10 Possessive Love Notes from a Mistress

— A Velvet in the Rain Side Ritual

The stairwell was quiet, but nothing about the silence was peaceful. It pulsed. Like breath trapped in a throat. Like a prayer not quite whispered.

Lelani walked first—barefoot this time, slow and deliberate, hips swaying beneath her unfastened robe, the silk brushing the tops of her thighs like it had permission no one else did. Every movement said: I know you’re watching. Every step said: You should be.

And Mathilda?

She was watching.

She followed several steps behind, one hand gripping the stair rail like it was the only thing keeping her from crawling. Her black slip was nearly sheer in the candlelight, clinging to her skin in places that should’ve been hidden. Her blonde hair was already starting to frizz at the edges from the heat rising off her own body.

Lelani hadn’t said a word since the top of the stairs. Not until now.

Her voice floated back like smoke laced with wine:

“You belong to me. Not in pieces. In totality.”

Mathilda nearly stumbled.

Okay, she thought. Well. Good to know we’re starting strong. Going right for the jugular.

The words hit her somewhere deep—between her ribcage and the ache pooling lower. She clenched her jaw and kept walking, two steps behind her Mistress, resisting the urge to say something blasphemous like thank you.

Then Lelani said it—calm, controlled, quiet enough to be terrifying:

“You don’t need to understand it. Just kneel in it.”

Mathilda rolled her eyes internally. Yeah sure, no problem. Just casually kneel in it like it’s not rewriting my DNA.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Her thighs were already slick.

And then, just as the robe peeled slightly off Lelani’s shoulder and her ass became fully visible with the next step down, she delivered the kill shot—this time with a soft, playful edge that made it even worse:

“That ass was made to worship, to mark, and to be reminded who it belongs to. Me.”

Mathilda audibly gasped.

She was one more quote away from falling to her knees like a church girl in heat.

Nope. Nope. Keep going. Pretend you’re normal. Pretend you’re not about to lunge face-first into that woman’s lingerie and die with a smile.

She blinked. Swallowed. Kept walking.

The ritual had only just begun.

SECTION 2 — TREMBLING ON THE RAIL

The air had weight now—thick, humid, perfumed by candle wax and the heat radiating off her thighs. Mathilda gripped the rail harder, nails biting into the polished wood. Every few steps, Lelani's robe shifted just enough to reveal the curve of her ass again. The tease wasn’t accidental. Nothing Lelani did was accidental.

The fabric clung like it had no interest in letting go. Neither did Mathilda.

The echo of their descent was the only sound, save for the soft, sinful friction of silk against skin. It was maddening. A lullaby laced with venom.

Mathilda let her eyes wander lower, tracing the backs of Lelani’s knees, the slope of her calves, the subtle way her heel lifted with each step. Petite, she thought bitterly, and still somehow walking like she owns my next orgasm.

Because she did. And they both knew it.

I’m going to lose it, Mathilda thought, biting her tongue. One more step, and I swear I’m going to mouth-breathe on that ass just to start a war.

She was being good. So fucking good.

And that’s exactly when Lelani said it.

The words came soft. Mocking. Like she could smell the hunger behind her.

“You walk around like that and expect me not to remind you it’s all mine?”

Mathilda exhaled sharp through her nose, eyes closing briefly. Nope. Absolutely not. We’re not doing this here. I’m not about to beg on a staircase like some deranged exhibitionist.

But her body didn’t get the memo.

A pulse throbbed between her legs so hard it made her knees buckle for half a second. Her breath stuttered. And then a low, involuntary sound escaped her—something between a whimper and a snarl.

Lelani didn’t turn around. Didn’t slow.

She just kept walking.

Like she hadn’t just branded Mathilda’s spine with six perfectly spoken words.

SECTION 3 — OWNED IN ABSENCE

Mathilda’s thighs were soaked.

There was no polite way to phrase that. No subtle, sophisticated euphemism for what was happening between her legs with each descending step.

She was dripping.

And Lelani hadn’t even touched her.

She doesn’t have to, Mathilda thought grimly, licking her lips like it might settle her. She walks like a fucking sermon and talks like a collar tightening around my lungs.

Another turn of the staircase. Another stretch of flickering light catching Lelani’s silhouette.

Her robe dipped low again—teasing the top of her ass, the soft line of her waist, the arrogant sway of someone who knew exactly what they were doing to the person behind them.

