Page 1 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
One
OREN
The first thing I see is his message.
Keane: Did you drink your water?
Not “Hey.” Not “How’s your night?” Keane gets straight to the point, as if he already knows the answer and wants to hold me accountable.
I’m sprawled across my couch in socks that don’t match, with half a bag of stale pretzels on my stomach, and somehow that one line makes me sit up straighter. His attention makes me want to try.
The glass of water on my coffee table has gone lukewarm, but I down half of it before snapping a photo. My pulse is ridiculous, thumping in my throat as if I’m sending him something dirty instead of proof I hydrated.
Done.
Three dots appear while I hold my breath.
Keane: Good boy.
The words ignite sparks against dry kindling. I grin before I can stop myself, heat crawling up my neck. God, it’s pathetic how much I crave that little pat on the head. He hardly knows me beyond a quiet username in a forum full of louder voices. But he remembers me. He notices me. And that feels dangerously good.
Another message pings.
Keane: Ten minutes, phone down. I want you in bed. Report back with tomorrow’s sock choice.
A laugh bubbles out of me, half nerves, half thrill. Sock choice. As if I’m five. My socks don’t matter to anyone but me—a small fashion choice that’s become an outlet for my Little side. When I see them peeking out over my sneakers, I smile. I feel validated.
Kicking off the pretzels, I flop onto my bed and wiggle my toes as if the right pair of socks could decide my entire future. Yellow ducks, or the striped ones that slip down my ankles? I bite my lip, savoring the ridiculous excitement buzzing in my chest.
Yellow ducks.
Keane: Perfect. Sleep well, kiddo.
My chest squeezes so hard I have to bury my face in the pillow. It’s nothing, just words on a screen. I tell myself that every night. But when Keane saysgood boy, it feels like more.
I should put the phone down, as he said. I should close my eyes, be good, and follow the rules. Instead, I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the words replaying in my head.
Good boy. Kiddo. Perfect.
Heat pools low in my stomach. My toes curl against the sheets, the imaginary weight of the duck socks heavy on my ankles. I picture someone like me, not-me-but-maybe, padding into a bedroom with soft socks pulled all the way up, a shy smile in place. Waiting.
“Show me,” his Daddy would say, and the boy would stick out his foot, wiggling it in the air. “Good choice.” A kiss pressed against the ankle. Maybe teeth scraping lightly over the fabric.
My pulse races. I squeeze my thighs together, embarrassed at how hard I’m getting just from a picture in my head.Socks, for Christ’s sake.
But it’s not really about that. It’s about being seen. Being noticed. The approval. The boy in my head offers himself up—clumsy, desperate, wanting to please—and Daddy always says yes.
Rolling onto my stomach, I shove my face into the pillow, trying to muffle the little sound that slips out. I tell myself I won’t touch, that I’ll be good, but my hand betrays me, sliding lower, cupping, stroking once.
Good boy.
His words echo through me, a command I can’t ignore, and I bite my lip hard enough to sting. Tomorrow, I’ll laugh it off. Pretend it’s just a game, just a harmless online arrangement.
Tonight, though? I let myself believe it’s real. That I have a Daddy named Keane.
The image sharpens in my head: a boy like me, laid out across his Daddy’s lap, socks still on, legs kicked just slightly apart. Maybe they’re knee-high, slutty-looking things that matchhis undies. Daddy’s hand slides slowly up the back of his calf, tugging the fabric higher.
