Page 6 of UnTrained: Volume Two
"Sir," I say, turning toward him. "Do you have a preference for tea?"
"Whatever you would like to serve me," he says, and somehow that makes the choice feel more significant.
I select a delicate green tea, one that requires attention to brew correctly. As I prepare it, I'm acutely aware of Aiden watching me from the doorway. There's something intimate about being observed this way—not the clinical observation of the facility, but something appreciative, attentive.
When the kettle whistles, I pour the hot water over the leaves, watching them unfurl in the clear glass teapot. The process requires patience, waiting for the perfect steep. I find myselfrelaxing into the ritual, my shoulders dropping, my breathing slowing.
"It's ready, Sir," I say, placing the teapot and cups on a small tray. I carry it to the coffee table and set it down carefully.
"Kneel beside me while I drink," Aiden says, settling himself on the couch.
I sink gracefully to my knees beside the couch, the carpet soft beneath me. This position feels strangely peaceful, not degrading like it did at the facility. There, kneeling meant punishment or preparation for something worse. Here, with Aiden, it feels like a choice—my choice.
He pours the tea with deliberate movements, steam curling above the delicate cups. I watch his hands, strong and capable, handling the fragile porcelain with surprising gentleness. Those same hands that spanked me at the facility, that guided me through the room just moments ago, that cupped my face with such care when he kissed me.
"You made this beautifully," he says after taking a sip. "Thank you."
The simple praise warms me from within, spreading through my chest like the heat from the tea. "You're welcome, Sir."
6
We exist in comfortable silence for several minutes, him drinking his tea, me kneeling beside him. My mind, usually racing with anxiety and memories, grows quiet. There's only this moment—the soft sound of his breathing, the occasional clink of cup against saucer, the warmth radiating from his body so close to mine.
I find myself sinking deeper into this moment of calm, my body relaxing in a way I haven't experienced since before the facility. My thoughts, usually a chaotic storm of memories and fears, have quieted to a gentle hum. The position—on my knees beside Aiden—feels right somehow, like I've found my place after months of drifting.
His hand comes to rest on my head, fingers gently stroking my hair. I stiffen for just a moment before melting into the touch. It's so different from the harsh handling I've grown accustomed to. This touch doesn't demand or hurt—it soothes, connects.
"How are you feeling?" Aiden asks, his voice low.
I consider the question, searching for the right words. "Peaceful," I finally say. "Like I can breathe again."
His fingers continue their gentle path through my hair. "Good. That's what this should feel like."
When he finishes his tea, he sets the cup down and shifts on the couch to face me more directly. "Stand up," he says.
I rise to my feet in one fluid motion, my body responding to his command without hesitation. The ease of the command feels right, natural in a way I never expected. There's freedom in this surrender, a lightness that comes from letting someone else direct my movements, even temporarily.
Aiden rises too, standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "I want you to understand something, Lana. What we're doing right now—this exchange of power—it's meant to serve both of us. My dominance isn't about breaking you down. It's about holding space for you to let go safely."
His words sink into me, a balm on wounds I've been carrying for months. At the facility, submission was forced, a breaking of will through pain and fear. This feels like something else entirely—a gift freely given, a burden willingly shared.
"For the rest of the evening," Aiden continues, "I'm going to give you simple tasks. Each one is designed to help you stay present in your body, to focus on the moment rather than your memories. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir," I say, the words feeling more natural each time I speak them.
"Good girl." He touches my face briefly, his fingers warm against my cheek. "First, I want you to shower and change intosomething comfortable," he says. "Something that makes you feel good."
I nod, grateful for the directive. Making decisions has been overwhelming since I returned home—too many options after months of having no choices at all. Even selecting clothes each morning leaves me paralyzed with indecision.
"Take your time," Aiden adds. "I'll be here when you finish."
I retreat to the bathroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click. The small space feels safe, contained. I turn on the shower and let the room fill with steam before undressing slowly, avoiding the mirror.
I'm not ready to confront my reflection yet—the body that still feels like it belongs to someone else.
The hot water cascades over me, and I close my eyes, focusing on the sensation. This is another luxury I'm still getting used to—showers that can last as long as I want, water as hot as I can stand. At the facility, showers were cold, brief, often witnessed by guards. Now I can stand here until the water runs cold, and no one will punish me for it.
I wash my hair with deliberate care, massaging the shampoo into my scalp, letting my fingertips press in small circles that remind me I'm here, in this body that's mine again. The repetitive motion soothes me, anchoring me to the present when my mind threatens to drift.
