile doesn’t fade.
“I told no lies,” he says calmly.
Heat crawls up your neck. “So you really meant all that?”
“I do,” he answers, leaning back slightly. “I wouldn’t say something like that unless I intended to follow through.”
Your heart stutters, half-flattered, half-nervous. “You’re very confident.”
He laughs quietly. “Only when I’m certain.”
Silence settles again, thicker now. Charged.
He stands, collecting the plates before you can protest.
“You should get some rest,” he says, tone softening. “It’s been a long day.”
You nod, rising from your chair. “Thank you. For dinner. For… everything.”
He steps closer, close enough that you can smell him. Clean. Familiar. His hand brushes your arm, light and deliberate.
“Sleep well,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
You head upstairs, heart racing just a little, unaware of the way his eyes follow you until you disappear from view.
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You sink into it like warm water, heavy and soft and unquestioning. The bed cradles you perfectly, sheets cool against your skin, the faint brown-sugar scent still lingering in the air like something sweet left behind on purpose. For a while, there are no dreams. Just blackness and quiet and the steady feeling of being watched over.
Then—
A sound.
Soft. Careful.
The faint click of your bedroom door opening.
Your eyes flutter open, heart stuttering once before settling again. The room is dark, moonlight slipping through the curtains in thin silver bands. You turn your head toward the door.
It’s open now. Just a crack.
“Mr. Smith?” you murmur, voice thick with sleep. “Are you… okay?”
Silence.
Not the comforting kind. The kind that feels deliberate.
You wait. Count your breaths. Nothing answers back.
Maybe he was just checking on you. Maybe he thought he heard something. That makes sense. He’s been protective since the moment you met him.
You push the covers back and sit up, the floor cool beneath your feet as you stand. The hallway beyond your room is dim, shadows pooling in corners that weren’t there earlier.
“Mr. Smith?” you call again, quieter this time.
Still nothing.
You step into the hallway.
The house feels… bigger. Longer. Like the space between rooms has stretched while you slept. Your footsteps echo faintly as you move, following instinct more than logic. The front door catches your eye.
It’s unlocked.
That stops you.
You frown, unease curling low in your stomach. He wouldn’t leave it like that. Not after everything he’s told you about safety.
You hesitate only a second before pulling it open.
Warm air washes over you. Night, but not cold. Not threatening. The sky is deep indigo, stars scattered generously overhead. The world outside looks real. Solid. Crickets chirp. Leaves rustle softly in the trees lining the property. You step out onto the porch.
“Mr. Smith?” you call once more, a little louder now.
That’s when you hear it.
Your name.
Spoken in a voice you know better than your own.
“Hey…wait up!”
Your breath catches painfully.
“…Dustin?”
It comes again, farther off this time. Urgent. Familiar. Your chest tightens.
“C’mon,” his voice calls. “You’re gonna miss it.”
Miss what? You don’t know. You don’t question it. Your feet are already moving, bare against the ground as you step off the porch and follow the sound into the trees.
The woods swallow you whole.
Branches arch overhead, leaves whispering secrets you can’t quite hear. The path feels known, like you’ve walked it before in another life. The air grows thicker the deeper you go, warm and damp, buzzing faintly beneath your skin.
“Dustin?” you call again.
No answer.
Then you see it.
The cave.
Dark and yawning, its mouth rimmed with twisted roots and stone. Something about it makes your pulse spike, dread, and recognition tangled together. You slow as you approach, every instinct screaming at once. That’s when the air shifts. Not behind you. Around you.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The voice isn’t Mr. Smith’s.
Not entirely. You turn slowly. He stands a few feet away, half-shadowed by the trees. Same face. Same posture. But the softness is gone. The warmth stripped away to reveal something sharper underneath. Something hungry.
“Mr. Smith?” you whisper, confused, heart pounding.
His jaw tightens.
“You walked out,” he says, voice low, controlled. “Alone.”
“I thought—” you swallow. “I heard Dustin. I thought he needed me.”
