Kiya
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 22
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 22 - 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
She woke at five-fifteen without the alarm.
She lay in the dark of the small room for a moment with the white sheets warm around her and the wool blanket heavy on her legs and her body recognizing where it was before her mind caught up. The house was quiet. A pipe ticked somewhere in the walls. The streetlight outside the side yard threw a thin pale line across the ceiling.
She had slept in his house. She had slept in his house for the first time and she had slept hard and the sleeping had been the sleep of a body that had finally arrived somewhere and did not need to stay alert anymore.
She got up at five-thirty when the alarm went.
She used the bathroom across the hall. She brushed her teeth. She washed her face. She brushed her hair and pulled it back into a low loose ponytail. She did not put on the nightgown. She came back into her room and stood at the chair by the window for a moment, looking at the gray sky over the hedge.
Tonight she would sleep in his bed.
She went out into the hall and down the stairs nude.
He was in the kitchen.
Dark green flannel robe over pajama pants, no shirt under the robe, his hair mussed from sleep. He was setting up the coffee. He turned when he heard her on the stairs and his face did the thing it had done when she came around the table to him in the kitchen the night before—a small involuntary brightening, a man seeing something he was glad to see.
“There she is.”
“Good morning, Master.”
“Good morning.”
He crossed to her at the bottom of the stairs and put his hand against her cheek and looked at her for a moment. He bent down and kissed her—brief, warm, good morning—and stepped back.
“Sleep all right.”
“Yes, Master. I slept hard.”
“Good. Sit. I am about to start the coffee. You can call your mother in a minute. I spoke to her last night. She is expecting your call at quarter past six.”
She had been about to ask about the call. He had handled it.
“Master.”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell her.”
“I told her you were here. I told her you were safe. I told her you would call her this morning. She asked me one question.”
“What was the question.”
“She asked me if I loved you.” He was looking at the coffee. “I told her I was going to. She said good and we said goodnight.”
Kiya sat down at the kitchen table and put her hands in her lap and did not say anything. He heard her not saying anything and glanced over his shoulder at her.
“Your ears are red.”
“Yes, Master.”
“That is going to be the thing I tease you about for the rest of your life.”
“Yes, Master.”
He smiled and turned back to the coffee. She watched his back and the smile stayed on her face where she could not get it off.
He brought two mugs to the table at six-twelve and sat across from her and they drank the coffee in the comfortable way of two people who were learning what mornings together felt like.
“How do you take it,” she asked.
He looked at her over his mug. “You already know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Black. Why do you want to hear me say it.”
“Because I have been watching you take it for nine months and now I want to hear you tell me yourself.”
He smiled into his mug.
“Black. Same as always. No cream. No sugar.”
“Yes, Master.”
“You have been watching me for nine months and you are asking me how I take my coffee.”
“I wanted to hear you say it.”
He shook his head, still smiling, and drank his coffee.
At six-fifteen he stood.
“Call her. I will be upstairs. Take as long as you need.”
He kissed the top of her head on his way past. She picked up her phone.
Her mother answered on the second ring.
“Kiya.”
“Mom.”
“You’re at his house.”
“Yes.”
“He called me last night.”
“He told me. Just now.”
Her mother breathed out. A long breath, the kind a woman breathes when she has been holding it for a year and is finally letting it go.
“All right.”
“Mom.”
“Tell me.”
“He came back to the diner at two. He drove me here. He has been kind, Mom. He cooked me dinner. He has a room for me. He bought me a toothbrush last March.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Last March.”
“Last March.”
“He has been waiting.”
“He says he did not know what he was waiting for. He just bought the toothbrush and put it in a drawer.”
Her mother laughed. A wet laugh, the laugh of a woman trying not to cry.
“That sounds like the kind of man Stephanie would have picked for you. She always said you would know him by the small foolish things he had done before he met you.”
Kiya closed her eyes.
“Mom.”
“I am here.”
“I am happy.”
“I know you are. I could hear it the moment you said his name.”
“He wants to come and see you next Saturday. Both of us.”
“Good. We will have you both for dinner. Tell him I will make the brisket. He likes brisket. Stephanie told me once.”
