Kiya
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 21
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 21 - 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
The drive was eleven minutes.
She sat in the passenger seat with her bag on her lap. He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear shift between them, and somewhere around the third turn he reached over and put his hand on top of hers where it rested on the bag, and he left it there for the rest of the drive. He did not say anything. She did not move her hand. The contact was the first non-protocol contact of her life with him and it ran up her arm and into her chest and settled there.
He pulled into the driveway at two-eleven and cut the engine. He sat for a moment with his hand still on hers, looking at the house through the windshield like a man looking at a house he had been away from for a long time, even though he had left it that morning at six.
“All right.”
“Yes, sir.”
He squeezed her hand once and got out and came around and opened her door. She gathered the bag. She stepped onto the gravel.
“Let me carry that.”
“Yes, sir.”
He took the bag from her shoulder and carried it up the flagstone walk. She walked beside him at his left, not quite half a step behind, because he was carrying her bag and the geometry had loosened. He noticed. He did not correct her. He liked her there.
He unlocked the door and held it open. She stepped through.
The front hall was darker than the afternoon outside. He came in behind her and closed the door, set the bag on the floor beside the console table, set his keys in the bowl, took off his coat and hung it on the coat tree. He turned to her.
“Let me have your coat.”
She slipped it off and handed it to him. He hung it next to his own.
“In this house I am Master. Outside, I am sir. Stephanie set the rule. I kept it. You will keep it too. Anything I tell you that runs against what she told you, you tell me. Most things will not run against. She and I made the house together.”
“Yes, Master.”
The word came out of her in the same low voice and she did not lift her eyes and she felt the word settle. He looked at her for a count of three and something at the corner of his mouth moved that was not quite a smile but was on its way to one.
“Good. Say it again.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Once more.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Better. I like the sound of it in this hallway.”
She kept her eyes down. The small heat moved up her neck. He saw it and let her have it. Then he reached out and put two fingers under her chin and tipped her face up to him.
“Look at me.”
She lifted her eyes.
He was smiling. It was a small smile but it was the first one she had seen on him.
“Welcome home, Kiya.”
“Thank you, Master.”
He let her chin go and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and turned toward the front room. “Come on through. Let me show you the house.”
She followed him.
The front room was the room of a man who lived alone and read in the evenings. Two armchairs facing the fireplace. A low fire he had laid that morning before he left, banked down to coals. A book on the low table between the chairs, face down, open to where he had stopped. A sofa along the inside wall. A bar cart in the corner. Two windows at the front overlooking the lawn.
The chair on the left had a small cushion on the seat that did not match the chair.
He saw her see it.
“That was hers. I never moved it. I should have. I never did.”
“It is a beautiful cushion, Master.”
He looked at her and the corner of his mouth moved closer to the smile.
“It is a homely cushion. She made it in a craft class she took for two months and quit. She thought it was the worst thing she had ever made and she put it on the chair to spite me when I would not stop telling her it was fine.”
“She was right about it, Master.”
“That it was homely.”
“Yes, Master.”
He laughed. A short real laugh that came out before he had decided to let it.
“All right. We agree about the cushion.” He shook his head, still smiling. “I am going to be reminded of her by you for the rest of my life and I am not going to mind it.”
She did not know what to say to that. She kept her eyes on the cushion and her smile got through to her mouth before she could stop it. He saw the smile and his own widened a fraction.
“Come on. Kitchen.”
He took her through the dining room into the kitchen.
The kitchen was wide and bright. Two windows over the sink looked out at the small fenced yard. A center island. A six-burner gas range. A round table by the window with two chairs.
“This is your kitchen. You will run it. I cook tonight because you have been on your feet since five and I am not going to start you with dinner duty on a Friday. Tomorrow we go through what I eat and what I do not. Sit down.”
She sat at the table by the window. He took down a pot, took a packet from the refrigerator, set a head of garlic and a lemon on the cutting board on the island. He moved through the kitchen the way a man moves through his own.
“What did you eat today.”
“Toast at five, Master. Coffee.”
“Nothing at the diner.”
“No, Master.”
“Why not.”
“I was not hungry, Master.”
“You were nervous.”
“Yes, Master.”
He smiled at the cutting board.
“I was nervous too. Going in this morning.”
She looked up.
“You were?”
“I had been a wreck all week. I have been a wreck since the Friday before that. Since you sat down in my booth and told me you were the girl my dead wife had made for me.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “You did not see it. I did not let you see it. But yes. I have been a wreck.”
“I did not know, Master.”
