The Rules

Good girl. Two words, and I'm already addicted. I stare at my phone screen, at those simple words from a stranger who calls himself V, and something inside me unravels. Victor's rejection still burns in my chest, but this—this feels like salve on a wound I didn't know how to treat. My fingers shake as I type: What happens now? The response comes within seconds, as if he's been waiting, watching. V: Now you tell me what you know about this world. What you've read. What you've imagined in those moments when you touch yourself late at night. Heat floods my face even though I'm alone. How does he know? How can he possibly— But that's the point, isn't it? He doesn't know. He's guessing, reading between the lines of my desperate profile, and somehow he's right. Me: I've read things. Forums. Stories. I know the basics—Dominants and submissives, safe words, contracts. V: Reading isn't experiencing. Tell me what you want, Amelia. Use your words. My real name feels obscene on the screen, too exposed. But I'd put it in my profile, hadn't I? Some part of me wanting to be seen, truly seen, for the first time in years. Me: I want to not think. Not plan. Not worry about doing the wrong thing or saying the wrong thing. I want someone else to decide for me. The truth spills out easier than it should. Maybe because he's faceless, nameless, just a letter on a screen. Maybe because Victor's dismissal tonight proved that being careful, being appropriate, gets me nowhere. V: You want to surrender. Me: Yes. V: I can give you that. But we do this my way, with my rules. Three of them. Non-negotiable. I pull my knees to my chest, the rejected Gucci box still mocking me from my nightstand. Outside my window, the city glitters with Christmas lights and other people's happiness. Me: Tell me. V: Rule One: We never meet in person. This stays in the digital realm. Fantasy only. Relief and disappointment war in my chest. Part of me had wondered, hoped, feared what it would be like to actually submit to someone. But anonymity feels safer. No judgment. No consequences. Me: Agreed. V: Rule Two: I will not show my face during our sessions. You may see my body, hear my voice, but my identity remains mine. Me: What about me? V: You'll show me everything. That's how this works. I see you. You trust me. My breath catches. The inequality of it should bother me, but instead it sends liquid heat pooling low in my belly. The idea of being watched, studied, while he remains hidden—it's exactly the kind of surrender I crave. Me: And Rule Three? V: No personal information. No details that could identify either of us in the real world. What happens here stays here. Our real lives don't touch. I think of Victor, of his cold grey eyes and colder dismissal. Of how desperately I've wanted him to notice me, to want me, to see past the efficient secretary to the woman underneath. This stranger—V—is offering me something Victor never will. Me: I agree to all three rules. V: Say it properly. Me: I agree to all three rules, Sir. The word feels foreign on my fingertips, but right. So achingly right. V: Perfect. You're going to be such a good little submissive for me, aren't you, Amelia? Me: Yes, Sir. V: Then let's begin your training. Tomorrow, you'll go to work without underwear. No bra. No panties. Nothing between you and your clothes. My heart slams against my ribs. Tomorrow is Monday. I have back-to-back meetings. I'll be standing beside Victor's desk, taking notes, fetching coffee, close enough to smell his cologne and remember his rejection. Me: I don't know if I can— V: You can. You will. This is what you asked for, isn't it? To not think, to just obey? Me: Yes, but— V: No buts. Just yes or no. Will you obey me? I close my eyes, imagining it. Walking into the office, sitting at my desk, crossing my legs during the morning briefing while Victor drones on about Q4 projections. The constant awareness of my body, of my nakedness beneath professional wool and silk. The fear of being discovered mixed with the thrill of my secret. Me: Yes, Sir. I'll obey. V: Good girl. Send me a photo when you're dressed tomorrow morning. Before you leave for work. I want to see what you're wearing, knowing what you're not wearing underneath. Me: What if someone notices? V: No one will notice unless you let them. I think of Victor's eyes on me, really on me, for once. Not looking through me like I'm transparent. The fantasy sends heat spiraling through my core. V: You're touching yourself right now, aren't you? Me: No. V: Don't lie to your Dom. I can tell. Your responses are getting slower, more scattered. Your mind is wandering to what tomorrow will feel like. He's right. My free hand has drifted to my thigh, fingers tracing patterns on bare skin. Me: Maybe. V: Stop. My hand freezes. V: You don't get to come tonight. You'll go to bed wanting, needing, desperate. It's cruel. I'm already wound tight from Victor's rejection, from the ache of wanting someone who doesn't want me back. Now this stranger is denying me even the release of my own touch. Me: That's not fair. V: Fair? Oh, sweet Amelia. This isn't about fair. This is about teaching you that your pleasure belongs to me now. You come when I say you can come. Not before. The authority in his words, even through text, makes my core clench with need. Me: Yes, Sir. V: Sleep well, my good girl. Dream of me. And tomorrow, remember—every step you take, every move you make, you're doing it for me. You're mine now. The chat goes dark as he logs off, leaving me alone with my racing heart and denied need. I set my phone down with shaking hands and stare at the ceiling. What have I just agreed to? Tomorrow, I'll walk into Victor's office, sit across from him during meetings, lean over his desk to hand him documents—and I'll be bare beneath my clothes, wet and wanting, thinking of a str anger's commands instead of my boss's indifference. I should be terrified. Instead, I'm counting the hours until morning.