Dylan Garcia

The alarm buzzed at exactly 6:00 AM. My hand moved on instinct, slapping it silently. Another day. Another spreadsheet. Another eight hours of pretending I cared about margins and metrics. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the chill of the morning air biting at my ankles. My apartment was neat. Sterile. Nothing like me, not really. It was the shell I wore in the daytime; unassuming, forgettable, perfectly ordinary. A dull gray cubicle of a life both inside and out.

I brushed my teeth, drank half a cup of shitty office-grade coffee, and ate a slice of bread that was already stale. Showered too long because the hot water was the closest thing I got to intimacy. Threw on my wrinkle-free shirt, adjusted my ID lanyard, and stepped into another identical day.

At the office, people barely noticed me, which suited me just fine. I wasn’t here to make friends, join birthday potlucks, or engage in water cooler debates about reality TV. I kept my head down, answered emails, and filled out invoices that no one cared about. To them, I was background noise. Antisocial. Maybe even robotic. Honestly? I didn’t mind the label.

“Dylan!” Maria’s chirpy voice cut through the monotony. She perched on the edge of my desk like she owned it, coffee cup in hand. “How was your weekend?”

She was the type who made it her mission to know everything about everyone, from what they ate for breakfast to who they were secretly dating.

I glanced up from my monitor, forcing a polite half-smile. “Oh, you know. The usual. Stayed home, watched a series or two.”

Her eyebrows shot up, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Really? Do you do anything else besides going to work and going home? You should try exploring outside, Dylan. A hike, maybe? Fresh air, trees, sunlight. It won’t kill you.”

I leaned back in my chair, deadpan. “I’d rather watch a three-hour documentary about hiking than actually do it.”

Maria let out a loud laugh loud enough for two nearby coworkers to look over. “You’re no fun! One day, I’m going to drag you out, whether you like it or not. Mark my words.”

“Duly noted,” I replied, returning to my screen.

By lunchtime, the office buzz had emptied into the cafeteria. I stayed behind, unwrapping a slightly squashed sandwich at my desk. The hum of the printer was my only company, and I was fine with that.
After eating, I did what I usually did, I took a slow walk down the quieter hallways of the building. Not to socialize, but to clear my head. I passed the break room where a couple of interns were laughing at something on someone’s phone, their voices spilling out into the corridor. One of them noticed me and quickly lowered her voice, like I was some kind of supervisor about to dock her pay. I pretended not to notice and kept moving.

The windows on the east side overlooked the city. I lingered there for a few minutes, sandwich wrapper crumpled in my pocket, watching traffic crawl like ants below. A few people from marketing walked past me, their conversation loud and animated about Friday’s party.

“Dylan, you coming to Sarah’s?” one of them asked casually as they passed.

“Maybe,” I replied without looking away from the glass. I knew my tone made it obvious that ‘maybe’ meant ‘no.’

Eventually, I went back to my desk, where I spent the rest of the afternoon typing reports, highlighting numbers, and pretending I didn’t hear the bursts of laughter from the far cubicles. The hours dragged in that dull, familiar way until I finally glanced at the clock and saw it creeping toward six.

“Heading out already, Dylan?” Maria called again later, her lips curved in that knowing smile as she spotted me sliding my laptop into my bag—5:58 p.m., 2 minutes before my clock-out.

“Same as every day,” I said, zipping the bag with practiced precision.

Before Maria could tease me further, Liam, one of the newer hires from accounting, wandered over, juggling a stack of neon-colored flyers. His tie was crooked, and his grin was too easy, too open. The exact opposite of me.

“Hey, Dylan,” he said, stepping closer. “Before you vanish into thin air, there’s a little get-together at Sarah’s place this Friday. Nothing crazy, food, music, just people hanging out. You should come.”

He offered me one of the flyers. I took it, staring at the cartoon sun wearing oversized sunglasses. ‘Sarah’s Sumer Kick-Off!’ was splashed across the top in cheerful lettering.

I imagined the noise, the awkward small talk, the pressure to laugh at jokes that weren’t funny. The thought alone felt more exhausting than back-to-back double shifts.

“That’s really nice of you, Liam,” I said finally, holding the flyer out to him again. “But I’m afraid I already have plans for Friday. Something… unavoidable.” My smile was thin, rehearsed, the kind I’d perfected for moments exactly like this.

Liam tilted his head, searching my face like he wasn’t sure if I was serious or just dodging. Then, with an easy shrug, he accepted the flyer back. “No worries, man. Another time maybe.”

“Definitely,” I lied smoothly, turning back to my bag.

Behind me, Maria muttered under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear, “Mister Mystery strikes again.”

I ignored her.

If they only knew why I declined. 

The moment I got home, I peeled off my work skin and became someone else. Someone who has been hiding all morning. I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door, kicked off my shoes, and headed straight to the shower. Not because I was dirty, but because he demanded it. Clean body. Clean sheets. Clear sound.

At exactly 11:45 PM, I lay in bed, the lights dimmed, the curtains drawn, and my laptop resting beside me on the pillow like a lover. My heart thudded with anticipation as I opened the pornsite ‘Xhub’ and typed in the channel.

I still remember the first time I stumbled on it. I hadn’t even been looking for anything kinky that night, just mindless scrolling through endless thumbnails of moaning strangers. Then I paused. A dark, grainy thumbnail, unlike the polished ones. Just a man, sitting on the edge of a bed, his head tilted slightly down, voiceover promising ‘Personal Attention.’ Something about the simplicity hooked me. And when I clicked play… God. That was the first time I heard him. That was the first time I met him, how I met Midnight Daddy. Now, every night was a ritual. My secret that I will forever keep. 

