The morning light feels different now. It no longer wakes me with indifference. It wakes me with the expectation of him, of Vinmas, of the strange world he has built around me, even when he is far away. I open my eyes and reach for my phone, the first instinct of the day. A single message greets me:
"Morning. Think of me while you dress."
I inhale slowly, feeling the familiar flush creep across my skin. Dressing is no longer a mundane task. It is deliberate, ritualized, obedience woven into each movement. I reach for a blouse he has selected for me, soft and flowing, chosen to accentuate curves I have learned to present for him. I pull it over my head and feel the fabric settle, the weight of his attention settling with it.
The skirt follows, neat and precise, the hem brushing just above my knees. I catch my reflection and pause. It is not vanity that keeps me looking, it is assessment. Am I exactly as he would want? Am I poised, aware, present? I straighten, breathe, adjust.
"I am ready," I type.
Dots appear almost immediately. "Good. Breakfast. Slow. Mindful. Remember, every bite reflects your obedience."
I move to the kitchen, measuring and arranging, pouring juice into a glass, slicing fruit carefully. Even eating becomes a ritual, a test of attention, of awareness, of my desire to follow him in every detail. I chew slowly, savoring not only the food but the awareness that he is observing me through these instructions, that my care reflects his ownership.
The city beyond my window is loud, chaotic, but it feels distant. I am enclosed in a private reality, one defined entirely by him. Each task I complete, each motion I make, is an act of devotion, a thread that connects me to his presence. Even when I am alone, I am never truly alone. He occupies every corner of my mind.
A second message arrives. "After breakfast, kneel. Reflect on last weekend."
I obey without hesitation, kneeling on the floor with my back straight, hands resting lightly on my thighs. Memory floods me again, the weekend in Alberton, the club with its dim lights and pulsing music. I relive each moment, the way he guided me, corrected me, claimed me, the thrill of surrendering entirely while the world observed and ignored. The tension between public exposure and private obedience is intoxicating. I shiver at the recollection, a delicious ache of devotion and desire.
I close my eyes and breathe, letting myself sink deeper into the memory. Every whisper, every brush of his hand, every glance, every command, reminds me that I am his. My body responds instinctively to the recollection, muscles tightening, breath catching, heart racing. And yet, in this intense awareness, there is peace, comfort, and the fierce joy of belonging.
Another message interrupts my reflection. "Dress for me again. Nothing casual. Every fold, every line, must please me."
I rise and move to the wardrobe. The selection is deliberate. I choose a dress that hugs my waist, flows elegantly, one I have learned he favors. The fabric slides against my skin, soft and familiar, a tactile reminder of his attention. I adjust it, turn in front of the mirror, and assess each angle, each line, each fold.
"I am ready," I type.
"Good. Walk around. Feel the fabric, the weight of your presence. Remember how you move when I watch," he replies.
I pace slowly through my apartment, each step measured, deliberate. Every sway of my hips, every subtle shift of my shoulders, is infused with the memory of his gaze, his expectation, the invisible tether that binds me. Even alone, I practice for him, for his approval, for the thrill of surrendering completely to the world he has constructed for me.
Hours pass, each one marked by tasks, rituals, messages. Laundry folded with precision, notes written to remind myself of lessons, stretches performed exactly as he taught me to maintain posture and control. Each act is mundane and extraordinary at once, ordinary actions transformed into acts of obedience, devotion, and reflection.
In the quiet moments, I replay our past adventures. The way he guided me, corrected me, praised me, claimed me. The way he never rushed, never forced, never questioned my willingness, yet demanded everything I had to offer. The memory is an ache and a comfort, a fire and a balm, a reminder of how far I have fallen into this strange world and how willingly I have done so.
Midday brings another message. "Sit. Remember the first time you surrendered completely. Describe it to me."
I sink to the floor, knees bent, hands resting on my thighs again. Memory floods me, vivid and relentless. The first weekend in Alberton, the taxi ride, the club, the quiet hotel room afterward. The shiver of anticipation, the careful attention to his instructions, the thrill of giving myself entirely without question. I write my description, aware that each word is an offering, each sentence an act of devotion, each thought a testament to how deeply I belong.
When I finish, the reply comes: "Good. You remember well. That memory is yours to carry. It is a tether, a guide, a proof of your obedience. Keep it alive."
I feel a swell of pride, a shiver of need, and a pulse of satisfaction. Even miles apart, even through a screen, he commands me. He owns me. He shapes me. He sustains me.
The afternoon drifts into evening. I move through small rituals, exercises of control he has taught me, each one reinforcing his presence in my life. I stand in front of the mirror, knees bent, hands on thighs, repeating phrases of obedience under my breath, adjusting my posture, observing the subtle shifts in my expression, my stance, my form. I feel the invisible tether tighten, drawing me closer to him even as I remain physically alone.
A final message arrives as night falls. "Tomorrow, you will challenge yourself further. Be ready. Think of nothing else but how to please me, to obey me, to surrender to me completely."
I smile, a shiver running through me. I know he will test me, push me, stretch the boundaries of my obedience and devotion. I welcome it. I crave it. I long for it. For this is the strange new world he has created for me, and I am falling deeper every day. I am consumed. I am his.
I settle into bed, still thinking of him, still feeling the pull of his presence, still surrendering to the invisible threads that tie me to him across distance, memory, and ritual. Sleep does not come easily. My mind replays every memory, every lesson, every word, every touch. And I know that tomorrow, and every day after, I will continue to fall, deeper and deeper, into the world he has made for me, a world that is strange, consuming, and entirely mine because it is entirely his.
I close my eyes, whispering my affirmation in the quiet of my room, in the dim light of the city beyond my window: "I am his. I am falling. I am always his."
And I mean it.