Dylan Garcia

Two months.

That was how long it had been since I signed my name at the bottom of that contract, one that said I would obey, submit, and never, under any circumstance, fall in love.

And for a while, it worked.

Our arrangement fell into a rhythm, almost terrifyingly smooth. I’d wake up, drag myself through the monotony of spreadsheets and meetings, and trade the same quiet nods with Charles in the hallway. We were professionals by daylight—detached, neutral, forgettable.

At night, everything changed.

If he summoned me, I’d go. His apartment became the place where my pulse lived, where my voice broke into confessions I never meant to give. I’d end up kneeling on his floor, stripped of every mask I used to convince the world I was fine. No strings. No emotions. Just rules, precision, and the soft sound of my own surrender.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, or maybe just on the other side of the thin wall between our apartments, Midnight Daddy continued posting like clockwork.

The ASMR channel that once lulled me to sleep had evolved into something sharper, more deliberate. His late-night uploads had become darker, more intimate. Less comforting whispers, more low commands. Less relaxation, more tension. His voice had grown heavier, slower, carrying a heat that felt too familiar now that I knew where it came from, whose mouth shaped those sounds, whose breath brushed the microphone.

Every new video felt like a ghost version of our nights together, an echo of the man who touched me. And I hated how easily I recognized the shift. How easily I recognized him.

But lately, something had changed.

In me. In him. In the way he looked at me when no one else was watching.

The rules were the same. The contract was the same.

But the silence between us… wasn’t.

It started small. The way his voice softened when I’d flinch. The way he’d always make sure I drank water after, or quietly cleaned the marks he left behind. Once, he’d even cooked for me. I told him it was unnecessary; he told me to shut up and eat. I did.

And now, I caught myself thinking about him at random moments, like this morning, staring at my reflection while tying my tie. Wondering if he’d like the color. Wondering if he’d notice. He always noticed.

Even in meetings, when he’d sit two rows across, I could feel the weight of his gaze. Everyone else saw the calm, composed department head. I saw the man who’d whispered filth into my ear while I trembled under his hand. And when his eyes lingered a second too long, my pulse would betray me.

Butterflies. God help me, actual butterflies.

The first real crack came on a Thursday.

The team was swamped, deadlines closing in, tempers running short. I’d been up half the night finishing a monster report, and by the time I stumbled into the office, I was running on caffeine and fumes. Charles noticed. Of course he did.

I was fumbling with my keyboard when the internal chat blinked

Charles: My office. Now.

My stomach dropped, but I moved quickly. When I entered, he was standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the city. The posture was pure command.

“Close the door, Garcia.”

I obeyed, the thunk of the latch sounding loud and final.

“You look like hell,” he said, not turning.

“Thanks for the reminder, boss,” I said, trying to inject some professionalism into my tired retort.

He finally turned. His brow lifted, not in anger, but in a kind of weary assessment. 

“That attitude will get you in trouble. Sit.” He gestured not to the chair across his desk, but to the small, low sofa tucked in the corner.

“Charles, I have four hundred emails—”

“Sit. That’s an order.”

I sat, the weariness instantly battling the submission. “What is this about?”

He walked toward me, stopping just short of my knees, forcing me to tilt my head back. “It’s about your performance. You were sloppy on the Peterson brief. You missed a decimal point.”

My cheeks flushed hot. “I apologize. I’ve been—”

“Overworked. Tired. Yes.” He cut me off, but his voice was low, intimate. “When I ask for your attention, I expect all of it. This isn't just about the work, Dylan. It’s about the standard I hold you to, everywhere.”

He was lecturing me, but his index finger had found the knot of my tie, the one I’d tied this morning, wondering if he’d notice. His fingertip traced the silk, then dipped under my collar, barely touching the sensitive skin of my throat.

The contact was devastating. It was a disciplinary act and an illicit caress all at once.

“Does this level of fatigue mean you’re unable to fulfill your duties tonight?” he murmured, his gaze locking with mine.

The sudden shift to our private language paralyzed me. I could barely whisper, “No, sir.”

“Good. Now, get out. Fix the decimal point. He handed me a small lunchbox wrapped in a navy cloth. I blinked.

“What—”

“Eat it,” he said simply. “Proper food. I made extra.”

“You… cooked this?”

He gave me a look that was both exasperated and faintly embarrassed. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I handed the box back, “You don’t have to take care of me.”

“I know.” His eyes softened. “But I want to.”

Something inside me fluttered, dangerously. I looked down at the food, then back at him, unsure what to say.

He tilted his head. “You’re allowed to accept kindness, you know.”

I let out a quiet breath, a small, reluctant smile tugging at my lips. “You make it sound easy.”

“It is,” he said, a hint of a grin breaking through. “At least when it’s me.”

I shook my head, trying not to let the warmth in my chest show. “Thanks… for this.”

He gave a simple nod. “Anytime.”

Before the moment could stretch any further, I turned and stepped out of his office, my heart still unsteady, the air between us heavier than before.

Later that evening, I got a text from him. I already know the drill.

Charles: Don’t be late.

I didn't question it.

When I arrived at Charles’s place, he was already waiting, barefoot, dressed only in a pair of black slacks. The absence of his usual crisp shirt and tailored composure stole the air from my lungs. The sight stopped me cold. The once composed man from the office, the one who spoke in measured tones and hid behind calm precision; in his place stood someone raw, unguarded, and hungry. His gaze found me immediately, dragging down the length of my body, and I realized how vulnerable I looked in nothing but a loose black robe, skin whispering beneath the thin fabric.

