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Some days, everything just overwhelmed Zoey, and she’d be left twitching and fidgeting with anxious energy that wouldn’t leave. Some days, Zoey would need to just forget everything and curl into herself and rest. But on those same days, Zoey would need a little bit of help truly relaxing and slipping into her mind and out of her body.
On those days, Mira was always happy to help.
Most commonly by doing work and having Zoey sit on her knees under her desk and just sitting there with her cock in her mouth. Nothing really more, just Zoey warming her cock and relaxing like the pliant doll she was. Zoey just needed someone to take control at times and tell her what to do, and Mira was more than happy to be that person.
On this particular day, the feeling came hard and fast, like a wave, an electric blanket thrown over a raw nerve. Zoey spent the first hour of the morning pacing the trampled carpet, hands full of nothing, brain full of a static so screeching that it fuzzed out her peripheral vision. Time slowed; she watched the minute hand orbit the clock again and again, until it seemed it wasn’t moving at all.
She texted Mira, who was working in her office. “Need 2 hide. Can I come over?” She paced a little longer. The walls closed in, tighter and tighter, until her phone vibrated, sharp as a bark.
Mira’s reply was short but held all the permission and feelings needed. “Come whenever. Stuff is in the cabinet next to the door. Like usual.”
Zoey didn’t remember the walk over. She only came to when she stumbled into the wall while walking in a daze. She pressed her cheek to the cold wood for a second before continuing a few more steps to Mira’s office door.
Mira’s door was unlocked, as it always was when Zoey was in a state. She slipped inside, let the lock click quietly, and shuffled barefoot through the office space. Mira was at her desk, arrayed with monitors, all glowing with lines of text and charts and unintelligible scatterplots. Mira glanced up once, eyes soft with concern, her hair like a pillow-tousled curtain around her ears.
“Set it up first,” Mira said, not pausing her work.
And Zoey obeyed. She always set up her own kneeling spot because she knew how many pillows or blankets to use, depending on how deep in her mind she wanted to drift. She used folded blankets if it was only going to be for a short while, but she used pillows if it was going to be for a bit longer. But this time, she used both because she just wanted to drift and submit fully, and she didn’t want her knees to be bruised up from sitting on them.
Zoey’s favorite part wasn’t even the intimacy. It was the certainty, the feeling of purpose, unambiguous and absolute: be here, be still, be good. It was simple, predictable. Just what she needed in moments like this, moments where she didn’t want to be the one to make the choices, she wanted someone else to tell her what to do.
Zoey settled in with ceremonial precision. Blankets first: the faded violet one, worn soft as tissue, folded into a cushion twice. Then a wedge of Mira’s pillow—she’d once called it memory foam for dolls—which she slipped beneath the blanket, making a cradle for her bent knees. Finally, she shrugged out of her hoodie and let the sleeves collapse to the floor, a breath before she rolled it neatly and used it as a bolster for her ankles. She wanted no restlessness left in her body. If her mind was going to empty, it would do so from a nest of comfort.
She folded herself under the desk, so her cheek met Mira’s thigh, and only then did Zoey let her shoulders unclench. She waited for the soft click of Mira’s fingers on the keyboard, tried to time her own breathing to the rhythm. Zoey closed her eyes and hung there, shoving all the sharp, rushing thoughts into the warm nothingness of Mira’s presence, letting the smell of laundry soap and skin and a faint edge of spice take over the world.
After a while, Mira reached down, fingers absently twining in Zoey’s hair, stroking her scalp with a proprietary affection. Zoey felt another layer slip away. She could lose herself entirely like this, in the mechanical comfort of being cared for, in the knowledge that for now, she wasn’t responsible for anything except existing in this small, designated space.
“Color?” Mira asked, low. Her hand slipped lower, thumb brushing the hinge of Zoey’s jaw.
Zoey took a long time, feeling the textures of the moment before answering. “Green,” she managed.
Mira nodded, satisfied, and started to type again. Zoey let her tongue rest where it wanted, her hands demure on her lap, all her impulses reduced to yes/no switches. It was the kind of arrangement that would have made her bristle and shrink in humiliation a year ago, but now it was a rescue, a balm—she could taste the weightlessness, the mercy of being solved for a while.
A shoed foot tapped Zoey’s ankle gently. Mira didn’t say anything, but Zoey knew the gesture. She slid forward, nestled between Mira’s knees, and leaned her cheek against the soft denim of Mira’s jeans. The weightless hush of approval overhead was better than a pat on the head.
Another call—Mira switched to Mandarin, then German, a seamless glide between two worlds as she argued numbers and deadlines. To Zoey, the syllables meant nothing, but the cadence was a song she could let herself get lost in. She closed her eyes and listened, taking the odd warmth of Mira’s leg as a grounding cord between her and the storm.