His eyes darken at that. Not with jealousy. With possession.
“You don’t follow voices into the dark,” he says. “You don’t leave without telling me.”
“I didn’t mean to,” you rush out. “I just wanted to check. The door was open, and—”
“You wanted to know if you could,” he cuts in, stepping closer.
You don’t move away. Your body won’t let you.
“That’s not the same as leaving,” you insist weakly.
He stops directly in front of you, close enough that you can feel his heat, his presence pressing in from all sides. He tilts his head, studying you with unsettling focus.
“It is to me,” he murmurs.
The anger in him isn’t loud. It’s coiled. Intimate. The kind that curls around your spine instead of striking outward.
“You scared me,” he continues softly, fingers lifting to catch your chin. His touch isn’t rough, but it isn’t gentle either. It’s deliberate. Claiming. “Do you know what happens to people who wander off like this?”
You shake your head, breath shallow.
“They get taken,” he says. “They get torn apart by things that don’t care how brave or kind they are.”
His thumb brushes your lower lip, almost absentminded.
“I won’t let that happen to you.”
Something about the way he says it makes your knees feel weak.
“I didn’t think—” you whisper.
“I know,” he replies. “That’s why I think for you.”
He straightens, hand dropping from your face, irritation flickering back into his expression.
“We’re going home,” he says.
He takes your wrist and starts walking, tugging you along behind him. You stumble once, catching yourself.
“You didn’t have to drag me,” you mutter, embarrassed and flustered. “I would’ve followed.”
He glances back at you, eyes flashing.
“I’m aware.”
The Creel House looms into view far too quickly, lights glowing warmly like it hasn’t just watched you run into the woods alone. He pulls you inside, shutting the door firmly behind you.
“You can’t just leave,” he snaps now, anger finally bleeding through. “Not after everything I’ve done to keep you safe.”
“I said I was sorry,” you shoot back, frustration bubbling up despite the fear. “You can’t expect me to just stay locked inside forever.”
His steps falter.
Slowly, he turns.
“That’s exactly what I expect,” he says quietly.
The air thickens between you. The house seems to lean in, listening.
“You belong where I can see you,” he continues, voice dropping again, intimate and dangerous. “Where I know you’re alive. Breathing. Not screaming in the dark.”
Your chest tightens, a strange mix of anger and something far more confusing curling low in your stomach.
“You’re overreacting,” you whisper.
His mouth curves, humorless.
“You have no idea how restrained I’m being.”
He steps closer once more, towering over you now.
“This doesn’t happen again,” he says. Not a threat. A promise. “You don’t leave without me. Ever.”
You nod, because arguing feels impossible. Satisfied, he exhales slowly, smoothing himself back into calm. He gestures toward the hallway.
“Lead the way.” He says with an almost mocking gentleness.
You cock your head to the side, a brow raising too.
“What do you mean?”
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
“Mr. Smith, I don’t understand. I thought you wanted me to go to sleep?”
A small chuckle escaped his lips, and he shook his head.
“Not yet. I have to punish you for your bad behavior, love. You can’t seriously expect me to trust you after that! I have to make sure I instill it in your mind.” He takes a step closer to you, voice dropping into a low, hushed tone.
“You,” he presses his pointer finger against your chest, “are not to disobey me. You will relearn the rules. You will recite them to me. You will behave like the good girl I know you want to be. Like my good girl.”
A warmth bloomed at his words, against your own best judgement, as you nodded slowly.
“Use your words.”
“I understand.”
“Thank you. Now, lead the way.”
As you walked up the stairs towards your bedroom, he followed behind unnervingly close. You swear he stood on the same stairs as you a few times. Once inside your bedroom, he carefully closed the door behind himself and dusted off his pants. His blue eyes watched you like a hawk as you sat down, a satisfied hum.
“Now, I know you’re a young adult, and don’t need to be reprimanded like a child, but I don’t know any other way to teach you.”