“He likes brisket.”
“Of course he does. He is a sensible man.”
Kiya laughed.
“Mom.”
“Yes.”
“I am going to be all right.”
“I know you are. I have known since I started bringing you to that hospice. I just needed you to know it. Now you know.”
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, baby. Go and live your life. Tell him I said thank you for calling me last night. That was the right thing to do.”
“I will tell him.”
“Saturday with the brisket. Tell him.”
“Saturday with the brisket.”
“Bye, baby.”
“Bye, Mom.”
She set the phone down on the table. She sat for a minute with her hands around the cold mug. Then she got up and rinsed the mug at the sink and stood at the window looking out at the small yard with the empty bird feeder and the gray morning, and she let herself have the minute her mother had let her have.
Upstairs she heard the shower shut off.
He came down at six-thirty in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater, his hair wet and combed back. He came into the kitchen and looked at her at the sink and she turned to face him.
“How was she.”
“Good. She wants us for dinner next Saturday. She is making brisket.”
He laughed properly. The bigger laugh.
“Brisket. Of course she is making brisket. Stephanie must have told her.”
“Stephanie told her you liked brisket.”
“Stephanie told everyone. She was relentless about brisket. Brisket for Christmas, brisket for Easter, brisket for the woman across the street whose husband died, brisket for the new neighbors. I have eaten more brisket than any man in this county. I have not had a proper brisket in a year. I will eat your mother’s brisket and I will be very polite about it and I will probably ask for seconds.”
“Yes, Master.”
She was smiling. He crossed to her at the sink and put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple.
“She said thank you for calling her last night.”
“She is welcome. All right. Get dressed. We are going to your apartment. Coat is downstairs. I will be in the car.”
“Yes, Master.”
She went upstairs and dressed in the white blouse and the charcoal skirt and the tights and the flat shoes. She came down and put on the coat and picked up her bag. She went out the front door and locked it with the key he had left on the bowl. He was in the car at the curb with the engine running.
The drive to her apartment was eight minutes.
She unlocked the front door of the building and they went up the two flights to her studio. He had never been there. She unlocked the door and pushed it open and let him in.
He stood in the doorway and took it in. One room. A bed in the corner. A small kitchenette. A round table by the window. A wardrobe along the inside wall. A bookcase with her books. A small chair. A rug on the floor she had bought at a thrift store in October.
“You lived here for two months.”
“Yes, Master.”
“It is a clean little room.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“What do you want to bring.”
“My books, Master. The clothes. The notebook from the bottom drawer of the bookcase. The bathroom things. The rug if there is room. The lamp on the bedside table. My mother gave it to me when I went to high school.”
“Show me the lamp.”
She showed him. Small. Green glass shade. He nodded.
“That comes. Pull out the suitcase.”
She pulled it out from under the bed. He looked around the room.
“You have one suitcase.”
“Yes, Master.”
“How did you live here for two months on one suitcase.”
“I did not need much. I was working. I was watching you. I was waiting. The point was to be ready to leave.”
He looked at her with the expression she was beginning to recognize, the one that was not quite the cushion-smile and not quite the Stephanie undersold you smile but something between the two, the expression of a man who kept being surprised by her.
“You were always going to be leaving here for my house.”
“Yes, Master. From the day I signed the lease.”
He shook his head once, not at her, at the year, and then he rolled up his sleeves.
“Pack what you are bringing. I will take the books.”
They packed. She folded her clothes into the suitcase. He took the books down from the shelf and stacked them in two cardboard boxes she had kept from her move-in. He found the notebook in the bottom drawer of the bookcase and held it in his hand for a moment before he put it in the box. She did not see him do it. He put it in the box without opening it.
In forty-five minutes the studio was empty of her.
She stood in the middle of it and looked around. He stood by the door with a box in his arms and watched her look. He did not rush her.
“It was a good little room, Master.”
“It was. You did right by it.”
“I will give the keys back to the landlord on Monday.”
“I will handle that. Give me the keys.”
She handed him the keys. He put them in his coat pocket.
