It’s been almost a month since that party, but I still feel off. Like I’m moving through a world that doesn’t fully belong to me anymore. I follow the rules, hit the marks, snap the pictures, but part of me stays on edge. Not afraid. Just... charged.

Chris started all this.

My hot neighbor: the one I used to secretly watch mow his lawn shirtless, turned out to be something else entirely. My ticket in. The man who made me kneel, who named what I was before I even had the words. He’s got that quiet, confident dominance that doesn’t shout. Doesn’t need to.

Now he sends me tasks. Small and specific. No bra, no panties. Morning and night selfies; something soft and sleepy to start the day, something messy and ruined before bed. And every time I go to the bathroom, I have to take a picture and post it to our group chat. No excuses. No edits. Just me, raw and real and his.

Dahlia’s the counterbalance. She’s not just some random Domme, she’s a professional, the kind that walks into a room and makes everyone sit up straighter without saying a word. She doesn’t care about how I look. She cares about how I feel. Her rules are all about my insides: four emotional check-ins a day, at set windows. No touching. No orgasms. Not unless I’m instructed to. She says control isn’t about denial, it’s about truth. And she can tell when I lie. I don’t know how, but she always knows.

The hardest part? The no-touching rule. No release. That hunger builds: hot, sharp, coiling low in my spine. Some days, it’s all I can think about. I tell them both. Every check-in. Every damn entry. Dahlia just says good. Chris says he likes me better this way: needy, aware, undone.

Mornings follow the same script now. I wake up before my parents, pad down the hall with my shirt clinging to my back, and slip into the bathroom. Lights off. Just hallway glow. I lean on the counter, lift my phone, tilt my hips. Click.

Good morning.

It’s always the first thing I say. Before brushing my teeth. Before coffee. Before anything that used to feel normal.

At first, I resisted. Missed a check-in. Nearly got caught mid-selfie when my mom knocked. Cried once when I sent a blurry pic, and Chris didn’t respond for two hours. Stupid. I know. But it crushed me.

Week two got easier. Not better—just smoother. Like a blade, once it's been used a few times.

Now I plan around the rules. Think about lighting. Angles. Words I haven’t used yet to explain how I feel. I crave the structure. Cling to it. Some days, I don’t even need direction, I’m already there. Wet. Waiting.

I’m not the same girl I was before. And I’m not sure I want her back.

___ 🐺___

My phone rings.

For a second, my heart jumps... Chris? Dahlia? Another task? Another edge to walk?

No. Faye.

God. Faye.

I stare at the screen like it’s a ghost. We’ve been best friends since we were five. Mads and Faye. Two peas in a pod, our kindergarten teacher used to say. Backyard forts, witch games, secret-agent missions. Then came high school: sneaking out, lying to our parents, splitting beers and secrets behind the rec center. She knew everything about me. Or she used to.

I haven’t talked to her in weeks, not since Chris. I’ve been dodging her calls, pretending I’m buried in school or family stuff... whatever excuse I could spin. How do you tell your childhood best friend that your life now runs on rules, selfies, and constant, aching need?

I let the phone ring once more. Then I answer.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Hey, Faye.”

Her voice bursts through like sunlight through a dirty window. “Finally! Jesus, Mads, I was about to file a missing person report. Are you okay?”

I laugh. It comes out weird. Tight. “Yeah. Sorry. Things have been… a lot.”

“No kidding. You drop off the face of the earth and then pop back up posting moody sunset shots with no captions? What the hell’s going on with you?”

I lie. “It’s just family stuff. And school. I’ve been kind of overwhelmed.”

She hums like she doesn’t quite buy it, but she lets it go. “Okay, whatever. I’m not mad. I just miss you.”

That part hits me in a place that feels soft and unguarded.

“I miss you too.”

“Come shopping with me?” she asks. “Tomorrow? Just for a couple of hours. I want to try on clothes I can’t afford and make fun of everything that looks like a curtain.”

