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Chapter 57: When He Wrote Me From Spain

"It wasn't a plea. It wasn't nostalgia. It was a letter of gratitude—from a man who once knelt at my feet, now standing on foreign soil with a full heart." — Mistress Staci

The envelope was cream-colored. Thick paper. Foreign stamp.

No return address, but I knew the handwriting instantly.

Spain.

⸻

I opened it in the garden.

She was reading beside me, legs bare, sunglasses perched on her head. She looked up when I smiled.

"From him?"

"Yes."

She didn't ask to read it. She just reached for my hand and let me read it out loud.

⸻

"Mistress," it began.

"I've walked cobblestone streets at dawn with no one to serve but the day itself. I've learned to order wine in three dialects, and flirt with old women who sell fruit like philosophers."

"I think I'm beginning to understand freedom. It's not the absence of control. It's the choice to carry discipline into the unknown."

"I still sleep on the left side of every bed, even when there's no one on the right. Some patterns never leave you."

"Thank you for shaping me into a man who can now walk without direction— because he remembers the path carved by your voice."

"I hope you are happy. I hope you are touched often. I hope you are still the center of your own gravity."

"With eternal gratitude and quiet devotion— Yours, always."

⸻

I folded the letter and tucked it into the book I'd been reading.

She kissed the back of my hand.

"That was beautiful."

"He was beautiful."

"And now?"

I looked at her. At the sun on her cheekbones. At the mark I'd left on her collarbone the night before.

"Now, I'm even more so."

Chapter 58: My Life Became Exactly Mine

"I no longer needed rituals to feel control, or submission to feel love. My life had become something rarer: fully chosen, fully mine." — Mistress Staci

There was no ceremony. No epiphany. Just a morning where I sat with my coffee, looked around, and thought:

"This is exactly what I want."

⸻

The house had changed.

Fewer rules. More music. Fewer collars. More silk.

She danced in the kitchen barefoot. Sometimes naked. Sometimes in one of my button-down shirts, sipping wine and smirking at me like she knew every thought I hadn't said aloud.

She did.

⸻

I still gave orders. But now they sounded like:

"Stay in bed." "Don't wear anything under that dress." "Say that again—but slower, and closer to my mouth."

She obeyed.

Not because she had to.

Because she loved what it did to me.

⸻

I still had lovers. A few. Carefully chosen. Pleasurable distractions with good manners and better mouths.

She didn't mind.

She liked knowing I came back to her for everything that mattered.

⸻

We read in silence, curled together on long afternoons. Took baths. Made love so slowly it became a kind of worship.

Not every day was poetic.

But every day was ours.

⸻

One night, she caught me staring at her from across the room.

"What?"

"I'm just thinking how calm I feel."

"You've always looked calm. But now you're still."

"Yes," I said. "That's exactly it."

⸻

I used to think power was about control.

Now I know:

Power is peace. Power is choice. Power is not having to explain yourself—and being loved anyway.

Chapter 59: We Went to Paris and Bought Red Lipstick

"We didn't go to find ourselves. We went because we already knew who we were. And we wanted to show the world how women like us live." — Mistress Staci

We rented an apartment near the Seine. Third floor. Iron balcony. Bathtub deep enough to disappear in.

She filled the space like silk fills a glove.

⸻

Every morning started the same:

She brought me espresso, naked but for my necklace. Then slipped back under the sheets to kiss the sleep from my lips.

We'd lie there tangled, then wander the city with mischief in our eyes.

⸻

We bought red lipstick from a boutique that smelled like desire. She dared me to wear it with nothing else beneath my coat.

I did. And she didn't stop touching me the entire dinner.

⸻

In a side street café, she fed me bites of cake with her fingers. In the Louvre, she whispered filth in my ear between Monet and marble. In our apartment, she bent me over the desk and said:

"Tell me you've never felt more dangerous."

"I haven't."

And I meant it.

⸻

We didn't talk about the past.

We were too busy being present. Too full of the now. Too aware of every brush of skin, every lift of hem, every shared grin when someone looked at us and didn't know what they saw.

We knew.

They were looking at freedom.

⸻

She wore my clothes. I wore her scent. And we both wore the kind of satisfaction that can't be bought.

Only earned.

⸻

On the flight home, she rested her head in my lap. Eyes closed, lips parted, fingers grazing my wrist.

And I thought:

"This isn't a chapter. This is the reward."