The Edge and the Collar

Julian had a new rule. Eva was no longer allowed to wear clothing inside the apartment. No silk robe. No shoes. Nothing but skin. And one thing more: A collar.

Not industrial. Not harsh. It was slim, black, and elegant—custom-stitched leather, warm from his hands as he fastened it around her neck for the first time that morning. At the front: a small silver ring. At the back: a tag.

Etched into it: “PROPERTY OF J. CALE”

She knelt in silence as he buckled it into place. Her breath hitched. Her thighs pressed together. The click of the collar lock made her nipples harden almost instantly. He didn’t speak. He just walked past her, sat on the edge of the bed, and waited. Eva followed on all fours—not out of command, but reflex. She knelt between his legs again, her skin flushed, her eyes lowered.

“You’re wet already,” he murmured, tilting her chin up.

“Yes, Julian,” she whispered. “The collar... it makes me ache.”

“Why?”

“Because it means I’m yours.”

He didn’t touch her at first. Just watched her. Watched the way her body reacted to stillness. Her chest rising and falling faster. The subtle trembling in her thighs. The gloss of arousal already slicking her cunt.

“Lie back,” he ordered.

She obeyed. He bound her wrists loosely with silk—nothing tight, nothing aggressive. Just enough. He spread her legs and ran two fingers along her folds, sliding easily through the heat of her.

“Dripping,” he muttered.

“I can’t stop it,” she said, almost apologetically. “The collar—your voice—it... makes me ready.”

“Good.”

He circled her clit with two fingers, slow and exact. She gasped, body arching with the sensitivity of someone already on the brink. He didn’t need to do much. Just exist above her.

“You’re going to count your edges,” he said calmly. “And you’re not going to come until I say.”

She nodded quickly, eyes wide. He bent over her and kissed her—hard, deep, wet. She moaned into his mouth. Her hips bucked. Her body begged before her voice could. He slid two fingers inside her. Deep. Curling. Wet. His thumb never left her clit.

“One,” she whimpered.

And then he pulled away. Her cry was soft. Wounded.

“Please... I can take more—please—”

He said nothing. Just waited a moment. And then did it again. And again. And again. By the time she hit five, her legs were shaking. Her skin was red with heat. Her pussy clenched around nothing, **** for completion.

At seven, she was sobbing.

“I’m sorry—please—I need to—”

“You don’t need anything,” he said, softly. “Except what I give you.”

He knelt beside her, licking one slow stripe up her inner thigh. Her whole body jerked.

“Julian, I can’t—I’ll break—”

“You’ll hold.”

At ten, he reached for her throat. His fingers curled around the collar. Not ****. Just holding. A reminder. And something in her snapped. Not in fear. Not in pain. In surrender. Her body stilled. Her muscles loosened. Her breath became silent and fast. Her eyes rolled back as he touched her again.

“Eleven,” she moaned. “Please... please let me come... I can’t—”

“You’ve said that before,” he whispered.

He slipped three fingers into her now—deep, stretching, fucking her with methodical rhythm. Her cunt soaked his hand. Her hips bucked against him helplessly, but she didn’t come. Not yet. She didn’t dare.

“Do you know what I’m going to do now?” he asked.

She shook her head, eyes wide, broken, begging.

“I’m going to leave you like this. Collared. Cuffed. Wet. ****.”

Her whimper was pure despair and arousal knotted into one.

“You’re going to stay on the bed,” he said. “And every time your body trembles like you’re about to come, I want you to whisper my name. Understood?”

“Yes—Julian—yes, sir—please—”

“And when I come back... if you’ve obeyed... I’ll let you scream.”

He stood. She stayed. Collared. Open. Leaking. Her body on fire. Her mind unraveling. Her thighs trembling with aftershocks of pleasure she wasn’t allowed to finish. And as the door closed behind him, Eva whispered into the empty room:

“Julian... Julian... Julian...”

As if his name was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. She was trembling. The door had closed behind him, but his presence hadn’t left. It clung to the air like heat, like scent, like something inside her that wouldn’t stop tightening. Her arms were still bound in silk. Her thighs slick and parted. The collar snug against her throat—Julian’s name cool against her skin. She couldn’t move. Not because he’d forbidden it. Because her body had forgotten how. All she could feel was the ache between her legs, the way her pussy pulsed in waves, begging for friction, pressure, permission. But none of that was hers to take.

“Julian...” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Saying his name didn’t calm her. It made it worse. Her clit throbbed, twitching at the syllables. Each time she said it, her body tightened.

“Julian...”

“Julian... please...”

“I want you... I need you...”

She moaned without being touched. Her hips lifted off the sheets, air teasing her soaked skin. Every heartbeat was an edge. Her body coiled, surged, stalled. Again and again. She pressed her thighs together and whimpered at the pain of denial. Her head turned against the pillow. Her breath caught. And again:

“Julian... Julian... Julian...”

She didn’t even realize she was crying.

He waited. Not out of cruelty—but purpose. He needed her on the edge of unraveling. Not broken. Not damaged. Just wide open—emotionally, physically, neurologically. When he stepped back into the room, the air hit him like heat from a furnace. She was panting. Eyes wild. Skin flushed. Lips parted, glossy with saliva. Her arms still bound above her head, her legs parted in a helpless sprawl of obedience and raw, whimpering need.

“You’ve been good,” he said.

She moaned instantly—just from his voice.

“Say it.”

“I’ve been good, Julian. Please—let me—please let me come—I’ll do anything—”

“Do you want my fingers or my cock?” he asked, calmly.

“I want you,” she sobbed. “Any part. Every part. Just let me feel it. Let me finish for you. Please.”

He climbed onto the bed. No more teasing. No more denial. He slid inside her—one deep thrust. Her body spasmed so violently she almost screamed. She clamped around him instantly, her walls slick, tight, shaking.

“You’re going to come on me,” he growled. “You’re going to scream, and cry, and fucking fall apart—and you’re going to thank me when it’s over.”

“Yes—yes, sir—yes—!”

He drove into her, thrust after thrust, harder than before. The collar bounced on her neck, the silver tag clicking softly with every impact. Her hands twisted in their bindings, her mouth open in a permanent moan. Her orgasm built like a scream swallowed too long. And then he said it:

“Now.”

She came instantly. Harder than she ever had. Her entire body arched. Her throat cried his name. Her cunt milked his cock like it would never let go. Tears streamed down her face as her orgasm tore through her like a storm, shaking her to her core. Julian groaned and came inside her, burying himself deep, holding her hips as she convulsed around him, still whimpering, still gasping his name like a prayer and a confession.

He stayed inside her. She twitched beneath him. A puddle of spent nerves and claimed skin. The collar glinted in the light. Her body glistened in sweat.

“You did well,” he said, brushing damp hair from her face.

She smiled weakly, still trembling.

“Thank you... for letting me come...”

“You’ll never do it without my permission again.”

“I don’t want to,” she whispered. “I don’t want to feel anything unless it’s for you.”

Julian kissed her forehead, and for a moment... it wasn’t control. It was something darker. Something deeper. Dependency, perfected.