After a while of just leaning there and drifting, Mira tapped her cheek with a hand, bringing her to the surface of the hazy pool she was drifting in. Zoey glanced up, humming questioningly. Her eyes were half closed, and she wanted to drift again, but she wanted to be good and listen to Mira.
“Do you want my cock in your throat?” Mira asked softly; she knew that sometimes Zoey really enjoyed just kneeling and sitting with Mira’s cock in her mouth. But other times, she knew that Zoey just wanted to kneel and lean against Mira while she worked.
Zoey nodded, a little slack, and murmured, “Please.” Her voice was a compressed breath, like a balloon letting out the last of its air. Mira slid out her chair just enough, one hand still cradling the phone to her ear as she unzipped and fished out the soft, silken shaft. Her cock swayed, thick and half-hard already, and Zoey ducked her head, letting the tip part her lips as naturally as sighing.
It was heavy on her tongue, the musk familiar, soothing. She let it rest there and exhaled slow, the world reduced to the sound of Mira’s voice, the thrum of her own heart, the fullness in her mouth. She didn’t suck, not really, just held Mira there, tongue pressed flat, spit pooling warm, as if trying to become nothing but a vessel.
Mira’s hand dropped to stroke her hair in gentle, absentminded passes, and Zoey melted further at the praise, the silent permission. The office, the day, the gnawing, static fear—gone. There was only Mira, and the weight on her tongue, and the bright green light of being exactly where she needed to be.
She counted time in the clack of Mira’s keyboard, in the lazy throb as Mira thickened, in the slow, almost imperceptible way her mind stilled. Each time Mira shifted in her chair, cock twitching against Zoey’s palate, Zoey felt her own worries drop away like pebbles. She let herself go soft and dumb and noble, a pretty robot with a singular purpose.
Mira didn’t push deeper, not yet, just rested in the warmth of Zoey’s mouth, her hand relaxed on the back of Zoey’s head.
The steady click of keys resumed above, and Zoey settled into the stasis of keeping still, the only movement her slow, measured breathing through her nose. She felt the slow pulse of blood and life from Mira, and it made everything in Zoey’s own body easier, the panic exorcised with each gentle thump. The world outside Mira’s desk faded: the deadlines and alarms, the things she had to remember, the sensation of time running out. All replaced by the slow, anchoring weight in her throat, the rhythm of Mira’s thumb tracing lazy loops behind her ear.
Silence stretched, liquid and infinite. Zoey closed her eyes, not so much to shut out the world as to hold in the comfort, the fullness. Gag reflex gone, she let her jaw go slack, welcoming the incremental pushes as Mira occasionally flexed her hips, slow and patient. Zoey could have stayed like this for hours—sometimes they both did—and today she would, because this was what she needed, what Mira gave her so freely.
When the call ended and the only noise was Mira’s keyboard, Mira let her cock slide a little further. Zoey inhaled and steadied herself, the first hint of panic surfacing as it always did, followed by the compulsion to overcome it just for Mira. It was a private contest, and Zoey loved losing it every time. She focused on the corduroy pattern of Mira’s jeans under her palm, the solidness of Mira’s body, the approval radiating down from above.
Finally, when Mira pulled out, it was slow, careful, leaving Zoey’s lips wet with spit and a line of saliva stretching briefly between her mouth and the now-slick cock. Mira thumbed away the drool that had escaped Zoey’s mouth and made a line down her chin.
“Come on, pup, let’s head to the bedroom,” Mira crooned, cupping Zoey’s face before standing and heading for the door, leaving Zoey to scramble after her. “Don’t forget to clean up after yourself, puppy.” She called back before walking off to the bedroom.
Zoey scrambled to clean up her blankets, pillow, and the hoodie she had been wearing. She made sure the fold them and neatly put them away, knowing Mira would be checking and Zoey wasn’t in the mood to be a brat tonight.
Upon entering the bedroom Zoey found Mira sitting on the bed, naked and hard. Her cock weeping precum and a gentle smirk etched across her face. “Hey pup, undress and come over here,” She breathed out looking at Zoey with arousal darkened eyes.
Zoey was quick to obey, stripping off her T-shirt, her sweats, and undergarments. She went to toss them to the side, but a look from Mira made her stop and fold them like she knew she had to. Once naked, Zoey walked over and stood by the bed, arms behind her back and her body uncovered for Mira’s viewing, waiting for the next command.
Mira sat up more, reaching back behind her and pulling out Zoey’s collar, personally customized. It was green with turtles decorating it with a lighter green inside that was lines with soft fabric so it wouldn’t chafe against her neck. The O-ring had a tag hanging from it, etched with the words ‘Property of Mira, return if lost’.