His body was broad but not sculpted. A faint sheen of warmth touched his skin, catching the light with every slow breath. His hair was mussed, strands falling over his forehead like he’d been running his hands through it in frustration or anticipation. And those eyes, those piercing brown eyes, steady and unreadable, that locked on me as if he could see every thought I was trying to bury.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The silence between us was thick, charged, as I stepped farther into his playroom. My pulse stuttered. The air seemed to hum with something unnamed, something dangerous. His gaze followed me, slow and deliberate, and I couldn’t tell if I wanted to flee or to get closer, closer until that silence broke into something neither of us could take back.

“Off.”

The single word landed like a touch. I obeyed, fingers trembling as I untied the knot and slipped the robe from my shoulders, letting it fall soundlessly to the floor. My bare skin met the air, sharp and cool, and I felt the weight of his stare, steady, consuming, as if he could strip away more than just the fabric.

“On your knees,” Charles said, his voice a low command that filled the room.

I obeyed instantly, the carpet rough beneath my skin. The air felt heavy, thick with silence and his presence. I didn’t dare look up.

He let the quiet stretch until it trembled between us. Then, softly, “Eyes on me.”

When I lifted my gaze, his stare pinned me in place. Dark. Controlled. Searching.

“What’s been distracting you, Dylan?”

My throat tightened. “Nothing, sir.”

He raised a brow, almost amused, but the amusement never reached his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“I… I’ve just been tired.”

He stepped forward, the quiet thud of his boots against the floor syncing with the quickening of my heartbeat. His hand caught my chin, forcing me to hold his gaze.

“You don’t get to lie to me,” he murmured, fingers digging just enough to sting. “Something’s pulling you away when I touch you. You flinch, you hesitate. You think.”

“I-I don’t,” I breathed, though even I didn’t believe it.

Charles hummed low in his throat, something between frustration and intrigue. He released my chin only to circle behind me. I could feel his breath near my ear, his presence radiating heat down my spine.

I obeyed, the movement automatic, trained. The faint click of leather cuffs followed sharply in the stillness before the cold buckles kissed my wrists. The scent of leather mixed with his cologne, dark and grounding. My breath caught as he stepped closer, slipping a mask over my eyes. The world went black, and suddenly, sound became everything, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the soft drag of his fingertips along my arm, the whisper of the floor beneath our feet.

He guided me forward, his hand firm at the small of my back, until the air shifted, the faint creak of a mattress, the warmth of his room surrounding me.

“Ass up,” he murmured, voice low and unyielding.

The command rolled through me like a shiver, and I moved without question, every motion deliberate, every breath trembling on the edge of surrender.

“Now,” he said softly, “tell me what’s clouding your mind.”

“N-nothing, s-sir…”

He exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound of disappointment. “Nothing? Or you just don’t want to tell me.”

The first strike landed across my shoulder blade. A crack of air, a bloom of heat. I gasped but didn’t move.

Another. Then another. Each one a question unspoken.

“What has you so far away from me?” he asked between strikes, his voice steady, calm, terrifyingly patient.

My breathing fractured into shallow bursts. “I-I don’t know.”

“Lie again,” he said, “and I’ll make you feel the distance you’re creating.”

I bit my lip, tears threatening. I didn’t want to say it. Couldn’t. Not when the truth was too close to something forbidden.

He stopped. The silence after the last strike was deafening. Then he leaned close enough that his lips brushed the shell of my ear.

“Dylan,” he whispered. “I can’t control what’s happening to you—but you owe me your honesty. What’s really going on?”

I shook my head, trembling. “I… I don’t think I can, sir.”

His hand cupped the back of my neck, grounding but firm. “Then fucking stay still.”

His hand slid firmly along my spine, settling at the back of my neck, his usual point of control, the place where surrender lived. But tonight, his grip was different. Tighter. Intentional. Searching.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he murmured, voice low but edged with something sharp. “Dylan… what are you hiding from me?”

I tried to steady my breath. “N-nothing, sir.”

His fingers pressed harder, urging my head down, forcing the tension out of my body, or trying to. “Don’t lie. You’ve been somewhere else. Even now.” His thumb brushed the base of my skull. “Tell me the truth.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The words lodged in my throat like a stone.

Charles’s grip tightened further, not cruel, but demanding, and the pressure made my breath hitch. Not from arousal this time. From strain. A real, physical ache.

I tried to shift, to find air, but the cuffs bit into my wrists. My body went rigid.

“Dylan,” he said again, lower, firmer.

I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t breathe right. The pain needled through me, not delicious, not wanted, and something in me flinched. A small, involuntary sound escaped my throat.

Charles froze.

The room went still.

 His hand remained on my neck, but suddenly it wasn’t dominance, it was awareness.

“Dylan…?” he murmured, softer now. His fingers eased, just barely. “Is that—are you—”

I shook my head, instinctively trying to hold it together. “I’m fine, sir. Keep going. I just—”

He cut me off.

“Cheat day.”

The word landed like a slap.

I stilled completely.

He had never said it. Ever.

Not once in all our scenes. Not even when I pushed myself too hard.

My heart tripped as he quickly released my neck, removing the weight, the pressure, the command entirely. His hands hovered, careful, trembling with restraint.

“Dylan,” he breathed, voice no longer the voice of my Dominant but the voice of the man who lived next door, the man who cooked me dinner, the man who saw everything. “You were in pain. Not the kind you choose. I won’t touch you like that.”

“I—I didn’t use my safe word,” I whispered, stunned.

“You didn’t have to.” His hands cradled my shoulders, steady, gentle. “I saw it.”

The blindfold blocked my sight, but I felt him closer, felt the warmth of his breath, the worry threading through it.

I realize the scene didn’t end because I broke a rule, but because he refused to break me.