“Anything you want from here in the next month, we come back for. The room is not gone until you say it is gone.”
“Yes, Master.”
“All right. Let’s go home.”
They carried the things down to the car in three trips. The boxes went in the trunk. The suitcase. The lamp in the sweater. The rolled rug across the back seat.
She locked the studio door for the last time.
They were back at the house at eight-ten.
He carried the boxes up to her room. He brought the suitcase up. He set the lamp on her bedside table and plugged it in and turned it on. The green glass shade threw a small warm circle of light onto the white linens. He stood back and looked at it.
“It is the right lamp for the room.”
“Yes, Master. Thank you.”
“Get unpacked when you want. No rush. Come down when you are ready. I am going to start breakfast.”
He left her. She unpacked the suitcase into the second drawer. The boxes of books she left for later. She brought the bathroom things across the hall and fitted them into the drawer beside what he had bought her in March. The two sets of toiletries fit together easily.
She closed the drawer.
She stood at the bathroom mirror for a moment looking at her own face. The face that looked back at her was not the face that had looked back at her in her apartment across the weeks of watching. Something had settled in it overnight. She did not have a word for the something. She went back into the hall and down the stairs nude.
He was at the stove. Eggs and toast going. He looked at her in the kitchen doorway and his face did the brightening thing again.
“Sit. Eat.”
She sat at the table by the window. He brought her a plate of eggs and two pieces of toast and a small bowl of strawberries he had cut while she was upstairs. He brought his own plate and the coffee pot and sat across from her.
They ate.
“How is your mother.”
“Good. A little tearful at the end of the call. She said she had known since she started bringing me to the hospice.”
“She is a good woman.”
“Yes, Master.”
“What does your father know.”
“Less. He knows I was close to Stephanie. He does not know what I have been doing. My mother has handled him for a year.”
“We will tell him next Saturday. As much as he needs to know.”
“Yes, Master.”
“What does he do.”
“He is a tool and die maker, Master. He retired three years ago. He works in his shop in the back of the garage now. He makes things for people. Builds furniture sometimes.”
“He is good with his hands.”
“Yes, Master.”
“He and I will get along. I will ask him to show me his shop.”
She smiled.
“He will like that very much, Master.”
“Good. Eat your toast.”
She ate her toast. He finished his eggs. They sat at the table with the second cup of coffee. The morning outside the window had gone from gray to a paler gray with a hint of the sun behind it.
He set his mug down.
“Before we go into the dining room I want to say something.”
“Yes, Master.”
“I read your document last night after you went up. Both lists. I read them twice. I know what you marked. I am not going to walk through every item this morning. What I want to do is say a few things plainly and then we will cover the household and the family and the pace of things, and the rest will come up in its own time.”
“Yes, Master.”
“First thing. What you marked no is closed. I am not going to schedule revisits. I am not going to bring those items back at three months or six months or a year. If you ever change your mind about one of them, you bring it to me. I will not bring them to you. Your noes are yours and they are honored. The cane, the crop, the single-tail. Closed. The hood I am adding myself on your behalf because you are claustrophobic and no Master worth his name puts a hood on a claustrophobic slave. It is not even a conversation.”
“Yes, Master. Thank you.”
“Second thing. What you marked yes is available to me at my pace. I am not going to ramp up slowly on things you already said yes to. Anal is yes on your page. The rope is yes. The paddle and the flogger are yes. The clamps are yes. The bowl is yes. You said yes. I read you. I do not need to slowly unlock the things you handed me. They are already mine.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Third thing. What you marked curious or maybe is open. I will explore those with you when the time comes. I am not going to push you toward yes on any of them. I am going to read your body and your word as we go. The things you circled I have noted and I will be careful with them. The circles tell me where your tender places are and I will not use them cheaply.”
“Yes, Master.”
“The point is this. Your document is your document. I work inside what you wrote. The space you opened is more than enough. I do not need to chip away at the space you closed.”
She was quiet for a moment.
“Thank you, Master.”
He reached across the table and took her hand and held it for a count and let it go.
“All right. The household.”