I smile. Really smile. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

She laughs. “Great. I’ll pick you up at eleven. Don’t ghost me again, or I swear I’ll camp outside your house.”

“I won’t.”

I hang up and stare at the screen for a long time.

The rules, the hunger, the edges. They’re still there. But for a moment, there’s also Faye. My anchor to a world that doesn’t demand anything from me. A version of me I haven’t worn in weeks.

I wonder if she’ll recognize me.

___ 🐺___

Faye parked like she always did. Far from everyone else, in the corner of the mall lot, under the one sad-looking palo verde tree that gave zero shade.

“No one’s scratching my baby,” she said, shutting off the engine like she meant it. The AC gave one last wheeze as the heat rushed back in, wrapping around us like a blanket left too long in the dryer.

The car smelled like lemon hand sanitizer and mint gum. Her radio was still set to that indie station she swears makes her smarter.

I glanced at her.

Same Faye. Always chirpy, always looking like the best part of someone’s summer. Strawberry-blonde hair in a loose ponytail. Tank top and denim shorts that showed off her long legs. Freckles everywhere. That slim college girl look like she lives on iced coffee and anxiety.

“I can't believe it's already pushing ninety,” she said, fanning her shirt at her chest. “I’m not ready for boob sweat season.”

I laughed. “It’s Arizona. It's always boob sweat season.”

We headed toward the stores, her flip-flops slapping against the sidewalk. She filled the air with stories: old classmates, her latest boyfriend (Cole? Colby? something doomed), and the girl in her comms class who won’t stop posting “soft girl” thirst traps.

It was light. It was easy. The kind of day we used to have without thinking. Like slipping into a favorite pair of jeans and realizing they still fit.

We hit the usuals. Forever 21, H&M, Zara. Stores full of loud prints, soft knits, and tiny summer dresses we had no real reason to buy. Faye made me try on a pastel romper I hated and a coral sundress I didn’t. She twirled in front of the mirror in a white halter that showed off her back and squealed, “Tell me I don’t look like a vacation!”

“You look like spring break in Cabo,” I said.

“Exactly.”

She bought two things she didn’t need and then turned to a rack like she’d just remembered something important. Her eyes lit up. “Oh my god, this,” she said, tugging out a gray sweater dress. “Try this one. You’ve been living in oversized hoodies and looking like you just rolled out of a Netflix original.”

She didn’t know the hoodie was hiding bare skin. That I wasn’t allowed to wear panties. That every mirror reminded me of Chris, of bending and staying and holding still.

She shoved it into my hands before I could protest.

Simple. Soft knit. Long sleeves, round neck, mid-thigh hem. The kind of dress that didn’t scream look at me, but still knew what it was doing. I ran my fingers along it without thinking. Smooth. Warm. The kind of fabric that begged to be touched.

“This’ll hug your hips,” Faye said, matter-of-fact. “And it’s neutral, so it works with, like, anything. Boots, sneakers, leather jacket. You need something that isn’t from the Sad Girl collection.”

I laughed under my breath, but something in me twisted. She thought she was giving me comfort. She didn’t know she was handing me a test. That putting it on meant sliding it over skin meant to stay untouched. No bra. No panties. Just me, raw and exposed, trying not to feel too much about it.

Still, I nodded. “Okay. I’ll try.”

The changing room reeked of cheap perfume and the body spray some girl had bathed in before me. Faye was in the next stall, humming off-key and laughing at herself in the mirror. I pulled the curtain shut and looked at the dress.

Simple. Heathered gray. The kind of calm, quiet piece you wear when you want to disappear, or when you want to be touched without asking for it.

I slipped off my hoodie.

The overhead lights caught the contrast of skin and fabric. That flutter in my chest came quickly, exposure, familiar, and sharp. My nipples tightened in the chilled air. I glanced at the mirror. Still alone. Still safe.

I pulled the dress over my head.

