Page 13 of Kneel with the King
I reach for the collar and hand it to King. No way in hell I’m surrendering to this bastard.
“Here,” I mutter, not meeting his eyes.
He doesn’t take it. I look up at him, and he’s smirking at me.
“No,” he says firmly.
Despite the way his lips are twitching with amusement, his gaze is unreadable, steady. The kind that says he’s already made a decision I wasn’t invited to weigh in on.
My throat goes dry. I look down at the collar in my hands. It shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s just a prop.
But somehow, it feels like a metaphor for something I haven’t been privy to.
The instructor walks across the front of the room like a lecturer, gesturing lightly. “Think of it like sailing. One partner is the rudder, the other is the sail. One provides direction, the other provides motion. Neither is useful without the other. And sometimes those roles reverse with the tide. But for the purposes of this exercise, and, ultimately, the main purpose of this retreat, you will each choose your role. Lead… or surrender.
“For some,” the instructor continues, walking past King and me, “falling into the natural dynamic of yin and yang—of lead and follow—feels effortless. For others, it takes work. Trust isn’t always immediate. But trust can be cultivated. This exercise is about discovering that balance. The give and the take. The surrender and the direction. The sacred tension.”
His words skim just under the surface of something deeper, more primal.
And then I think of the book I saw in King’s duffle bag.
The Dominant’s Discourse: Power, Control, and Consent.
All around us, people are helping their partners with their collars. To my right, Jacques is standing behind a kneeling Walter, gently securing the collar around his neck.
I swallow. My fingers tremble as I bring the black leather collar toward my throat.
Maybe I just want to know what it feels like to let someone else decide what happens next.
Just to prove I can, if nothing else.
King takes it from me, wordless. He steps in close—close enough that I can feel the heat of him against my back. His hand brushes my neck as he lifts the collar in place, and instinctively, I stiffen.
Breathe, Asher.
He buckles it gently in place from his position behind me, and every time his calloused fingertips brush the sensitive area on the back of my neck, I fight a full-body shudder. The leatheris warm. Firm. It presses against the hollow of my throat with a weight I feel all the way down to my gut.
My pulse kicks under his touch, but I don’t stop him. Something about this, something about being held here—not by force, but by choice—does something to me.
I don’t want to inspect it too closely.
All I know is, he’s the one leading now. And while I don’t know what that means for the rest of the week, I do know that for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the excruciatingly heavy pressure of trying to hold everything together.
“There,” he says quietly. “Perfect fit.” His fingers linger, just for a second, and then his voice curls around the back of my neck. “What a good boy.” He pauses, and then his voice goes softer.Darker.“Such a good listener.”
The praise slides under my skin, leaving heat in my wake. I exhale a shaky, involuntary sound. It’s too much and not enough all at once. My hand comes up to touch the edge of the collar, then drops, resigned.
The instructor resumes talking, guiding everyone through breathing exercises. I don’t hear most of it, because I can’t stop thinking of the weight of the collar around my neck.
Every time my fingers brush against it, something tightens in my chest. A tug. A pulse. An awareness that refuses to be ignored.
This is stupid. It’s just a workshop. This is all fake.
But the way King looks at me? The hungry, dark-eyed way that makes me squirm?
The way I feel with it wrapped around my throat?
It doesn’t feel fake.