He went through it. The mornings. The evenings. The kitchen and the cooking. The cleaning and Maria on Wednesdays. Money. The household card from Monday. The personal account. He told her the number and her ears went red again and he smiled and kept talking.
Her phone was hers. She could call whomever she wanted. Her family was now his family. They would see Mara and Daniel regularly. She could call her mother any day. Her mother would not be lied to.
His family. His brother in the city, the standing Wednesday dinner. He would tell his brother next Wednesday and Kiya would meet him the following weekend. His brother was in the lifestyle and would understand. His parents in Florida. He would tell them in stages.
The small social circle. Three other couples in the county, long-standing Master and slave households. Dinner every two months. The next gathering at the end of January. Kiya would be presented to the group at that gathering, on her cushion at his side, her name said in front of the small circle. He would prepare her for the night across the week before.
Church. Saint Bartholomew’s. Sundays at nine. She would come with him. He would not pressure her about confirmation but would not hide that he hoped for it eventually. The rector knew, in general terms, and had blessed it.
Children. Not the first year. After the first year, if they both wanted them, they would try.
Marriage on paper. Second year, probably. Small ceremony. Saint Bartholomew’s. Her family, his brother, the small circle.
The librarian path. Open. No rush. They would decide together when the time came.
He closed the folder.
He looked at the clock.
“Twelve-forty. We are done with the lists. Stand up.”
“Yes, Master.”
She stood. Her knees were stiff. He saw it and steadied her elbow until she had her balance.
He did not let go of her elbow. He kept hold of it and walked her out of the dining room into the front room and to the fire he had set that morning. He sat in his chair and looked at her standing in front of him.
“Come here.”
She came to him. He reached up and took her hand.
“Kneel.”
She knelt between his knees on the rug. He kept her hand. He looked at her face.
“How are you.”
“I am good, Master.”
“Are you afraid.”
She thought about it honestly.
“No, Master.”
“You are sure.”
“Yes, Master. I have been waiting a long time. I am not afraid.”
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. She watched him do it. He lowered her hand.
“Before I take you upstairs I want to tell you something. About how this is going to work between us. Not the protocols. Not the lists. The other part.”
“Yes, Master.”
“There are three ways I am going to come to you. Three different registers. You will learn to read them and I want you to know what they are before you have had to figure them out by yourself.”
He drew her up and sat her on the arm of his chair with his arm around her waist.
“The first is what we do in a scene. BDSM. Intentional, structured, the practice. The rope, the implements, the bondage, the kinbaku. When I come to you in that register I am your Master and you are my slave and the practice is what we are doing together. Your protocols are active. You follow my lead and I teach you and you learn. That is one way.”
“Yes, Master.”
“The second is rutting. There will be times when I simply want you. No ceremony, no teaching, no agenda. I want to fuck and I want you with me at that level. You will learn to read when I am in that mood. I want you to match me. Meet my energy. Do not be afraid if I am aggressive with you in those moments. The aggression is not anger. It is appetite and you are what I want. You are allowed to have the same appetite back.”
She held his eyes.
“Yes, Master.”
“The third is making love. When I come to you this way the protocols step back. You are not performing. You are not following. You are present with me, free, uninhibited. You may speak. You may ask for what you want. You may tell me what you feel. You may laugh if something is funny and cry if something moves you and make whatever sound you want to make. And you may call me by my name.”
She did not speak for a moment.
“Nathan,” she said. Not to him. Just the word, placed in the room between them, trying it out for the first time.
He smiled. The quiet private smile.
“Yes. Nathan. In those moments that is who I am to you.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Today is the third one. Today I am not your Master in this room. Today I am Nathan and you are Kiya and we are going to make love for the first time and you are going to let go completely. Whatever you feel you let it through. Whatever you want you tell me. Are you clear.”
“Yes.”
She had not said Master. The word had come out without the title and she looked at him.
He was still smiling.
“Good. You are already learning.”
He stood and drew her up with her hand.
“Upstairs.”
She turned and walked out of the front room and up the stairs. He followed. At the top of the stairs she turned toward her room.
“No,” he said quietly. “Come.”
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