Ezra’s POV
She wakes before I do now. No hesitation, no waiting for permission to breathe. Just instinct, conditioning, and devotion.
Leia kneels beside the bed like she was made for it, naked but for the collar. It stays on always. Her body is quiet, posture perfect, her eyes lowered but alert.
She doesn’t speak until I touch her, doesn’t shift until I signal. There’s no more need for rebellion or doubt. She doesn’t ask where her phone went, she hasn’t looked for the sealed windows in weeks.
There’s no TV, no news, no sounds except what I choose. I am her world now. She knows it, she chose it.
I rise slowly and let my fingers trail through her hair. She leans into the contact like a starving thing. There’s no shame anymore. Only need, only purpose.
“Good girl,” I murmur, and I watch the pulse in her neck jump.
Our mornings are rituals, her meals are measured. Water intake recorded, bowel movements tracked. I’ve chosen everything inside this off-grid apartment.
The slate-colored walls. The mattress on the floor, the restraints built into the corners, there’s no clutter, no options. Every object has a purpose, just like her.
Her orgasms belong to me, her hunger, and her voice. I hand her a bowl of porridge. She holds it with both hands and waits. “Please, may I eat?”
“Yes.”
She eats slowly, eyes down, each spoonful a silent act of obedience. I sit across from her, watch every swallow. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t fidget.
She’s finally learned what matters, belonging, not freedom. Tonight, she proves it.
I sit on the edge of the bed and gesture. “Come.”
She crawls, every motion deliberate, sensual without trying to be. When she reaches me, I pull out the thing she doesn’t expect, her journal. I place it in her lap. She hesitates.
“You wrote this,” I say. “It’s time you owned it.”
Her fingers tremble as she opens it. I watch her find the page. The one I dog-eared. The one where her truth started leaking out in ink-stained whispers.
“I-” her lips moved. “I want to be watched.” I nod. “I want to be ruined,” she continues, the words sticking in her throat.
I undo her hair. Let it spill around her shoulders. Then I unbutton her top, slow. Exposing inch after inch of skin. “Keep reading.”
“I want to be owned.” I bite down on her shoulder, hard and she gasps, the journal slipping a little in her hands. But she doesn’t stop.
I kiss down her chest, sink my teeth just under her collarbone until she whimpers. Her thighs are already slick. Her shame smells like arousal. She reads about wanting to beg, and I shove her back onto the bed, spreading her legs with no gentleness.
“I want to be told when to speak. When to cry. When to come.” I slip two fingers inside her. Her hips jerk, and her voice stutters. “I- I want…”
“Say it.” I curl my fingers against her spot, relentless.
“I want to be used!”
I choke her. Not hard. Just enough. Her back arches. “Louder.”
“I- I’m yours!”
I pull her hair, make her look straight at me. “Again.”
“I’m yours! Fuck- I’m yours!”
Her body trembles, thighs clenching around my hand. Her climax rips through her, violent and messy.
She keeps moaning the word like a prayer, “yours, yours, yours”, until her voice is raw. But I’m not done.
I push the journal against her chest. “Keep reading.”
“I want to be fucked until I forget my name. Until I forget I ever had one.” I lower my head between her thighs, bite into the soft flesh just above her knee.
She shudders, another page flips. Her lips barely moving. “I want to be nothing but his.”
I suck a bruise into her inner thigh, licking the taste of her surrender off my lips. “You are.”
Her nipples are swollen, her ribs bear my marks. Her neck, painted in red and violet where I’ve claimed her. She’s soaked, shaking, begging for more without words.
I take the journal, kiss the edges of the page she just read, then slide the whole thing between her thighs. She gasps when the paper touches her still-sensitive skin.
I press it in, smear her wetness onto her own confessions.
“You wrote the truth before you knew it,” I say. “Now you get to live it.” Her eyes close, her lips part in something between relief and ruin. She’s not crying.