All characters are consenting adults (18+). If BDSM is featured, safewords are always in use.
Author’s Note: If you have been reading my series The Education of Skylar, I have been updating the story as I publish them on Amazon. You can read this as a standalone story, but you might want to go back and read chapters 7 through 10 of book 3, as I recently added a new plot point featuring Mark’s wife, Rebecca.
The story below is the first chapter of book 4.
The highway stretched dark and empty ahead, pine trees crowding both sides like silent sentinels. I adjusted my grip on the steering wheel, the memory of my husband Mark’s experience with Skylar and her roommate, Jenna, still fresh in my mind.
I’d heard the anxiety in Skylar’s voice when I called, but the girl stayed cool—I had to give her that. She’d kept her voice steady, answered my questions about classes and roommates like she wasn’t currently getting railed by my husband.
“Mrs. Sullivan, hi! How are you?”
So polite. So earnest.
I’d pictured her on that couch, phone pressed to her ear, eyes wide as Mark positioned himself between her thighs. The way she would’ve looked up at him, pleading silently for him to stop, to wait until the call ended. But Mark wouldn’t wait.
He’d parted her legs and pushed inside, stretching her pussy wide while I asked about her literature professor. She’d stammered once, covered it with a cough. Amateur move, but understandable given the circumstances. I’d felt for her. No one knew better than me how hard it was to concentrate on anything else while that massive cock of his was ramming in and out of you. I had nicknamed it “my little monster.”
I’d touched myself, imagining Mark picking up his pace, watching Skylar fight to maintain composure. The girl deserved credit. Most people would’ve cracked. But she’d held it together, answered every question of mine.
Crafty little thing. I should be angry with her. I mean, how dare she think she could fuck my husband behind my back. Even let him rent her an apartment for her and that Jenna girl. Did she really think I wouldn’t find out? She thought she was being cute.
Mark had filled me in on the roommate later. Jenna. Athletic, direct, sexually confident in a way Skylar wasn’t yet. From what Mark described, Jenna approached their arrangement in a very casual way. No guilt, no shame, just pragmatic acceptance of the terms.
That would be fun to break.
Next weekend I’d drive down, take them both to lunch. Play the role of the supportive older woman, the generous family friend. I’d watch them squirm, knowing what they’d done with my husband while trying to make small talk over salads.
Maybe I’d mention how Mark had been in such a good mood when he came home last weekend. Watch their guilty little faces as they processed the implications.
But the real prize would come later. Months from now, when I finally revealed I’d known everything from the beginning. That I’d orchestrated it. That every moment of guilt and shame they’d carried was by my design.
Then they’d kneel.
Both of them.
And they’d call me Mistress.
My headlights caught the unmarked turnoff. I slowed, nearly missing it in the darkness. The narrow road cut into the woods, barely wide enough for one vehicle. Branches scraped the sides of my sedan as I navigated the winding path.
Elijah’s paranoia made sense given what he’d been through, though neither he nor Mark would discuss the details. I’d pieced together fragments over the years—a mission gone wrong, capture, days or weeks of interrogation. Mark always grew silent whenever it came up.
Elijah’s response to domination surprised me.
Most people would assume a man who’d survived torture would avoid anything resembling powerlessness. Yet Elijah craved exactly that. The controlled environment, the trust required to submit, the ability to process trauma through consensual recreation. It all made a twisted kind of sense.
He knew I loved him. That I’d never truly harm him.
And his cock was magnificent. It was not as large as Mark’s, but prettier somehow, like a sculptor had carved it as the perfect representation of manhood. If I were honest, Mark’s cock was what you imagined you wanted, while Elijah’s was what you actually wanted. Mark’s was just a tad too long and a bit too wide, but I wasn’t complaining. And lucky for me, they both knew exactly how to use their gifts.
The gate appeared in my headlights, iron bars stretching across the driveway. I punched in the code Mark had given me months ago, watched the mechanism grind open.
Straight as fuck, both of them. Yet they did anything I told them to, faces flushed with humiliation and their cocks hard with arousal. They’d never touch each other without my command, and would probably gag at the thought in any other context.