And the worst part?

She hadn’t spoken again.

Lelani’s silence was the sharpest kind of violence. It gave Mathilda room to fall into her own thoughts.

Which was dangerous.

Because her thoughts were disgusting.

I want to mark her. Not like metaphorically. Not with love. With teeth. I want bruises under my tongue and the taste of her slick on my upper lip for the rest of the fucking week.

She breathed harder, pressing her knuckles to her lips.

And that’s when Lelani said it.

Soft. Savoring it.

“Your curves aren’t just admired—they’re claimed.”

Mathilda froze mid-step. A quiet, broken sound left her mouth.

Okay.
Cool.
So we’re doing that now. We’re using the C-word.
Claimed.
As in staked. As in possessed. As in... if I so much as twitch, I’ll end up bent over this banister begging to be used like a goddamn toy.

And maybe that was the point.

Because in this ritual, walking behind Lelani wasn’t passive.

It was training.

It was submission without instruction.

It was everything.

SECTION 4 — THE LEASH, INVISIBLE AND TIGHTENING

Mathilda shifted her weight to one foot, pausing on a step longer than she meant to. Her legs were beginning to tremble—not from exertion, but from tension, from the constant surge of pressure between her thighs that refused to give her even a moment’s grace.

This is sick, she thought. You’ve got me walking behind you like a dog in heat, and all I’ve done is say “yes, Mistress” in my head about twenty times without permission to even open my mouth.

And still—she followed.

Lelani didn’t glance back, didn’t offer praise or correction. Just kept moving forward like her footsteps wrote scripture and Mathilda’s body was the altar it would be carved into.

Another step. Mathilda’s slip rose higher.

Her thighs rubbed together now. Slick. Shameless.

She wanted to say something crude. Something desperate. Something like: Tie the leash around my neck, bend me over the stairs, and show me what ownership tastes like with your fingers shoved down my throat.

Instead, she swallowed it.

Because Lelani spoke first.

Her voice was cool and razor-sharp.

“You bend, I own. You tease, I tighten the leash.”

Mathilda choked on a breath. That was it. That was the line. The one that finally broke her posture. Her hands splayed against the wall to steady herself, head down, hair falling forward like a curtain.

She wasn’t moaning.

She was panting.

You’re not subtle, she thought bitterly. You never have been. You want me crawling. You want me ruined. And this fucking staircase is just a long, drawn-out way to make sure it happens one inch at a time.

She pressed her thighs together again.

Tighter.

Desperate.

Because she could feel it now—not the leash itself, but the absence of slack.

SECTION 5 — BODY BEFORE OBEDIENCE

Mathilda didn't remember taking the last few steps.

She was floating now. Or maybe unraveling.

Her pulse had moved lower, deep in her belly, in her thighs, in that slick, desperate heat she could feel pulsing with every single heartbeat. Her slip clung to her in places she couldn’t explain—pressed against her like another hand, like a dare.

Lelani’s robe had slipped even lower now, barely tethered to her shoulders, revealing the slope of her back in soft, shadowed light. The curve of her waist. The steady swing of her hips like a metronome counting down Mathilda’s control.

This isn’t worship, Mathilda thought, this is biological warfare.

Her mouth had gone dry hours ago. Her knees were soft. Her brain?

Useless.

She was trying to think—truly. To cling to some scrap of mental dignity.

But every time she opened her mouth, the only words that came to mind were: bite, suck, kneel, moan, please.

She didn’t say them.

But Lelani must’ve heard them anyway—because that’s when her voice cut back, clear and cruel and full of knowing:

“Your body reacts before your brain catches up. That’s how I know it’s mine.”

Mathilda stopped walking. Just for a second.

She closed her eyes.

And in the stillness, she could feel everything: her soaked thighs, her tingling clit, the open mouth of her own need gasping inside her. Her breath hitched, chest rising like she might cry—or combust.

Mine, Lelani had said.

Mine.

As if it was settled. As if it had always been true.

Mathilda let her head tilt back slightly, just enough for her own whisper to slip loose:

Yeah, she muttered under her breath. Well… then fucking take it.

But Lelani kept walking.

And Mathilda?

She followed.

SECTION 6 — WHO YOU KNEEL FOR

The stairs were narrowing again.

