Chapter 8: The Morning After

Dylan’s Garcia

The first thing I noticed was the ache.

My body hummed with soreness, my ass still tingled with every shift, thighs stiff from kneeling so long, my throat raw from begging. But what I couldn’t shake was the weight of it all. The memory of Charles’s voice commanding me, the sting of his palm, the humiliating way I’d cried in front of strangers. And yet… the blanket he wrapped me in, the way he whispered my real name afterward.

That contrast clung to me like a second skin. I pushed myself upright, the sheets cool against my bare legs. The faint clatter of something metallic reached my ears, a rhythm that didn’t belong to the silence of his bedroom. Curious, I padded carefully down the hall, every step reminding me of last night.

The scent hit me first, eggs, butter, the faint sizzle of something frying. Charles stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a pan in one hand, a spatula in the other. The sight startled me more than anything else he had done. He moved with calm precision, flipping eggs with the same control he had over me last night.

He glanced up as if he’d known I was standing there all along. 

“You’re awake.” His voice was calm, clipped, but not unkind.

“I… yeah.” My throat was still raw, the word rasping.

“Sit.” He gestured with the spatula toward the small table by the window. “You’ll eat.”

I hesitated, unsure if this was another order or an invitation, but my body obeyed before my mind could catch up. The chair was cool beneath me, grounding.

Moments later, he set a plate in front of me—scrambled eggs, toast, and a few slices of fruit. Simple, but warm. 

I blinked down at it. “You… cooked for me?”

“Of course I did.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “You won’t last long if I break you and don’t feed you afterward.”

It was said so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. My lips twitched, part of me unsure if I wanted to laugh or cry. I picked up the fork, hands still trembling slightly, and took a tentative bite. The eggs were soft, buttery, perfect. Somehow, that made everything even more surreal, that the same man who had spanked me raw in front of thousands could also stand here and cook me breakfast like it was nothing.

His eyes lingered on me as I ate, unreadable but intent. “Finish it,” he said quietly. “You’ll need your strength for next time.”

Next time. The words sent a shiver racing down my spine. I nodded, chewing slowly, letting the warmth of the food settle in me.

The office was the same as always: sterile fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead, the low hum of computers, the stale scent of burnt coffee wafting from the communal pot no one ever bothered to clean. A half-dead plant drooped sadly by the copier, its leaves brown at the edges. The carpet was worn thin in places where chair wheels had carved invisible tracks into the fabric.

I typed reports, answered emails, and listened to the rhythmic clicking of keyboards around me. The monotony was suffocating. But I wasn’t the same.

I caught myself zoning out, fingers hovering uselessly over the keys as a phantom echo of Charles’s voice slid down my spine like silk and steel. Good boy. Just the memory made my pulse skip, heat flooding my face. A sharp thwack startled me. A file landed on my desk.

“...lan. Hello? Earth to Dylan?” 

My coworker Marcus leaned on the cubicle wall, grinning at my startled expression. “You good, man? You’ve been staring at that spreadsheet like it owes you money.”

“Y-yeah,” I stammered, fumbling to realign the file and force my hands to steady on the keyboard. “Just… tired.”

He smirked, arms crossed. “You always are. Maybe you should try sleeping before two a.m. for once. Or lay off the gamer streams.”

If only he knew. If only he had the faintest clue what kind of ‘stream’ had kept me up all night.

I gave a weak laugh, the kind that didn’t reach my eyes. “Yeah. I’ll… try that.”

Marcus shrugged and walked off, already cracking a joke with someone at the next desk. I exhaled slowly, shoulders sinking, grateful the attention had moved elsewhere.

The hours dragged. The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual, each second a reminder that my body still remembered every touch, every command. My throat tightened every time I shifted in my chair, the soreness blooming in my muscles like an unspoken confession.

At lunch, I sat alone in the breakroom. The vending machine hummed in the corner, fluorescent lights flickering above like they might give out any second. A few coworkers clustered around the table by the window, gossiping about the latest client disaster. Someone reheated fish in the microwave, the smell clinging stubbornly to the air.

I poked at a sandwich I didn’t want, scrolling aimlessly on my phone. My feed was the usual mess of memes, office gossip threads, and muted group chats I never had the energy to keep up with.

Then I saw it. A single notification blinking at me like a siren call:

Midnight Daddy has uploaded a new clip. My thumb hovered. My chest tightened.

Of course he had. He didn’t slow down just because I was reeling from last night. To the world, he was untouchable, smooth, commanding, their favorite dom with a velvet growl and iron control. To me… he was Charles. My neighbor. My Master. The man who now knew how weak I really was.

The urge to click burned in me, but my fingers trembled. What if the clip was from last night? What if thousands of strangers had already seen me ruined, exposed, begging? The thought made my stomach flip with equal parts dread and twisted exhilaration.

I locked my phone with a sharp tap, shoved it face down on the table, and buried my head in my hands.

The sound of laughter bubbled from the corner table, my coworkers oblivious. They lived in a world of deadlines, promotions, and weekend plans. Meanwhile, my world had narrowed to one man, one voice, one dangerous promise that kept me teetering between terror and craving. 

Back at my apartment, the silence pressed heavily. I cooked instant ramen, the cheap kind, and slurped it standing at the counter. I tried watching TV, but I didn’t even know half of what I was watching. I opened a book, but the words blurred. Everything felt flat, colorless, compared to the neon rush of being on my knees in Charles’s apartment.

It scared me how fast the ordinary had lost its hold. I went to the mirror. My reflection stared back: the same neat hair, glasses slightly crooked, a button-up shirt tucked too tightly. No one would ever guess. But I could still see the faint redness on my skin where Charles had marked me.

I touched it, shivering.

Luna.

The name echoed in my skull, foreign and intimate. I’d never felt more seen and more hidden at the same time.

Sleep didn’t come easily anymore. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him, Charles, not just as my neighbor, but as Midnight Daddy. His hand on my throat, his warmth in aftercare, and yet his cold warning still lingers on my mind, ‘Don’t fall for me.’

I rolled over, clutching the pillow tighter, whispering to myself, “It’s just pleasure. Nothing more.”

But my body betrayed me, hard and aching under the sheets, desperate for him, for the sting, for the praise. Suddenly, my phone lit up with a new message at 10:30 p.m., and my heart nearly stopped when I saw who it was.

Charles: 11. My place. Don’t be late.