“I know you did not. I was hiding it. I am telling you now because we are home and I do not want to hide it from you anymore.”
She breathed out. Something in her chest loosened that she had not known was tight.
He turned back to the cutting board.
“Toast yesterday. Toast the day before. Kiya.”
“Yes, Master.”
“You are going to start eating better. That is item one of the lists we have not made yet.”
“Yes, Master.”
She watched him cut the garlic, fast and clean and without thinking about it. He turned on the gas and set a pan on the burner.
“Do you cook.”
“A little, Master. My mother taught me what I know. I have not had a kitchen of my own. The studio had a hot plate and a microwave.”
“What is the best thing you know how to make.”
“My grandmother’s pierogi, Master. From my father’s side.”
“Polish.”
“On his side, yes, Master. Walsh is the Irish side.”
“You will make me pierogi.”
“Yes, Master.”
“When you are ready.”
“Yes, Master.”
He laid the fish in the pan. It hissed. She watched him work in the late afternoon light coming through the window over the sink.
“Master.”
“Yes.”
“May I ask something.”
“You may ask me anything, Kiya. Always. Some things I will not answer and I will tell you why. Most things I will answer.”
“How did you learn to cook.”
He turned the fish in the pan, not looking up from it.
“I had to. Stephanie could not cook to save her life. The first month we were married she set a pot of water on fire. I did not know it was possible to set a pot of water on fire. She managed it. After that I read a book and tried things and learned. It was that or we starved or we ate takeout for the rest of our lives. I did not want any of those.”
She was laughing into her hand. She was trying not to laugh out loud and failing. He turned around and saw it and his face went into the bigger smile, the one that reached his eyes.
“There it is.”
“Master, I’m sorry, I—”
“No. Do not be sorry. That was the first real laugh I have gotten out of you and I want more of them. Laugh in this kitchen. Laugh in this house. I want the sound.”
“Yes, Master.”
She was still smiling. He was still watching her. He came around the island, crossed to her at the table, bent down and kissed the top of her head, briefly, and went back to the stove.
“Eat the rest of that banana if you have not finished it. The fish is six minutes out.”
“Yes, Master.”
He plated the fish at three-twenty and set a plate down in front of her and his own across from her. He sat. He looked at her plate and at her face.
“Eat. Slowly. There is more if you want it. You are not at the diner. Nobody is going to take it away from you.”
“Yes, Master.”
The first bite was better than she had a way to describe and she did not try. She ate at the pace he had told her to. He watched her for a minute or two and then began on his own plate. They ate. He asked her how the apartment had been to live in alone. She told him about the woman across the hall who played the cello at odd hours and how she had come to like the cello even at four in the morning. He told her about the trainer Marco at the gym, who had been threatening to retire for three years and never did, and about how Marco had been the only person at the gym he had spoken to in the year after Stephanie died because Marco had known not to ask anything. They talked about small things. The protocol was in the air and the protocol was not the air. The air was a man and a young woman at a kitchen table on a Friday afternoon eating fish he had cooked and beginning to know each other.
When she had finished he reached across the table and took her plate and his own and stood and rinsed them at the sink. He came back and sat down across from her.
“All right. The next part.”
“Yes, Master.”
“In this house, the default is that you are nude. Clothes are for outside. We will work out exceptions for guests and for cold weather and for when I want you in something for a reason. We are about to set the default. Stand up.”
She stood. Her hands were shaking. She had not expected them to and they were and she could not stop them.
He saw her hands. He stood too.
“Come here.”
She came around the table to him.
“Kiya. Look at me.”
She lifted her eyes.
“Your hands are shaking.”
“Yes, Master.”
“You have been preparing for this for two years.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Your hands are still shaking.”
“Yes, Master.”
He smiled, very small, and put his hand against her cheek.
“Good. They should be. I would worry about you if they weren’t. Take your time. There is no clock.”
He let her cheek go and stepped back half a step.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
She breathed out. She unbuttoned the cuffs of the blouse. She unbuttoned the front. She slipped the blouse off her shoulders and folded it once and laid it across the back of her chair. He watched. He did not speak. She unzipped the side of the skirt and stepped out of it and folded it on top of the blouse. The tights came next. She rolled them down with both hands and stepped out and folded them. The slip. The bra. The underwear last.
She stood in his kitchen with her hands at her sides and her eyes lowered and the late light from the window over the sink behind her.