Zoey’s knees hit the rug as she knelt by the bed, neck arched, awaiting the click of promise. She felt the collar’s slight chill as Mira buckled it carefully behind her hair, fingers brushing Zoey’s nape, and Zoey shivered with the instant hit of belonging. Mira’s thumb traced along Zoey’s jaw, pushing her chin up, inspecting the fit with a satisfaction so deep it thrummed through Zoey’s bones.
The click of the clasp was like a church bell signaling the start of service.
“Color?” Mira asked again, settling her palm on Zoey’s scalp and tilting her chin up.
“Green,” Zoey whispered, her voice already retreating, growing smaller and sweeter. Mira’s smile widened, a real, teeth-bared thing, and she rewarded Zoey with a kiss on the crown of her head.
“Good pup.”
It was funny how the world shrank and clarified with every inch Mira closed around her. Conditioned, maybe, but Zoey only cared for the evidence: her heart rate slowed, her lungs filled easy, the sense of impending collapse replaced with one of heldness, literal and metaphysical.
Mira edged back on the bed, tugging Zoey up by the collar until she teetered on the edge, then splayed her own thighs in silent invitation. Her cock was thick and beautiful—a word Zoey never associated with her own body, but which made perfect sense attached to Mira—and Zoey watched a bead of slick roll down the shaft, catching on the frenulum before falling to the mattress. Zoey felt the urge, as if magnetized, and Mira let her have it, let her take the cock back in her mouth. It was hotter than before, swollen with promise. Zoey let herself get lost in the ritual: one hand behind her back, one on Mira’s thigh, mouth and throat and tongue working in wordless prayer.
When Zoey finally pulled back, mouth smeared with saliva and a little trail shining on her chin, Mira’s eyes were heat lamps, tracing every inch of her, seeing all the smallness and yielding inside.
“You want it?” Mira asked, voice low and almost trembling.
“Yes, please.” Zoey’s reply was immediate, fervent enough to surprise even herself.
“Good girl. On the bed, then. Stomach.”
Zoey clambered up, careful on the sheets, splaying her arms forward, hands flat like a diving swimmer. She felt small and weightless, suspended in the expectation Mira cast over her. She could hear Mira move, a quick rummage in the nightstand, and then a gentle, deliberate hand smoothing the small of her back, making Zoey melt into the mattress.
“Spread wider, Zoey,” Mira said, and it was not a request.
She did, wiggling her legs until she felt the bite of air on her thighs and the heat from Mira’s thigh as Mira climbed up alongside her. A palm caressed her ass, then pressed between her legs, two fingers slipping in easily where she was already beyond ready. Zoey whimpered into the pillow, letting the noise out, wanting Mira to hear.
“Is this what you needed?” Mira asked, fingers crooking with an expert touch.
Zoey’s hips rocked without her meaning to. “Yes. Feels good. Please—more?”
Mira obliged. She thumbed the lube open with one hand, deftly coating her cock, and Zoey could sense the hunger in the slowness—Mira took pleasure not in Zoey’s desperation, but in the build, the anticipation, the gentleness that made Zoey ache all the harder. The tip of Mira’s cock nudged at her, and Zoey shuddered, pressing back, greedy for the stretch and fullness she craved.
Mira slid into her with a patience that tasted like worship, stopping when her cock was only halfway in, letting Zoey get used to it. “Breathe for me.”
Zoey did, breathing out slow and letting Mira in deeper, her insides so hungry for the pressure that she nearly sobbed at the comfort of it. Mira’s hips met her, their bodies flush, and both of them stilled for a heartbeat—as if the act itself was enough, as if Zoey could float here, half-spitted and held, for eternity.
“I’ve got you,” Mira whispered, hand flat on Zoey’s back to steady her.
“Thank you,” Zoey breathed, and she meant it with every fiber.
When Mira began to move, it was with the patient rhythm Zoey loved: a slow, even pace that let Zoey forget her body and float in sensation. The collar prickled against her skin, reminding her that she didn’t have to be anything else right now. She just had to be pliant and soft for Mira.
A sudden pressure against her throat made Zoey choke as Mira pulled her back and onto her knees by her collar, Zoey moaned as Mira held her up and began fucking up into her. One hand moving to rub and stroke Zoey’s clit, pinching it slightly.
All Zoey could do was whine, a thin, high note she would have been embarrassed about in any other context but here. Her thighs trembled with strain, hips banging back against the drumbeat of Mira’s cock. Every jolt sent lightning through her: Mira’s rhythm, the pinch of fingers on her clit, and that breathtaking sense of being balanced, fragile and perfect, on the cusp of too much and not enough.
Mira held her on display, cock buried to the root, and Zoey, eyes open and clouded, caught their reflection in the dark glass of the window. She could see her own mouth slack with pleasure, collar bright and clear against her flushed skin; see Mira’s careful, greedy gaze drinking it all in, perfectly in command. That vision hit Zoey like a shock to the system, made her thighs quiver with each pulse.