“Teach me? Can’t you just tell me the rules then? It makes much more sense if you—“
“No. My ways are much more effective. However, I must ask for your consent.”
A mixture of a gasp and a chuckle. He isn’t amused.
“Consent for what?”
“Your punishment, love. My methods are rather…extreme. You might hate me afterwards, and heaven knows I wouldn’t want that.”
“Mr. Smith, I give you my consent. I trust you.”
He smirked, blue eyes glowing almost supernaturally, before sitting beside you. His legs spread a little, and he gestured to his lap.
“Lay across my lap, and take your spankings.”
You almost laughed. You’re not quite sure if you did. Regardless, Mr. Smith didn’t find it funny. His brow furrowed as he looked over his glasses at you.
“I’m being very serious. You were a bad girl, and you need to be punished. I don’t want to do this, but I’ll reward you after.”
You don’t know what your face was, and whatever expression it was must’ve amused him. There was an undeniable heat that bloomed in the pit of your stomach at the thought of it. You looked down at his hands, which were gripped onto his knees. No ring on his finger, which didn’t necessarily concern you, but his hands didn’t look like they’d hurt.
With a small sigh, you lay yourself across his lap reluctantly. He doesn’t give any indication that your weight bothers him, but he does readjust his position to have you more properly settled. His hand came up and gently rested against your rear. He looked down at you, blue eyes cold in that dangerous and sexy way.
“I am going to tell you the rules, and you are to repeat them back. Then, I’ll ask you to repeat them after each spank. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes…Mr. Smi—“
Before you could finish saying his name, his hand came down against you. It didn’t sting, not yet, but it definitely brought you back to Earth. “Sir.” You instantly corrected yourself, half out of fear and half out of innate instinct for watching shitty pornos for fun.
A deep chuckle escaped Mr. Smith’s lips, then a smile.
“Good girl, sweetheart. That’s one less spank for correcting yourself without my help. Now, let’s get these pesky things off…”
Mr. Smith’s fingers carefully slipped under the waistband of your pajama bottoms, before sliding them down your legs effortlessly. As if he’d practiced this specific moment in his mind before. As the cool air of the bedroom made contact with your skin, a shiver traveled up your body.
“Are you cold, love?”
“No, no. I’m okay,” you lie right through your teeth.
He hesitates to move. You just barely peeped it. However, he sided against whatever strike he planned on giving.
“You’ll warm up soon enough. Now, here are the rules I need you to remember. You are not to enter the woods, you are not to answer the door for anyone unless I tell you company is coming, you are to stay in bed once I send you off, and you will listen to everything I say. Now, tell it all back to me.”
You’d been listening, but you were also focused on his hand. How rough it felt against your now bare skin. How his hand occasionally slid over the curve of your ass before finding itself right back at the curve of your back. Even if he sought no pleasure from this—which was unlikely due to it being all his idea—you could tell he had to fight back some sort of urge to touch you more.
And that made you more excited than anything he’d done so far.
“I am to stay out of the woods. I am not allowed to answer the door unless told beforehand by you that someone is coming. I am to stay in bed until morning. I must listen to everything you say.”
A low hum of approval slipped into your ears like music you hadn’t heard in ages, and missed. The palm of his hand slowly moved in circles over your cheeks, and he nodded.
“Good, good. Now, what’s rule number one?”
“I am to stay out of the woods—“
The words had just barely left your mouth before his hand was brought down against you. It stung, your eye got a little watery, but you felt warm. And not just from his body heat.
And suddenly?
The idea of that reward after all of this was all you wanted.
“That’s one. Next?”
“I…I am not allowed to answer the door unless told beforehand by you that someone is coming.”
Another sharp smack against your ass, only this time you let out the smallest whimper. While he didn’t react to it, Mr. Smith definitely heard it. And he liked it.
“That’s two. Next?”
