Chastity Keyholder’s Confession | When My Chaste Submissive Haunts My Dreams
He is never truly gone.
Even when he’s thirty-five thousand feet above the Pacific, tracing great circles around the planet, he still comes home to me every night in dreams so vivid they leave my sheets scented with his longing.
In them, he is always naked.
No uniform, no four stripes, no captain’s authority; only skin, trembling breath, and the soft, relentless gleam of the steel cage I locked around him weeks (or is it months?) ago.
He folds himself into my arms as naturally as a child returning to its mother after a long, exhausting journey. His head rests heavy on my breast; the fine strands of his hair slip like silk between my fingers. I stroke him the way one strokes a skittish thoroughbred after landing: slow, deliberate, reminding him the race is over, the reins are no longer his.
He melts.
Every time.
A quiet exhale against my collarbone, the last of his resistance dissolving the moment my palm cups the warm curve of his skull. I trace lazy circles there, feeling the pulse beneath the skin that belongs to me now, even when oceans separate us.
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Then I kiss his face.
Not the hungry, devouring kisses of our waking sessions; these are different. These are slow, deliberate stamps of ownership pressed to his forehead, his closed eyelids, the flushed heat of his cheeks. Each kiss is a whispered reminder:
Your body is on loan to the sky, but your pleasure answers only to me.
Your orgasms are archived behind steel and my discretion.
Your dreams, even these, are mine to direct.Sometimes he whimpers, a small, broken sound muffled against my throat. Sometimes the cage jerks uselessly against my thigh and he shudders with the exquisite futility of it all. I hold him tighter, fingers still buried in that impossibly soft hair, and feel the tremor travel through him like aftershocks.
These are not random dreams.
They are visitations.
My subconscious summoning him across time zones, dragging him back into the only place he is ever truly at rest: naked, caged, cradled, and utterly, perfectly owned.
When morning comes to whichever city he’s parked in tonight, he will wake hard and aching, the ghost of my lips still burning on his skin.
He will reach for his phone with shaking fingers and type the same three words he types every layover:“Good morning, Mistress.”
And somewhere in Shanghai, I will smile, roll over into the warm hollow his dream-body left behind, and already begin waiting for night to bring him home again.