She felt herself slip. Not just in the literal sense—the clutch of her body loosening, muscles giving way to pleasure—but deeper, past the shell of her day-to-day self. She felt herself blitz out, thoughtless and outside language, reduced to the animal certainty of want and the expectation of being met. Zoey needed it. She needed to be toyed with, needed to be used, needed Mira to keep her upright and together and fed with each rough, meaningful thrust.
Mira’s voice came to her, distant, like a radio through fog: “Still green, pet?”
Zoey nodded hard, eyes streaming. “Green. Please, more, please—” Mira didn’t need more encouragement. She picked up the pace, thrusts snapping now, exultant in breaking Zoey down to perfect, helpless need. The hand between Zoey’s legs turned ruthless, pinching and rolling her clit, and Zoey lost all sense of pride, face buried in the sheets as she moaned and whimpered and begged with every desperate inhale.
The orgasm hit with no warning, a crack of white light. Zoey cried out, writhing, body clenched so tight around Mira’s cock that for a second she thought she might break. Mira’s grip on her collar held steady, careful as always, guiding her through the crest, letting Zoey ride it until the world went wide and fuzzy.
After, Zoey collapsed forward, arms barely able to hold her own weight. Mira followed, cock still hilted, pressing a kiss to her shoulder blade. “There you go, little one,” she murmured, stroking Zoey’s hair, still fucking her in gentle, shallow pumps. “That’s my good girl.”
Zoey shivered, unable to reply with words, her voice gone to static. She mewled, the sound so small and sweet it surprised herself. She felt like a puddle, soft and boneless in the aftermath, and she loved that feeling, loved that Mira would let her float here despite—or because of—her need to dissolve.
Mira slowed, but didn’t stop, drawing out Zoey’s aftershocks with patient, rolling strokes. She made no move to finish, holding her own pleasure in reserve for now, content to wring every last tremble out of Zoey’s spent body.
After what felt like another hour, Mira finally relented, slipped out, and pressed Zoey into the mattress with her whole body. Zoey relished the rare moments Mira allowed herself to collapse, her weight a grounding presence that pressed Zoey so flat and safe she almost teared up again. Mira nuzzled her spine, working little circles there with her nose and mouth, a near-silent string of “shhh, shhh,” as if Zoey was a startled animal and not a girl scrambled to her most basic elements.
When Mira rose to clean up, Zoey whimpered at the sudden vacancy. Mira returned, a washcloth and a ginger touch, and dabbed Zoey gently, working from the facts of what was needed rather than the airs of caretaking. They didn’t speak; there wasn’t much to say. Mira straightened the sheets around Zoey, tossed the rag away, then spooned in behind her, one arm heavy across Zoey’s stomach, hand splayed lazy and broad.
Zoey closed her eyes. The night sky outside was a watercolor of bruised blues, the moon a slow smear up the blinds. She loved this apartment with a ferocity that didn’t make sense—nothing about it was objectively good, but it was the only place she’d ever belonged to someone. She listened to Mira’s breath, the little consonant noises as her mouth dried out and resettled, the intermittent birdlike snore when Mira drifted deep. She must have fallen asleep, because the next blink was daylit and confusing, and Mira was gone, only a whorl in the comforter and the scent of her sweat as evidence.
Zoey curled tighter, her knees drawn up, the collar still snug at her neck. She didn’t want to move. Some days, waking up was a tragedy, even after the best sleep. She waited, hopeful and inert, for Mira to reappear, but the apartment was only the sounds of morning—traffic, a neighbor’s radio, pipes ticking in the wall.
She drifted, dreamless, for another loop of time, until somewhere in the afternoon she woke to the soft click of the bedroom door and Mira sliding in on sock feet. Mira carried a glass of water and a granola bar, which she placed on the nightstand before settling, cross-legged, at the foot of the bed.
“Morning, pup,” Mira said, voice low and gentle, as if she knew exactly how Zoey’s brain felt and didn’t want to jolt it. She reached over, ran one thumb along the line of Zoey’s jaw, then up behind her left ear, grounding her to the present with a single point of contact.
“Hey,” Zoey said, voice scratchy with use and sleep. “Thanks for last night.”
Mira shrugged. “It’s what you needed.” She paused, thumb pausing at the corner of Zoey’s mouth. “You okay?”
Zoey nodded, but Mira watched her until she elaborated. “I’m—better. My head is quiet.” She looked up, the sunlight catching the edge of Mira’s eyebrow, the barely-there smile. “Sorry for making you do all the work.”
Mira smiled for real then, a soft thing, “Never apologize, you know I love pleasuring you,” She whispered.
“I know,” Zoey murmured leaning up to press a kiss to her mouth, “I love you,”
“I love you too.”