It slid down like a second skin, soft and slow. The knit caught at my shoulders, stretched over my breasts, and hugged every curve. No bra. No lines. Just the fabric, tugging and clinging in all the right ways. It settled over my hips like a promise, stopping just high enough to make me think twice about bending over.

My thighs brushed together beneath the hem. Bare. The weave skimmed the spot where the rule lived. Where the hunger started.

God, it felt good.

Not just comfortable. Right. Like a secret I could wear. Like I’d walked into this clean little store and stepped into something that made me both a girl and a game.

I turned. Caught my reflection.

I liked what I saw.

Not sexy in an obvious way. Not nightclub, not push-up bra. Just… soft. Suggestive. The kind of thing that would make Chris tilt his head and say Turn for me, sweetheart. The kind that would make Dahlia smirk like she already had her hands inside it.

Without thinking, I picked up my phone.

The group chat was there. No rules about dressing rooms. No rules against this.

I angled the camera. Tilted my hips a little. One hand on the mirror. Lips parted. Click.

I hit send.

Not for praise. Not for permission. Just because I wanted them to see me like this. Wanting to be seen had started to feel like breathing.

I stepped out and did a little shrug. “Well?”

Faye looked up from her phone and grinned. “Okay, yes. That’s a yes dress. Simple, but it hugs you in all the right ways. Give me a spin.”

I laughed, self-conscious but flattered. I turned slowly, feeling the fabric slide and stretch over my bare skin. It felt almost too good. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror outside the stalls, legs bare, hips wrapped tight, the hem just brushing the tops of my thighs.

And then I saw them.

A pack of guys near a sale rack, pretending to care about graphic tees. Teenagers. All gawking. All failing miserably to hide it. Not glancing. Staring. Like I was a photo that had come to life.

My pussy throbbed with sudden heat. That sharp, low ache I’d been trying to keep under control all day suddenly twisted. And hunger, old and immediate, woke up inside me.

I flicked a glance at Faye, hoping… praying she hadn’t noticed.

She raised an eyebrow. “You might want to wear a bra with that one.”

My stomach dropped. I looked down.

Shit!

The thin knit clung to my chest, soft but unforgiving. My nipples were hard, clearly outlined through the fabric. Not subtle. Not even close. Visible. Obvious.

The boys weren’t just staring. They knew.

My throat clenched. I ducked back into the fitting room, yanked the curtain shut. Their laughter followed, not loud but enough... just enough to make my skin burn.

I leaned against the wall, breathing shallow, the knit of the dress still wrapped around me like a lover who knew too much. My nipples rubbed against it with every tiny movement. I should’ve been mortified. Embarrassed. But what I felt what I really felt was something else.

Hot. Wet. Alive.

I bit my lip and shut my eyes.

The rules said no touching. No release. Not unless it was for them. But right now? The dress, the stares, the low ache between my legs, I was already unraveling. Quietly. Privately. Just from being seen.

I peeled the dress off, slow at first, then faster, like maybe I could strip off the tension with the fabric. My skin felt too exposed now, too alive. I reached for my hoodie, but my phone buzzed on the bench before I could grab it.

My alarm. Self check-in!

My stomach flipped. Hoodie forgotten, I sat down and unlocked the screen with a clumsy thumb.

The chat was quiet. The cursor blinked. I didn’t want to lie. Dahlia hated lies. Don’t give us polished. Give us real.

So I typed:
felt cute.
too cute maybe.
some guys stared. hard.
froze. kinda liked it.
faye noticed. oops.
didn’t touch myself. wanted to.
holding the line is getting hard.
being seen feels... too good.

Send.

The message ticked through.

I stood, finally reaching for my hoodie. That soft, oversized shield that suddenly felt way too far away.

And then I froze.

___ 🐺___

Movement.

From the corner of my eye, through the not-so-narrow, forgotten crack in the curtain, I saw him. One of the guys from the rack. He was maybe sixteen or seventeen. Still had that wiry, restless energy boys carry like a badge. And he was staring.

