Sitting at the coffee shop, watching my crimson nails gleam as I tapped them lightly against my teacup, I reflected on my now fifth date with Adam. He would be here in a few minutes, his punctuality never failing to impress me. With this one, I had been measured—careful. Unlike the other two submissives, who had burned too brightly, too quickly, and fizzled out under the weight of my impatience, Adam had a steadiness that intrigued me. He was nearly perfect, save for the moments he pushed me toward edges I wasn’t ready to cross yet. The way he made me feel—hesitant yet electric—gave me pause. And that pause, I realized, was exactly what I craved.
In between the chaos of holiday obligations and before he disappeared to his family for the rest of the year, we’d carved out this meeting—my “Christmas gift,” as he’d cryptically called it. If there’s one thing I appreciate, it’s attention to detail, and Adam had a talent for it. Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend, but a trip to Tiffany’s wasn’t my idea of the perfect gift. Too cliché, too thoughtless—a display of wealth without heart. Adam understood better than to bore me with something so unimaginative.
I dressed for the occasion in a tailored blazer paired with black leather leggings, a black turtleneck, and sleek black leather boots. The only designer piece on me was a YSL brooch, understated but deliberate. My hair, usually secured in a tight bun, was swept into a high ponytail—a small change, but one that made me feel sharper, more daring. When Adam arrived, he matched my aesthetic perfectly. Dressed in all black, with a long coat and a turtleneck that highlighted his strong jaw and broad shoulders, he looked every inch the quintessential New Yorker.
He stepped into the café, scanning the room until his eyes locked onto mine. His smile from the door was radiant, disarming. I lifted a hand in acknowledgment, offering a faint smile in return, though my heart betrayed me by skipping a beat. Adam is not the man you fall for, Liz, I reminded myself, but the thought felt half-hearted. The truth was, I was enjoying him far more than I ever expected.
“English Breakfast, Madame?” he teased, glancing at my cup as he approached.
I gestured to the untouched cup of espresso beside me. “Doppio for you, my darling boy.”
His eyes sparkled with amusement and something deeper that made my chest tighten. He picked up the cup, his lips brushing the rim as he took a sip. The sight of him, so effortlessly handsome and completely at ease in my presence, was almost too much.
“Seems there will be snow this Christmas,” I mused, taking a sip of my tea. “Aren’t you excited?”
He smirked. “You don’t like playing with ice, so not really.”
The ease of his response made me chuckle softly, but as I shifted, I noticed a smudge on the toe of my left boot from walking in the slush outside. My gaze flicked to Adam, and he caught the subtle movement. Without a word, he dropped to his knees with a grace that turned heads.
The young women at the next table giggled, their sugary drinks forgotten as they watched him pull a pristine, monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket. He smiled at me before focusing on the task at hand, gently wiping the leather until it gleamed. I sipped my tea, letting my gaze wander lazily over him, but my hand found its way to his hair, stroking the soft golden strands with slow, deliberate movements.
He leaned into the touch, subtle enough not to draw more attention but unmistakable to me. The sight of him—so utterly devoted, so unapologetically mine—made my chest tighten with a rush of pleasure. I slid off one of my gloves with my teeth, letting the leather fall to the table, and returned my bare hand to his hair, savoring the warmth of him beneath my fingertips.
This tableau could have lasted forever, the quiet rhythm of my fingers in his hair, the soft sound of his breath, and the distant murmur of the café. But eventually, I snapped my fingers—a sharp punctuation to the moment. “Good boy, Adam,” I said, my voice soft but commanding.
He rose smoothly, extending his arm to me. I took it, the leather of my gloves creaking slightly as my hand rested on his. We walked out into the biting cold, the warmth of his body close to mine. Snowflakes danced in the air around us, but I barely noticed. The gift Adam had promised me was still to come, but already, this night was perfect. And I had no doubt that he would exceed my expectations, as he always did.
The streets of Nolita greeted us with their usual buzz, the faint glow of holiday lights casting a soft sheen on the slick pavement. Adam’s arm was steady under my hand as we walked, my heels clicking against the ground in rhythm with his long strides. I could feel his tension humming beneath the surface, the quiet anticipation of whatever he had planned for me. It was intoxicating—his need, his restraint, the way he vibrated with purpose while waiting for my permission to release it.
When we reached Le Labo, its minimalist façade barely noticeable among the festive chaos of the season, he opened the door for me without a word. The warm air inside enveloped us immediately, earthy and rich with sandalwood, vetiver, and ambergris. The scents wound their way around me, curling like invisible tendrils, as if inviting me to sink into them.
Adam’s hand brushed the small of my back as he guided me inside, a fleeting touch that sent a whisper of heat down my spine. “This way, Master,” he said, his voice low and reverent, his words laced with the thrill of being allowed to lead, even for a moment.
The boutique’s muted elegance was perfect—soft golden light glinting off rows of glass bottles, the faint murmur of other customers blending with the alchemy of scents in the air. But Adam didn’t stop among the displays. He exchanged a glance with a staff member, who nodded discreetly and ushered us toward a private room at the back.