But when I told them to? They obeyed.
That was real power.
Skylar had given us that. That was why I couldn’t be angry with her. Her stories, her dark little fantasies typed out in vivid detail, had cracked open something in both Mark and me. Our marriage had been dying slowly, suffocating under the weight of routine and unspoken needs. We loved each other, but the spark had dimmed to barely a flicker.
Then those files appeared on our daughter Kacey’s laptop.
We’d devoured every word. Stayed up late reading passages aloud, discovering desires we’d never contemplated. The sex that followed had been explosive, revelatory.
I owed that girl.
Which made corrupting her so much sweeter.
The driveway opened into a clearing. The cabin sat dark and silent, surrounded by towering pines. Elijah’s man-made lake reflected moonlight to the left, the picnic table a shadowy outline near the shore.
No trucks. The clearing was empty.
I smiled, killing the engine.
They were late.
That meant I had time to prepare. To set the stage for whatever punishment their tardiness had earned.
I unlocked the cabin door with the spare key Elijah kept hidden under a false stone near the steps. The interior was exactly as I remembered—sparse, functional, unadorned except for a few military mementos on the mantle. A tactical precision marked everything, from the folded throw blanket on the couch to the meticulously stacked firewood beside the hearth.
The dining table would serve my purpose perfectly.
I set my bag down and began unpacking. Black leather cuffs lined with crimson velvet. Two collars, one thicker than the other. A riding crop. A paddle. Nipple clamps connected by a delicate silver chain. And of course, Mark’s chastity cage—pink plastic, humiliatingly small, secured with a tiny lock I wore on a chain around my neck.
Each item found its place on the scarred wood surface. I arranged them with care, creating a tableau that would greet them the moment they walked through that door.
The fire took only minutes to build. I’d learned from watching Elijah on previous visits—kindling first, then progressively larger pieces, air flow controlled just so. Flames licked up around the logs, casting dancing shadows across the cabin’s interior.
Midnight came and went.
I checked my phone. 12:15. No messages.
My fingers drummed against my leather-clad thigh. The outfit had taken twenty minutes to get into—a black leather corset that cinched my waist and pushed my breasts up, matching g-string that left almost nothing covered, thigh-high boots with heels sharp enough to be weapons. My hair fell loose around my shoulders, dark and wild.
12:20.
The fire crackled. I added another log, watched sparks spiral up the chimney.
12:25.
Heat built beneath my skin that had nothing to do with arousal. They knew better. Both of them knew I didn’t tolerate tardiness.
Then I heard it—the rumble of engines cutting through the forest silence. Headlights swept across the cabin windows as two trucks pulled into the clearing.
I was already moving toward the door.
The February air hit like a slap when I stepped onto the porch. My breath clouded white in front of my face. The leather did nothing against the cold, but I held my ground, arms crossed beneath my breasts.
Their engines died simultaneously. Doors opened.
“You’re late,” I said.
Mark emerged from his truck first, Elijah a heartbeat behind. Both froze when they saw me illuminated in the porch light.
“Sorry, Mistress,” Mark said. “We lost track of time.”
“Lost track of time.” I let the words hang in the frozen air. “How pathetic. Keeping me waiting like some common whore.”
“Is there anything we can do to make it up to you?” Elijah’s voice carried that edge of desperation I’d learned to recognize.
I rolled my eyes, turned slowly so they could see the g-string bisecting my ass, the curve of my hips emphasized by the corset’s structure. The cold raised goosebumps across my exposed skin.
“I’ll consider what your punishment should be.” I glanced over my shoulder at them. “First, undress. Then crawl into the house.”
I didn’t wait to see if they obeyed. I knew they would. The warmth of the cabin enveloped me as I crossed the threshold, settling myself in front of the fireplace. Behind me, I heard the rustle of clothing being removed, the thud of boots hitting wood, the soft scramble of hands and knees against the deck planks.
They appeared in my peripheral vision, two grown men reduced to crawling animals. They reached me and immediately assumed position—kneeling with hands clasped behind their backs, heads bowed, spines straight.
Good posture deserved praise, but fuck them. They’d kept me waiting.
