Velvet Restraints:Sloan's Call

By: Holden Caine

Author’s Note: This is a companion story to Tee’s Let Me Surrender- a mirrored perspective told from the man who watched them both come undone. Same night, same rules, same rhythm. If you’ve read her version, you already know how it ends. But this is how it felt from the inside. From the one who held her gaze, steadied her hips, and whispered against her skin while the room turned holy.

The message came through just after sunrise, a soft buzz against the nightstand glass. I read it once and let it settle. No games tonight. I want to be yours. There was no name. She didn’t need to include one. I already knew the voice—knew the cadence of that hunger. Behind me, the woman in my bed shifted in her sleep. One leg was thrown wide across the sheets, the welts on her ass catching the first light from the window. She was still marked where I’d held her. Still dripping in silence from a night that had been brutal and beautiful. I hadn’t touched her since she came. I’d kissed her throat, wiped her down, and left her to the kind of sleep that only arrives after total release. And then I’d stepped away.

I didn’t chase moments like that. They came to me—women on the edge of surrender, ready for something they hadn’t dared name until then. I wasn’t a fix, or a fantasy. I was what happened when they were done pretending. I didn’t need the work. I didn’t do it for the money. I lived well. Quietly. My name passed in whispers, not referrals. Someone’s friend who couldn’t forget the way I touched her. Someone else’s story told late at night, half-drunk and glowing. That was usually how it began. But this one—Sloane—she felt different. Not just a name. Not just a night. She didn’t come looking for release. She came looking to break the rules she’d written for herself. And I was already reaching for the rope.

By midmorning, the other girl was gone—still half-blissed out and thanking me like I’d performed a service. Maybe I had. I didn’t linger on it. I showered, reset the space, and poured black coffee into silence. Ritual is half the work. My tools were already clean. Still, I went over them again. Rope. Cuffs. Stainless spreader bar. A single paddle. The silk blindfold, laid out with deliberate care. I opened the kit and began sorting what I might need. Sloane had said no games. That meant control. That meant escalation.

I cued the playlist, adjusted the lighting, and swapped the candles for something heavier—smoke, leather, amber. The kind of scent that clings to the skin like a secret. Then I messaged Lisa. I didn’t ask permission. I asked calibration.

She reached out. No games tonight, she said. You know her. What kind of surrender does she want? The reply came ten minutes later. Just a sentence. Don’t go soft. She wants to be unmade.

That was enough. I closed the drawer and locked it. Walked through the space one final time. Everything was in place. Rope rig hung and ready. Ice in the bowl. Toys at the base of the bed, tucked beneath a black silk throw. I didn’t pace. I didn’t wait at the door. I simply stood in the dark, barefoot, shirtless, shadowed. Watching. Listening.

The hallway creaked once. Then nothing. My pulse didn’t rise. But my body recognized what was coming. I watched the knob turn.

Midnight. Door’s open. Knees first.

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She stepped through the doorway exactly as instructed—early, silent, lips glossed, coat cinched at the waist. She didn’t knock. That was the first win. The second was in the way her eyes found mine before her knees found the floor. She dropped slow, fluid, no hesitation, and then her hands rose to the buttons. One by one, she undid them without a word. The coat fell open and then off, pooling around her like a whisper of former rules. She was bare and beautiful, but not for show. This was not performance. This was offering.

I didn’t speak. I let the silence wrap around us, thick as the scent I’d chosen. Leather, amber, and something darker—something that clung to the lungs like heat after a scream. I circled her once. She didn’t move. Her breath was high, chest rising too fast. I watched her fight the urge to look up. Her thighs twitched once. I noted it. Clocked it. Let it go. For now.

I stepped behind her and placed a hand gently in her hair. Just a touch. No grip yet. That would come. “Color,” I asked, voice low, body calm. “Green,” she said. Not a whisper—full voice. She wanted this. “Safe word?” “Mercy.” “Good girl.” She shivered. That one always hit. Not praise. Permission.

The rope came next. Silk. Weighted. A sound that made her gasp before I even touched her.

I tied her wrists. Locked her ankles apart. Circled once.

Her body was trembling. Her breath shallow.

Then I crouched low. Pressed two fingers to her heat.

She didn’t flinch.

She moaned.

Wet. Open. Wanting.

And when I pushed inside—

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