“I am to stay in bed until morning.” You tensed up in preparation for your spanking, but he caught on. He waited a few extra seconds before bringing a harder slap to your rear. Instinctively, you let out a moan from the pain, which seemed to have pleased Smith to some degree. He carefully brought his hand down, thumb idly stroking the curve of your cheek before he turned your head to face him with his other hand.
“You’re doing very well, love. Just one more, then you’ll have your reward. Are you ready?”
You nodded a bit too eagerly than you’d like to admit, before shuddering out in that desperate tone.
“Yes sir!”
“What’s the last rule, love?”
“I must listen to everything you say.”
You were expecting him to strike instantly, or maybe even wait a few seconds, but as you waited nothing came. You didn’t want to look at him, partly embarrassed by this whole idea, and because you didn’t know if he was testing you.
Sitting there, the stinging finally registered on your body. You were definitely going to be sore for the next few days. However, just as you made peace with the pain, his hand came down harder than before. The sound of the smack bounced off the walls, and a few tears slipped down your cheeks. Smith’s hands then began to rub your cheeks, attempting to soothe you.
“You did very well, I’m proud of you.”
“Shut up…”
“I’m serious! I’ll give you your reward right now. You won’t even have to get up, how’s that sound?”
He leaned down into your face, his gaze soft like it was earlier today. He smiled softly, thumb stroking away a few of your stray tears.
“I promise you’ll like it.”
“Okay.”
With a small nod, Mr. Smith looked down at your body displayed across his lap hungrily. His fingers hooked under the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly. You jolted and whipped your head around to look at him.
“Smith! What are you doing!?“
“You said you wanted your reward, sweetheart. I’m giving it to you.” He said with a slight scoff, like he was offended you asked why he was removing your underwear. He finished pulling down your underwear, revealing your cunt to the room. Admittedly, you were a little soaked. Mr. Smith noticed this almost immediately and chuckled.
“Jesus, love. Are you already this aroused by a little bit of slapping? Don’t tell me kissing gets you like this too?” He was joking, obviously. But the silence and the way your gaze averted from him only proved him right.
As his fingers slowly trailed down your backside, he made sure to gently dance his fingers over your glistening folds. Probing the smaller reactions from you. The small arch in your back. The way your breath hitched as you gripped onto the bed. He was enjoying taking his time with you. Something you’d learn to love.
After spreading your lips apart, he gently pushed one of his fingers into your heat. He let out a low whistle as you held back a soft moan. He didn’t move his finger yet, his eyes were preoccupied with you.
“I want you to let out all the pretty sounds you feel like making. This is your reward, so you’re allowed to let loose.”
You nodded, reluctantly.
Then, he began to gently curl his finger. It was nice, but underwhelming. That was when he slid in another finger and placed his thumb over your clit. As his fingers all began to work, curling against your sweet spot, and circling your clit with just the right amount of pressure. Your back arched and a moan erupted from deep within your core.
Your body responded instinctively, hips shifting slightly as the pleasure began to uncoil. Mr. Smith's gaze remained fixed on your face, drinking in every twitch and flutter of your expression. His fingers moved with a deliberate rhythm, the two inside you pressing and curling in unison, stroking that sensitive bundle of nerves deep within your pussy. His thumb maintained its steady circles over your clit, the pressure firm yet teasing, building the heat without rushing it.
A whimper escaped your lips, unbidden, and you felt your cheeks flush under his scrutiny. The reluctance from moments ago melted away, replaced by the growing ache that demanded more. He hummed approvingly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he leaned closer, his free hand resting lightly on your thigh to keep your legs parted.
"That's better," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers racing across your skin.
He increased the pace just a fraction, his fingers scissoring gently inside you, stretching your walls and exploring every slick fold. Your pussy clenched around the intrusion, pulling him deeper, and another moan bubbled up, louder this time, echoing in the quiet space between you.
Your breaths came in short gasps, chest rising and falling rapidly as the tension wound tighter. You gripped the edge of the bed covers, knuckles whitening, trying to anchor yourself against the rising tide.
