I arrived back in Cornwall on Friday afternoon—home, in every sense. Our cottage is located just around the bay from Padstow, private and perfect. Everything was ready. Including him.
That evening, I allowed him to take me out. One of Padstow’s finest restaurants—harbour lights dancing on the water, coastal air wrapping around me like silk. He was nervous. Quiet. Almost reverent. And he paid, naturally. There’s a particular satisfaction in watching a man try to enjoy his meal while silently panicking over how expensive I’m about to become.
Saturday was orchestrated destruction.
His bonus didn’t last long.
I shopped until I decided I was done—designer stores, indulgent little purchases, everything I wanted. Every card swipe drained him. Every sigh he tried to suppress only encouraged me. I made him follow behind me with the bags and the receipts and the realisation that he exists to fund me. I didn’t thank him. Why would I?
By Sunday, he was bruised—beautifully. Marked by my hands, my decisions, my control. His back bore the evidence of my amusement: red, raw, and radiating heat from every slap and strike. His cock was bruised and tender, hanging uselessly after hours of denial, torment, and punishment. Even the air stung when it brushed against him.
And his soul? Aching. Desperate for more. Wanting to be used, to be my entertainment, my lover, my everything… but knowing that at that moment he was only my plaything. A body to bruise. A toy to wind up, wear out, and discard. He longed for meaning, but I had already given him one: to suffer beautifully for my pleasure.
While he lay there—silent, wrecked, exactly how I like him—I wrapped myself in a robe and disappeared into the garden room. Spa treatments awaited. While his pain lingered, my pleasure began. I was massaged, pampered, adored. The sea stretched out beyond the glass, and I didn’t think of him again until the bill was brought—another tribute, another reminder of who was in charge.
Monday brought one last indulgence: lunch, and a cocktail or two. A final swipe of his card. A glance. And then I left.
I was back in the city by Monday evening.
Glowing. Rested. Powerful.
He’s been messaging ever since.
I haven’t replied.
Let him miss me. Let him ache.
Let him remember exactly what his devotion to me cost.
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