“Such a good boy,” he’d say. “All dressed up for me.”

My hand works faster, hips jerking against the mattress. I bite the pillow, stifling every needy sound until I can’t anymore, until heat rips through me and I’m shuddering, sticky, and breathless.

For a long moment, all I can do is lie there, panting, staring at the faint glow of the phone on my nightstand.

Then I laugh, soft but shaky. Great. Now I need another glass of water.

I peel myself up, stumble to the kitchen, and gulp down half a glass straight from the tap. My body hums with aftershocks, but my mind’s already spinning. If I don’t write it down, I’ll lose it—the socks, the lap, the way “good boy” felt like a key turning inside me.

I grab the notebook from my desk and scribble half a page of messy notes.Socks. Lap. Praise. Biting fabric.Enough to remember later, enough to shape into one of my stories when I’m feeling brave.

Back in bed, I flop onto my back, notebook abandoned on the nightstand. I wiggle against the sheets, restless, every nerve still buzzing. My bladder nudges a complaint.

I groan at the ceiling. “Great. Now I need to pee.”