Not glancing. Not accidentally.

Staring.

His eyes locked on mine, then dropped. Slowly, hungrily down my bare chest, to my stomach, and lower. The hoodie still clutched in my hands. I wasn’t covered.

I couldn’t breathe.

I should have moved. Stepped back. Pulled the curtain closed. Anything.

But I didn’t.

I stood there, heartbeat roaring in my ears, nipples tight and aching, thighs clenching against the wet heat between my legs. I could feel it, slick and unmistakable, gathering where it shouldn’t be. I was soaked. Standing there, naked, being watched by a stranger, and I was about to drip.

My fingers twitched. I wanted to touch myself.

God, I wanted to so badly!

But I couldn’t. I wasn’t allowed.

I clenched my fists around the hoodie and held still. Every second stretched into something painful. Something electric. I felt like I was floating just above my body, caught between humiliation and arousal so sharp it almost hurt.

And still, he didn’t look away.

I was frozen. Locked in place by his gaze, like he had some invisible hold on me. My heart thudded in my chest, too loud, too fast, like it was trying to break free. Every inch of my skin felt like it was on fire, too hot under the thin lights of the fitting room. My breath was shallow, quick. I wanted to look away. To retreat. To cover myself. But I couldn’t. I stood there, caught in the tug-of-war between shame and something darker, something wild. Something that wanted to keep me exposed. To let him see me. To let him know what he was doing to me.

His eyes never left me.

I could see the way his pupils widened, how his lips parted slightly. He liked it. He liked seeing me like this. Bare. Vulnerable. He didn’t need to say a word. I could feel it. The heat of his stare burned through me like an echo.

And God, I hated that I liked it.

My body was betraying me. I could feel the slickness between my legs, so thick it almost felt like I’d been touched. Like I had no control anymore, like every nerve was stretched and pulled tight, aching for something. Anything.

I didn’t know if I could stand it much longer. Every second that passed was both a lifetime and an eternity. My pussy was so wet, it was almost uncomfortable, and my nipples were still hard, still straining for attention. The sensation sent electric jolts through my chest, down to my stomach, and between my legs. A deep, primal hunger swelled inside me, tightening my core. Every muscle in my body felt coiled, like I was a bowstring pulled too tight.

And still, he didn’t look away. He watched me. Watched the way my body shifted with each quiet, desperate breath I took.

It was maddening.

I wanted to move. I wanted to touch. To let that hunger explode. But I stayed still. No touching. No orgasms.

The rules. Chris’s rules. No, it was Dahlia’s rules that kept me here. Kept me in this raw, exposed state. They were the only things standing between me and the crushing, insatiable need inside me.

I had to get out of there. I had to. But I couldn’t make myself move.

I stood there, helpless, trembling, under the weight of his gaze, feeling like I was about to break. And the worst part? I was starting to want it.

I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to keep watching me. I wanted to push against the rules just once, to feel something, anything, before I had to slip back into the cage.

I was still standing there, frozen in that impossible moment, when the curtain jerked open. The harsh squeal of the metal rod cut through the air, slicing me out of the haze I’d been wrapped in. I blinked, dazed, and looked up. My heart jumped into my throat.

Faye. Standing there, eyes wide, her hand still gripping the fabric. Her mouth dropped open in shock. She froze too, not sure what to do, then rushed forward to yank the curtain closed, her face flushed with panic.

“Shit, Mads,” she whispered, a little too loudly. “What the hell are you…?”

But she didn’t get to finish her sentence.

I could hear the murmurs of other customers turning their heads. The sudden movement in the store had caught their attention, like I was a scene they weren’t supposed to be watching. But their eyes darted toward us, drawn in by the sudden commotion.

I could feel their gazes on me before the curtain was even fully shut. The weight of it. Too much.

My face was hot, burning, like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have. My body felt too exposed again. Too raw. Too seen. The shame hit...