Mr. Smith watched it all, his eyes dark with intent. He added a subtle twist to his movements, his fingers rotating slightly as they thrust in and out, the motion creating a delicious friction that made your toes curl. His thumb pressed harder on your clit for a beat, then lightened, alternating the intensity to keep you on the edge, teetering but not falling.
"Let me hear you, sweetheart," he encouraged again, his tone laced with command.
You obeyed without thought, a series of soft cries spilling from your mouth as the pleasure intensified. Your back arched further, pushing your hips toward his hand, seeking more of that perfect touch. The wetness between your legs grew, coating his fingers, easing their glide as he worked you with expert precision.
He shifted his position slightly, angling his hand to delve deeper, his fingers crooking upward to massage that spot inside with unrelenting focus. The pressure on your clit never faltered, circling faster now, matching the quickening pump of his digits. Your thighs trembled, muscles tightening as the coil in your belly drew impossibly taut.
Sweat beaded on your forehead, and you bit your lower lip, but the sounds kept coming—moans turning to pleas, your voice breathy and desperate. Mr. Smith's expression was one of quiet satisfaction, his focus unwavering as he orchestrated your unraveling.
He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, whispering, "Good girl, just like that. Do you feel it building?"
You could only nod, words lost in the haze. His fingers sped up, curling and thrusting in a rhythm that mimicked something more intimate, but he kept it contained, solely his hand claiming your pleasure. The dual assault on your sweet spot and clit pushed you higher, your pussy fluttering around him, walls pulsing with need.
The orgasm crept up slowly at first, then surged like a wave. Your body tensed, every nerve alight, and you cried out as it crashed over you. Waves of ecstasy rippled through your core, your pussy spasming around his fingers, clenching and releasing in rhythmic pulls. He didn't stop, drawing it out with gentle curls and soft circles, prolonging the bliss until you were shaking, oversensitive, and spent.
As the aftershocks faded, Mr. Smith eased his fingers from you slowly, watching the way your body slumped in relief. He brought his hand up, glistening with your arousal, and held your gaze as he licked one finger clean, a small smirk playing on his lips.
"Such a responsive little thing," he said softly, his touch now feather-light on your thigh, grounding you in the lingering warmth.
“I’m sorry for running earlier, Mr. Smith…”
“You are forgiven, sweetheart. All is well.”
⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆
After getting yourself cleaned up, taking a shower, and such, you found a cup of tea waiting on your bedside table. It was from Smith, no doubt. You grabbed the delicate-looking porcelain cup carefully, fingers curling around the warmth as if it might ground you.
Chamomile. Honeyed. Exactly how you liked it.
The realization makes something flutter low in your chest.
Beside the cup sits a folded piece of paper, cream-colored and neat, your name written across the front in that same precise hand. You hesitate before opening it, pulse still unsteady, body still humming in places you’re trying very hard not to think about.
Rest, the note reads.
You gave more of yourself than you realize tonight. I’ll be close if you need me. Drink slowly—it’s still hot.
There’s no signature. He never signs his notes like these. He doesn’t need to.
You sit on the edge of the bed, towel wrapped loosely around you, steam still clinging to your skin as you take a careful sip. The tea soothes your throat, settles something restless inside you. Your muscles finally start to relax, the tension bleeding out little by little.
Your gaze drifts around the room. Everything is exactly where you left it, but it still feels… altered. Charged. Like the walls remember what just happened, even if they refuse to say it out loud.
You set the cup down and lean back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. Your thoughts circle him whether you want them to or not. The way his voice had dropped. The way his attention never wavered. The way he looked at you was like you were something rare.
Something worth keeping.
A soft creak sounds somewhere in the house. Not close. Not far either.
You don’t call out this time.
Instead, you pull the blankets up around yourself, fingers brushing the still-warm porcelain as you close your eyes. The tea works quickly, heaviness settling into your limbs, sleep tugging you under with gentle insistence.
Just before you drift off, you swear you feel it.
That same familiar presence.
Of being watched.