Mistress Bonnie demanded Obedience

Epilogue: “What Comes After”

Weeks had passed since the ritual of his release.

And in that time, Oz had not been unlocked again.

Not once.

But he didn’t count the days anymore. He didn’t ache the way he used to. The pain had evolved—into discipline, into patience. Into something richer than denial: ownership.

Mistress Bonnie had begun to speak to him more—not with affection, exactly, but with confidence. She no longer needed to correct him often. He prepared her rituals before being told. He anticipated her moods before they landed. And when she did command, it was with the casual authority of someone who knew he would obey.

There was no need to test him now.

He had already passed.

Tonight, the house was quiet.

She had lit a single candle at the foot of her bed. The room was shadowed in gold and indigo. Oz knelt in his place at her side—naked, caged, still. Her foot rested in his lap, and he massaged it gently, his head bowed not from shame, but reverence.

“You’ve changed,” she said quietly, not looking at him.

“Yes, Mistress.”

She set her wine glass down and turned her gaze toward him—cool, assessing, but no longer guarded.

“You no longer serve for approval.”

He looked up, surprised. “No, Mistress. I serve because it’s who I am.”

That earned him something rare—a full smile.

“And that,” she said, “is the difference between a submissive… and mine.”

She extended her other leg. He moved without needing the gesture.

“Do you still dream of release?” she asked casually, watching the candlelight flicker.

He paused in his massage.

“Yes, Mistress. But only when you give it. Only when I earn it.”

She hummed in approval. “You’ve earned more than that.”

She leaned forward, cupped his cheek, and guided him to rest his head against her thigh. “You’ve earned peace.”

The word sank deeper than any command.

Peace.

In her service, under her control, in her presence—he was free.

And she knew it.

As he drifted there—warm against her, sore from a long week of service, and impossibly whole—Bonnie whispered something into the dark.

“I’m thinking of buying a second collar.”

His breath caught.

“I wouldn’t wear it, Mistress,” he said quickly, devoted, desperate.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, calming. “Not for me. For you. Something lighter. Everyday. Discreet.”

His heart pounded in his chest.

“Would you wear it, pet? In public? Quietly? So only you and I would know?”

He swallowed hard. “Yes, Mistress. Proudly.”

She kissed the top of his head.

Then leaned back, reclined, and said: “Good. That’s what we’ll do next.”

END