He looked at her<img src=”https://res.wlpc.com/i/33574” width=”227” height=”411” data-image-file=”49560-28-kiya-27-html-930c5c64.jpg” class=”pic-left” id=”im33574” onclick=”toggImSz('im33574')” alt=”49560-28-kiya-27-html-930c5c64.jpg”>
He looked at her face first. Then he stepped forward and put his hand against her cheek again and looked at her for a long moment, and his eyes moved down her—the line of her throat, her shoulders, her breasts, her waist, her hips, the small vertical strip of red, her thighs, her feet on his floor—the way a man takes in a thing he has been waiting a long time to be allowed to look at, without rushing.
He went to the bar cart and opened the top drawer and took out a small leather case and a measuring tape. He came to her.
“Stand still.”
He looped the measuring tape around the base of her throat, snug but not tight, two fingers of clearance, and read the number. Thirty-five point eight centimeters. He wrote it in the small notebook he kept in the case and put the notebook away.
“I am having two collars made for you. Both eighteen carat gold. The first is a day collar, a thin band, plain, sits at the throat. You wear it every day. To the grocery store, to church, to your parents’ table on Saturday. No one who does not know will know what it is. The second is a dress collar, a wheat chain with a pendant. A circle and a diamond heart inside it. You wear that one when I want you dressed. Both are being made by a man in Philadelphia who made Stephanie’s. The band will be here Wednesday. The dress collar takes longer.”
He closed the case and set it on the bar cart. He opened the lower drawer and took out a thin gold chain and held it up. She recognized it. She had seen it at Stephanie’s throat in the hospice room, the last collar Stephanie had worn, the one Nathan had brought her when the silver one became too heavy.
“Until Wednesday, you wear this.”
He stood behind her and brought the chain around her throat and closed the clasp at the nape of her neck. His fingers were warm against her skin. He smoothed her hair back over it and came around to look at her.
He looked at the chain at her throat for a long moment without speaking.
“Good,” he said quietly. It was not entirely to her.
Then he pulled her into him.
He held her against him with one arm around the small of her back and the other hand in her hair at the back of her head. Her face went against his chest, against the soft warm cotton of his shirt, and she stood inside the hold with her hands uncertain between them because she did not know what to do with them.
“Put your arms around me.”
She did. Her arms went under his arms and around his back and she pressed her face into him. His arm around her tightened. His hand in her hair smoothed once, slowly, from the crown to the nape.
“You are beautiful, Kiya.”
His voice was low against her hair.
“Thank you, Master.”
“I have known you were beautiful since the second week in the diner. I had not seen you the way I am seeing you now. The way I am seeing you now is what I have been waiting a year for without knowing what I was waiting for, and what she was building for me without telling me she was. She built you well. You have done the rest yourself.”
“Yes, Master.”
“You are home.”
“Yes, Master.”
She was crying. She had not meant to. The crying was small and silent against his chest and his shirt was absorbing it. He did not let her go. He held her through it. He smoothed her hair again.
“It’s all right. You can cry in this kitchen too. Crying is allowed.”
“Yes, Master.”
She cried for maybe a minute. He held her through it. When she had stopped he loosened his arm and stepped back half a step, his hand still in her hair, and he looked at her face.
She looked up at him.
He bent his head and kissed her.
It was not a careful kiss. It was the kiss of a man who had been wanting to kiss her since the third week in the diner and had finally decided to. His mouth was warm and his hand was in her hair and she did not know what to do at first because she had not done this before, and then her hands came up to his chest and she kissed him back, and she got it slightly wrong and tried again and got it right, and he was patient with her getting it right and did not break the kiss until she had.
When he broke it he kept his forehead against hers for a count and then he stepped back.
“Better.”
“Master—”
“That was your first.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Tell me.”
“I have not been kissed properly before, Master.”
“I figured. I am glad I was the first.”
She had no answer for that.
He smiled and ran his thumb across her bottom lip and let his hand drop. The smile was warm and slightly delighted, the smile of a man who had just been given something he had not expected.
“Turn for me. I want to see the rest now.”
She turned. A full slow circle. She came back to facing him.
He nodded.
“Stephanie undersold you. She told me you were a pretty redhead. That was a serious undersell. I am going to tease her about it the next time I see her.”
The line came out warm and easy. She heard the warmth and the easy and the the next time I see her, which was a phrase about a dead woman said in the same breath as a piece of teasing affection, and her ears went red, and he saw them and laughed once, quietly.
“The strip stays. She did that part right.” He reached out and rested his hand on her hip for a second and let it drop. “Come on. Let me show you the rest of the house. Pick up your clothes.”
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