Not physically—but in her mind. The candlelight blurred at the edges. Everything was sharpening around a single axis: Lelani’s hips. Her bare legs. The trail of that silk robe that seemed to defy gravity with every sultry step.

Mathilda couldn’t feel her hands anymore. She was gripping the rail so tightly her fingers had gone numb, but she didn’t trust her knees. She didn’t trust her breath. She definitely didn’t trust the slick mess soaking her inner thighs.

And still—Lelani hadn’t looked back.

Because she didn’t have to.

She knew. She felt it.

Every movement Mathilda made was an offering.

Every exhale a confession.

She was trembling with need, soaked through, standing on a staircase like some submissive sacrament waiting to be taken. And she knew the moment Lelani’s voice floated back—barely above a whisper—that it wasn’t just a statement.

It was a fucking vow.

“You know exactly who that body belongs to—and who it kneels for.”

Mathilda whimpered. Quiet. Raw. Volcanic.

Her knees wanted to drop right there—one on the step, one hovering above the other, her body folding like it had a memory of doing this a thousand times before. She didn’t need permission. She needed gravity to stop working against her.

But she didn’t kneel.

Not yet.

She stayed upright by force of will alone—her muscles locked tight, her thighs pressing together so hard she was shaking.

You don’t own me, she wanted to say.

But the truth was louder than the denial.

Lelani did own her.

Owned the tilt of her hips. The flutter in her pulse. The ruin soaking into her black lace.

And if Mathilda’s body had a voice?

It was already kneeling.

SECTION 7 — WRITTEN REMINDERS

The candlelight dimmed here.

A turn in the staircase, a deeper drop in the shadows, a change in the air—like the house itself was holding its breath. And Mathilda was right there with it, legs trembling, chest tight, mouth dry but dripping somewhere far more desperate.

You're mine. From behind and beneath.

The words hadn’t even been spoken yet, but her body already knew them.

They lived in the ache of her back arching with every step. In the way her head dropped forward when she exhaled too hard. In the heat crawling up her thighs like she was being slowly branded from the inside out.

She tried to distract herself with sarcasm.

Cute line. Real poetic. Would look great stitched into a headboard or tattooed across my lower back in Latin.

But it didn’t work. Nothing could override what she wanted now.

To be taken.

Bent. Pinned. Filled.

To be beneath Lelani—physically, emotionally, spiritually, filthily. Just under. With nowhere to go and nothing to do but whimper out her obedience and take what was given.

And that’s when the words came.

Clear.

Steady.

Surgical.

“Consider this a written reminder: You’re mine. From behind and beneath.”

Mathilda sucked in a breath so fast it stung her throat.

Because that wasn’t a promise. That wasn’t flirtation. That was documentation.

A contract.

Signed in her own arousal, rewritten across the slick edge of her thighs and sealed in the clench of every aching muscle that refused to move until permission was given.

Fuck, Mathilda, she told herself. You’re not just wrecked. You’re documented.

She shook her head once. Then kept walking.

Because she knew what was coming.

And she needed it.

SECTION 8 — NOT SHARED

Mathilda was soaked. Drenched. Emotionally, spiritually, physically—all of it.

She didn’t feel like a person anymore. She felt like territory. Like something conquered and claimed, walked over and marked, held in suspension by a voice and a gaze she couldn’t even see yet.

But oh god, she felt it.

Every step brought her closer to the ground floor—and further into whatever this ritual was breaking inside her. She wasn’t resisting anymore. She was enduring. Clenching. Not because she didn’t want to surrender, but because she wanted the moment of surrender to mean something.

She wanted to fall when Lelani told her to.

Not before.

Even if her body had other ideas.

Because that ass?

Her ass?

It had been the target for ten full minutes now, and it was starting to throb from neglect. From focus. From sheer gravitational pull.

Every step Lelani took emphasized it. That curve. That bounce. That silent rhythm that seemed to time itself to the sound of Mathilda’s arousal dripping onto her own inner thighs.

And then, with zero warning, the voice dropped like a hammer:

“That ass is mine. Not borrowed. Not shared. Mine.”

Mathilda let out a sound that might have once belonged to a human.

It was guttural. Gutted. Like the breath had been knocked out of her by a simple possessive clause that rewired her internal chemistry.

She wanted to crawl up the back of that robe and press her face against Lelani’s skin until it burned.

