There’s a girl sitting on the edge of her bed, laptop open, chat window glowing. A “Dom” she met two days ago is already calling her good girl and typing things like:
“Your submission is a gift. I’ll cherish it forever.”
It should feel flattering. It half does.
The other half feels like a lead weight in her stomach, because every time she hesitates, he reminds her:
“If you really were submissive, you’d trust me.”
She clicks away from the chat and rereads this post instead. The line that won’t leave her alone is:
“the responsibilities of the one in control should be considered the sacrifice.”
She notices how different that sounds from what she’s getting in her inbox:
He talks like her submission is proof she’s worthy.
This piece talks like her submission is dangerous and valuable, and if someone takes it, they should lose some of their freedom too.
She scrolls back to:
“If staying with me ever depends on you staying unwell, I’m the problem, not you.”
She doesn’t have those exact words yet, but she can feel the shape of them.
The cursor blinks in the empty reply box. For once, instead of apologizing for being “difficult” or “needy,” she just closes the laptop.
From the outside, it looks like nothing happened.
Inside, something tiny and important shifts: she doesn’t stop wanting to submit—she just quietly raises the price.
Cycle I · “The Hidden Voice” · 04
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