After entering his channel, I instantly smiled when I saw something that I’ve been patiently waiting for all night. A new video.

“Midnight Daddy – Personal Attention for My Good Boy (NSFW)”

Duration: 34 minutes, 12 seconds.

I slid my AirPods on and pressed play. That voice. God, that voice.

“Hello there, sweetheart…” it began, low and gravelly, like a dark lullaby soaked in heat.

My breath hitched. My thighs clenched. I wasn’t even touching myself yet, but I was already painfully hard beneath the thin fabric of my pajama pants.

“I know you’ve had a long day. You’ve been good for me, haven’t you?” Yes, my mind whispered. So fucking good.

I whispered back, “Yes, Daddy.”

The camera shifted briefly, showing him. Midnight Daddy never revealed his face, but he didn’t need to. Black polo shirt stretched across broad shoulders, the top buttons undone to tease at his tatted chest. A black face mask hid most of his features, but his mouth, lips tugging faintly in a smirk, peeked from beneath. His sleeves were folded halfway up his arms, casual yet deliberate, exposing his tattoos across his left forearm. A tattoo of jagged lines and roses, bold against his tan skin.

I bit my lip, whispering to myself, “Fuck, he’s perfect.”

On-screen, his gloved fingers drummed idly against his thigh, casual dominance. The kind of detail only his loyal viewers would notice. He wasn’t just speaking to us. He was commanding us, even in stillness.

“I want you to relax. Lie back. That’s it. Be still for me, baby. Let Daddy take care of you tonight…”

My hand slipped beneath the waistband of my pants, wrapping around my cock already twitching with need. The rough glide of my palm made me gasp. But I didn’t rush. No, this was a performance, and I knew my role well. His voice was a blanket and a whip all at once. Gentle and commanding.

“Now, I want you to picture it. You’re on your knees for me, mouth open, dripping, desperate. Can you feel it, sweetheart?”

I could. I did. I whimpered, jerking myself slowly as I imagined his hands in my hair, forcing me deeper, using me.

“You’re such a filthy little thing, aren’t you? Daddy’s dirty boy.”

“F-fuck,” I gasped, my back arching off the bed.

He then slipped out his godly big cock—thick, veined, heavy, the kind of cock that demanded worship. His massive eight-inch cobra pulsed in his grip, the head flushed and glistening. My mouth watered at the sight, an ache blooming low in my stomach. I wanted to taste it, choke on it, feel it split me open.

“You like what you see?” he teased, stroking his shaft with deliberate, unhurried movements. The sound of skin on skin filled my headphones, each slick stroke tightening the coil inside me.

“Yes, Daddy… I want it so bad,” I moaned, my voice embarrassingly needy. It was almost too easy to forget he couldn’t hear me, that this was a recording. But that was the magic of him.

This wasn’t just fantasy. This was a ritual. Midnight Daddy’s voice was carved into my nights like scripture. Every moan he fed me through the mic, every ragged inhale, every pause calculated to stretch me to breaking. His rumbling chuckle, his whispered filth, his humiliating praise, it unraveled me piece by piece until there was nothing left but want.

My hand moved faster now, stroking in rhythm with his pace on-screen. My hips lifted off the bed as if chasing him, desperate for friction that wasn’t there. I could almost feel him—his mouth ghosting over my neck, teeth grazing, belt buckle unfastening with a metallic click that made my whole body tighten. His voice filled my head like it was spoken against my ear.

“You wanna be Daddy’s cumslut, don’t you?” he growled.

“Y-yes… please,” I moaned, too loud, too raw. My free hand clawed at the sheets, anchoring me as I teetered on the edge. My thighs trembled, my breath stuttered.

“Then come for me. Right now. Be a good little slut and make a mess for Daddy.”

The command shattered me. My release tore through me violently, a guttural cry breaking from my lips as my cum spilled hot across my stomach, my fist, even dripping onto the sheets. On screen, Daddy groaned low and deep, his cum darkening the fabric of his pants. It was obscene. Perfect.

My muscles twitched with aftershocks, body buzzing, nerves lit like live wires. Slowly, the video faded into silence, only the faint sound of Daddy’s breath lingering like smoke. I lay there, gasping, chest heaving, sweat cooling on my skin. My soul felt emptied and filled at once. I grabbed tissues from the nightstand, cleaned the sticky mess from my stomach and hand, and rolled onto my side, heart still slamming against my ribs.

Without hesitation, I clicked the tip icon below the video. My ritual wasn’t complete until I gave back.

1,000 coins ($500). From MidnightMoonlight107

A smile curved my lips as I typed the message.

For you, Daddy. Thank you.

Then I pulled up the next livestream schedule. Tomorrow night. 12:00 AM. 

‘Taking You Further – Interactive Dom Session (NSFW)’

My heart did a slow, hungry flip. I craved these moments, these late-night pulses of pleasure where I didn’t have to pretend I wasn’t aching to be owned, to be his. Midnight Daddy was more than a voice. He was everything I wanted.

I stared at the screen, my eyes lingering on the blurred photo in his profile, broad shoulders, lips half-hidden by a mic, the dark shadow of stubble along his jaw. Always half-masked. Always just out of reach.

But one day, I swore I’d find out who he really was.

And when I did?

I’d drop to my knees and let him ruin me.