She wanted to be handled. Spanked. Kissed. Spit on.

She wanted to be taken like stolen property and punished for forgetting she was already owned.

But she didn’t speak.

She didn’t beg.

She just clenched her fists and swallowed another moan like it was communion.

SECTION 9 — MY RHYTHM

She didn’t hear Lelani’s steps anymore.

She felt them.

Each one sent vibrations down the staircase like a countdown. Like a war drum. Like her body had been tuned to the Mistress’s stride and now answered only to rhythm, not thought.

And that rhythm?

It wasn’t kind.

It was steady. Dominant. Designed.

Lelani walked like her hips swung commandments and the floor made room for her presence. And Mathilda, trembling and soaked and feral, followed like it was the only religion left in her body.

The ache wasn’t new.

But now, it had direction.

It no longer begged for permission. It begged for instruction.

And it got one.

The voice came slow and low, like the closing of a velvet curtain:

“That ass answers to my hands. My rules. My rhythm.”

Mathilda’s knees buckled. Just slightly.

The muscle memory in her glutes clenched reflexively, as if preparing for impact, for grip, for a rhythm that had already been written into her before it was ever delivered.

Fuck.

She could feel it. The echo of Lelani’s grip even without contact.

She could picture the fingers digging in, the palm landing heavy, the nails dragging down her flesh like a signature etched in red.

Her rhythm?

Mathilda had none left of her own.

Her thighs moved in sync with the tempo Lelani hadn’t spoken. Her breath hitched in time with the silence between words.

She was dancing to a song only one woman knew the melody of.

And every beat made her wetter.

SECTION 10 — WHO SIGNS YOU

They were almost at the bottom.

Mathilda could see the glow now—candles flickering from the open doorway at the base of the stairs, golden light spilling like invitation and warning in equal measure.

And still, Lelani walked slow.

Perfect.

Torturous.

Her robe was fully off her shoulders now, hanging on by gravity and attitude, threatening to drop with every shift of her body. Her hips kept rolling—like punctuation marks at the end of every step.

Mathilda’s body felt stretched thin—like skin barely holding in electricity. Her thighs had stopped shaking because she’d stopped trying to look composed. Every breath was ragged. Every inch of her was clenching for something she didn’t even know how to beg for.

And then, that voice again.

Playful. Cruel. Fucking perfect.

“Keep testing me, and I’ll remind you exactly who signs their name across those cheeks.”

Mathilda let out a noise.

Not a gasp.

Not a moan.

A growl.

Something primal and frustrated and needy. Like a caged animal finally realizing the door is about to swing open—and the leash is coming with it.

She reached out—half a second of instinct—and gripped the railing so hard her knuckles popped.

Write it, she thought. Write it. Carve it. Sign it in bruises or spit or your fucking perfume. I don’t care.

Just mark me.

She didn’t say any of that out loud.

But her body did.

In the way her back arched. The way she held her breath. The way her thighs quivered like they were waiting for a cue to drop and part and submit.

Almost there.

Almost.

One final step.

SECTION 11 — WRITE IT WITH YOUR TONGUE (Extended)

She stepped off the final stair.

The floor was cool against her soles, grounding her—barely. Her legs were shot. Her clit throbbed. Her panties? Ruined hours ago. And her mind was strung so tight it buzzed behind her eyes.

And there—perfect, unbothered, and waiting—was Lelani.

Face down.

Ass up.

Hair spilling like ink across her shoulder blades, skin glistening, hips tilted in a way that didn’t ask permission—it demanded service.

Mathilda didn’t need to be told twice.

She knelt.

Fast. Obedient. Like gravity had been holding her in place the whole way down and finally let go.

Her hands hovered, her mouth parted, and then—voice low and trembling with reverence—she spoke:

“Today,” Mathilda said, “you’re going to write a volume on how to eat my apple like it’s an ice cream cone…”

A pause.

A breath.

Then she smiled, filthy and full of purpose.

“…In other words, you’ll be spending the rest of the evening with your tongue as far into my tight ass hole as it’ll go.”

And with that—

Mathilda’s body answered before her brain could.

Her pussy clenched, then released in a soft, warm pulse. A creamy surge soaked through her panties, the relief almost spiritual.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t move.

She just smiled harder, shaking with need, because for the first time tonight… she knew exactly what her mouth was for.