Kiya
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 18
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 18 - Before she died of cancer, Stephanie Barrett did one last thing for her husband Nathan—she found him a slave. She spent her final months training her young cousin Kiya to love him the way she had loved him, completely and without reservation. Kiya spent a year watching Nathan from a distance before walking into his life with a sealed letter and a truth she had been carrying for two years. "I am the slave she made for you”
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Slavery BDSM DomSub MaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Spanking Anal Sex Analingus Exhibitionism First Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Water Sports Big Breasts AI Generated
Stephanie had taught her in lists.
The lists were not on paper. Stephanie had been clear about that from the second week. Nothing in your handwriting that names him. Nothing in mine that names you. The work is between you and me and the room and your memory. Your memory is the only file that does not get subpoenaed. So Kiya had learned the lists the way slaves and operatives and students of dead languages had learned things for a long time before her. Repetition. Recitation. The chair beside the bed. The afternoon light moving across the wall. Stephanie’s voice going through the order again and Kiya going through it back until the order was as native to her as her own name.
Across the seven months of hospice she had been given five lists. She held them all.
The first was the list of what she was, which was a slave in training to a man she had not yet met. That list had one item on it and Stephanie had made her say it back every visit for the first month until Stephanie was satisfied, she had stopped thinking it and started being it. I am his. I am his already. The year of waiting is part of his ownership, not before it.
The second was the list of postures. Kneeling at rest. Kneeling for instruction. Kneeling to present. Standing at attention with feet placed and weight centered. Standing at the side of a man’s chair rather than in front of it. Sitting on the floor at his feet without leaning against his leg unless invited. Walking a half step behind and to the left. Stephanie had drilled each one in the hospice room as far as her body could drill it, and where her body could not she had described it and made Kiya practice it at home and report back. Kiya had practiced in her bedroom with the door closed. She practiced still.
The third was the list of speech. Yes, sir. No, sir. Thank you, sir. Spoken low, not whispered. Eyes lowered but not theatrically. Never sir with another man. Never sir in public except to him and never to him in public until he had given permission. The pet forms — yes, Master, your girl, my owner — were not for the world and not for the year of waiting and not for the first weeks after. Those would come when he gave them. Stephanie had been firm. You do not name yourself his slave to him. He names you. Your job is to be ready when he does.
The fourth was the list of the body. What she ate. What she drank. What she did not. The bottle of wine she had been allowed at home she gave up in the third month. Coffee she kept because Stephanie had kept it. She walked five mornings a week, two miles, regardless of weather. She did the floor exercises Stephanie had described from memory of what Stephanie had been given when she was eighteen and being trained, and Kiya did them on the rug in her bedroom every night before she slept. At night, she lsid jn bed and performed the Kegel exercises Stephanie told he to learn for her Master’s pleasure. Her body was not yet his and was already not hers. It was being prepared. Stephanie had said it plainly. He will want you fit. He will not want you athletic. There is a difference. Walk. Stretch. Carry yourself. Do not lift weights. Do not become hard. Kiya did not become hard.
The fifth was the list of the watching, and the fifth was the longest.
The fifth was the list of how she would spend the year between Stephanie’s death and the day she sat across from him. Stephanie had walked her through it across the last six weeks of the hospice, and Kiya had said it back to her until Stephanie nodded. The fifth list ran like this.
She would learn his routines by following him at a distance for seven months. She would learn his weekday route to and from his office. She would learn his Sunday at Saint Bartholomew’s. She would learn his Tuesday and Thursday breakfast at the diner on the corner of his block. She would learn his Saturday morning at the boxing gym on Twenty-Sixth Street where he had a standing eight o’clock with a trainer named Marco. She would learn where he bought his coffee on the days he did not get it at the diner and where he bought his shirts and where he had his hair cut and which of the three doormen in his building he stopped to speak with and which two he only nodded to. She would learn his face from a distance until she could read his mood from across a street.
She would not be seen. The not-being-seen was its own discipline and Stephanie had drilled it. He is not an ordinary man. He sees what other men do not see. You will not stand in any line of sight he has. You will not enter any room he is in. You will not pass on the same side of any street he is walking. You will be a P.I. on his tail and a good one. Your work shows when he never registers you across seven months and then registers you on the first morning you serve him coffee. That was the architecture. She would be invisible for seven months and visible for two and then she would sit.
She would not approach. Not at the church, not at the diner before she took the job there, not at the gym, not at the building, not on the street. If he stopped in front of her on the sidewalk she would walk past him. If he held a door open for her at a deli where she had timed her entry wrong she would not take it; she would step back and let someone else take it and turn the corner and try the deli another day. If he looked at her at any point in the seven months, she would assume she had failed at the day’s work and would not return to that location for two weeks.
She would not flirt. Not at any point. Not in any small way. Not with a glance, not with a tilt of her head, not with a softening of her voice when the time came to use it. Other women flirt with him, Stephanie had said. He does not want it. He is widowed and he is a Master and his eye does not run on flirtation. Your job is to give him the one thing the other women are not giving him, which is a girl in his sightline who is not selling. He will read you. Let him.
She would take the job at the diner in the eighth month. Stephanie had worked out the timing with her. Seven months of distant watching would teach Kiya the man. The two months in the diner would teach the man the girl, in the only register he was calibrated to read. The diner’s owner was a Greek named Demetri who had run the place for thirty-one years and hired waitresses on a handshake. Kiya was to walk in on a Monday morning in the eighth month and ask if he was hiring. He would be. He always was. She would work the counter and the booths and she would draw Nathan’s table in her station as often as the rotation allowed, and she would serve him without signal, and she would let him do the seeing.
She would carry the letter in her bag every day from the morning after the funeral. Stephanie had been firm about this too. The letter goes with you. Not in a drawer. Not in a box. In the bag you take into the city. You do not know what day will be the day. You will know it when it comes. The letter is on you when it does. Kiya had transferred the letter into a smaller envelope she had bought for the purpose and had put the smaller envelope in an inside zip pocket of the leather shoulder bag her mother had given her for graduation. She checked the pocket every morning. The letter was always there. It would be there on the day she sat.
She would not tell her mother any of this. Mara knew the shape. Mara had brought her to the hospice. Mara understood without being told that her daughter was doing something Stephanie had asked her to do and that the particulars were not to be discussed. Kiya did not lie to her mother. She did not need to. Mara did not ask.
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