The space was intimate, almost cocoon-like. Shelves lined with vials and oils glinted in the soft light, each one a promise waiting to be fulfilled. A plush leather chair sat in the center of the room, and Adam gestured for me to sit, his eyes dark and intent. I took my place, crossing my legs deliberately, the stretch of leather against my thighs a subtle, sensual reminder of my control.
Adam knelt beside me then, his broad frame folding with grace, his hands resting lightly on his thighs. His eyes flicked up to meet mine, and for a moment, the room seemed to still. “Your gift, Master,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I told them everything about you.”
I arched a brow, letting him see the faintest hint of curiosity in my expression. “Everything?” I asked, my voice low and teasing, as my fingers trailed lightly along the arm of the chair.
His gaze flickered to the movement, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Your strength. Your fire. The way you linger on my skin even when you’re not near me.” The words poured from him like a confession, raw and reverent, and I could feel the tension coiled in him like a spring.
The perfumer entered then, breaking the charged silence. Their hands moved deftly as they explained the process, mixing oils and essences with practiced precision. Adam remained on his knees beside me, his eyes trained on me as I tested each vial.
The first blend was too floral, the second too sweet, but the third... The moment I lifted the vial to my nose, the scent hit me—a rich, intoxicating blend of dark rose, oud, and musk. It was bold yet warm, sensual yet grounding. It felt like me, and yet, there was something in it that spoke of him, too.
“This one,” I said finally, handing the vial back to the perfumer. My eyes never left Adam as I spoke, and his breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
He leaned in closer then, his lips brushing against the bare skin of my wrist as I lowered the vial. “It’s perfect,” he murmured, his breath warm against my skin. “Like you.”
I allowed my fingers to slide into his hair, stroking the soft strands as I gazed down at him. He closed his eyes, leaning into the touch like a man starved, and my pulse quickened at the quiet devotion etched into his every movement.
The perfumer returned with the final bottle, elegant and understated, engraved with my initials and a single word Adam had chosen: Eternal.
As I turned the bottle over in my hands, its weight solid and satisfying, I couldn’t help but smile. “Good boy,” I said softly, running my thumb along Adam’s jaw. The faint flush that crept up his neck was exquisite, a silent testament to the effect I had on him.
The night wasn’t over, and the promise of what awaited us once we were alone hung heavy in the air. But for now, in the cocoon of Le Labo, surrounded by the scent of our story, he was mine—completely and utterly mine.
. . .
Is my Master switching for me? I can't believe my eyes.
We had walked back to his place after a light dinner, the air between us electric with unspoken anticipation. I had promised him a Christmas gift equally special, though I hadn’t imagined it would unfold like this. When we settled for tea, Japanese style, I kept my head bowed in the same position, my hands resting lightly on my lap. “You are allowed fifteen minutes,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. “My safe word is Nipon.”
I lowered my gaze, my heart racing as excitement and submission coursed through me. What would Adam do with fifteen minutes of my surrender? I had removed my jacket and turtleneck, leaving myself exposed to both the warmth of the fire and his gaze. The fireplace crackled softly, but it only intensified the heat building inside me. Underneath, I had chosen the ballea-lace-plunge bodice corset from Corsetorium, paired with sheer nylons. My black leather leggings and boots completed the look, giving an edge to my carefully crafted vulnerability. I smelled of my new perfume, its delicate notes lingering in the air—a scent I’d chosen knowing how much he valued the interplay of aromas. Smell, after all, is a powerful trigger for memory and desire.
He played “I Feel Like I’m Drowning” by Two Feet, a band that had recently captivated me. I couldn’t help but smile; it was the song that made me fall in love with their music. “Would you rather I play Rubens?” he teased, his smirk hinting at the mischief brewing within him.
I shook my head slowly. “Whatever you wish, Adam.”
His smirk deepened. “Call me sir.”
I hesitated for only a moment, then relented with a serene expression. “Yes, sir.”
He approached, his movements deliberate, as if savoring the space between us. Taking my hands, he pulled them gently behind my back, the shift in posture sending a thrill through me. “Fight me,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.
My eyes widened at his words, a flood of arousal washing over me. “If you don’t want something, I want you to fight.”
So I did. The struggle was brief but fierce, our bodies entwined as we wrestled against the carpet. His strength overwhelmed mine, and soon I found myself pinned, face down, his deep baritone voice vibrating through me. “Not strong enough, I’m afraid,” he murmured, his tone both teasing and commanding.
My breathing was unsteady as he secured my wrists with a rope he’d pulled from the curtains. “On your knees.”
I obeyed, positioning myself before him, my chest rising and falling as his gaze lingered on my breasts. “Remember that story you told me?” he asked, his voice dipping lower. “About how, as a teen, you had orgasms just from having your nipples sucked?”
Heat flooded my face, and I nodded, my voice barely audible. “Yes, sir.”
He smiled, but there was nothing sweet about it; his expression darkened with intent. Kneeling in front of me, he tugged down the top of my corset, exposing my breasts to the cool air. The sudden chill made me shiver, my skin taut with sensitivity.
“I want to see if you still can,” he said, his voice a low growl.
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