Take Your Clothes Off

I stood there in the quiet of my living room, watching Jewel hold out her hand with that fragile spark of hope in her eyes, and something inside me twisted hard enough to snap. All the years of swiping through endless profiles, all the nights staring at my ceiling wondering why no one ever chose me, came rushing up like bile. She was here, real and warm and completely mine, and the thought hit me with a clarity that felt almost holy: for once, the world had finally tilted in my favor. I let the silence stretch just long enough for her to realize I wasn’t moving toward my phone.

“So you really have to do whatever I say. In that case, take your clothes off. You and I are going to be together for a very long time, so I want to see what I’m working with.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out at first. Then her hand fell to her side, fingers curling into a fist so tight the knuckles blanched. Hope drained from her face and left behind pure, blazing fury.

“You fucking monster—”

“Stop screaming,” I cut in. “I don’t want the neighbors knocking. If you have something to say to me, say it nicely. Quiet and sweet, like a good girl. And from now on, you call me Master.”

Her mouth snapped shut so fast I heard her teeth click. The curse died in her throat, replaced by a sharp inhale through her nose. She glared at me with pure venom, shoulders rigid, fists clenched at her sides like she still wanted to swing. But when the words finally came, they floated out in the softest, most polite murmur I had ever heard from a girl who clearly wanted me dead.

“Yes, Master.”

The contrast hit me like a shot of whiskey straight to the veins. That sweet, obedient lilt wrapped around the same lips that had just called me a monster, and my pulse kicked hard enough that I felt it in my fingertips. She hated me. I could see it burning behind her eyes, but the app had stolen her voice.

“And make it slow,” I added, settling onto the arm of the couch so I had the perfect view. “I want a show."

Her nostrils flared. A single tear slipped free and tracked down her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away. Instead she lifted her chin a fraction, the last scrap of defiance she could still manage, then pinched the hem between shaking fingers and drew the cotton upward in one deliberate, resentful inch at a time. The soft roll of her stomach appeared first, pale and unmarked except for that faint silver stretch mark curling around her navel.

“Stop there,” I said when the shirt was just under her ribs. “How much do you weigh right now, Jewel?”

The question hung between us. Her arms froze, fabric bunched in her fists. “One-seventy-two last week, Master.”

Higher than I expected. The bikini girls I swiped on were probably closer to one-thirty. I let my gaze drag over the gentle swell pushing against the trapped shirt. “You need to lose about forty-two pound. Starting tomorrow you’re in the gym two hours a day. One hour lifting, one hour cardio. No excuses, understand?”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, sweet as wedding cake, while her eyes promised ****.

“Keep going.”

She peeled the hoodie the rest of the way off and let it fall, revealing a plain white cotton bra, nothing fancy, the kind of thing a girl wears when she isn’t expecting company. She reached behind her back, fingers fumbling once with the clasp before it gave. The straps slid down her arms and the bra followed the shirt, landing in a soft heap. Her breasts spilled free, heavier than her filtered photos had ever suggested, pale with faint blue veins under the skin and nipples already drawn tight from the chill or maybe from fury.

“Cup size?” I asked.

“38DD, Master.”

Most of the girls I followed online didn't have tits this big; the lingerie accounts topped out at a full C, maybe a D on the rare days they pushed up and angled just right for the camera. Jewel’s 38DD looked almost obscene in real life, soft and pendulous without the help of a bra. If she could lost forty pounds without her breasts getting any smaller, then she might actually be a better **** than some of the hottest chicks on Instagram. The thought sent a slow, greedy heat curling through my stomach. If the fat left and the cups shrank, on the other hand, that would be disappointing but fine. As long as she got the body of an A-tier slut, it was a trade I would be happy to make, but it did mean there was a time limit on how long I could enjoy certain acts.

“Jewel, have you ever given a tit-job?”

The question landed soft, almost casual, but I saw the fresh wave of humiliation crash over her, but the app forces her to answer. “I’ve given them to my boyfriend.”

I felt my eyebrows climb before I could stop them. “You mean your ex-boyfriend, right?”

Her cheeks flushed a deeper red, and she dropped her gaze to the carpet, shoulders curling inward as if she could fold herself small enough to disappear. “No, Master. My current boyfriend. We’ve been together eleven months. We were supposed to go traveling this weekend. That was the plan you ruined.”

A laugh slipped out of me before I could trap it, low and surprised and a little vicious. I rose from the couch and crossed the short distance between us, the hardwood cool under my bare feet. When I reached her I cupped her chin in my hand, tilting her face up until those wet hazel eyes had nowhere left to hide. I brushed my lips across her cheek, tasting salt from the tears she still refused to wipe away, then let them drift to the shell of her ear.

“I thought I’d have to turn you into my slut,” I whispered, letting the words settle warm against her skin. “Turns out the job’s already half-finished. You’re already a slut, Jewel. I just have to make you mine.”

I closed my teeth on her earlobe, just hard enough for the sting to bloom, and the shudder that rolled through her body told me everything I needed to know. “You’re never going to cheat on me,” I murmured. “From now on I’m the only man you’ll ever fuck.”

“I wasn’t cheating on Mike,” she said, the protest soft and **** and perfectly sweet because the app wouldn’t let it be anything else. “I never did anything with the guys I matched with. I didn’t even text them. I never looked at the profiles before I swiped right. I just wanted to see how many matches I could get.”

Her words sliced straight through the haze of triumph and landed somewhere raw and ugly in my chest. All those nights I had lain awake counting the minutes between sending a message and watching it rot in the void, every careful opener I had typed and deleted and retyped, every time I had stared at a match who never bothered to glance at my face before swiping past; it all surged back at once. She had never even looked. She had never cared who waited on the other side of the screen. I was just another faceless number in her little game, another pixel to boost her ego while I begged for scraps.

My hand moved before my brain caught up. The slap cracked across her cheek with a sound too sharp for the quiet room, and the **** sent her stumbling sideways. She hit the floor hard on one hip, a startled cry escaping despite the app’s leash on her voice. For a single frozen second the only noise was her ragged breathing and the soft rustle of her bare skin against the rug.

I stared down at my own palm like it belonged to someone else. The sting lingered in my fingers, bright and accusing. I had never hit a woman before, not once in my life, and the realization settled cold and heavy in my gut. Jewel lay curled on her side, one hand pressed to the red bloom spreading across her cheek, eyes wide and glassy with shock. Tears spilled faster now, cutting clean tracks through the faint smudges of yesterday’s makeup, but she didn’t make a sound beyond the shaky inhale that trembled through her whole body.

Something inside me wavered. The rush that had carried me this far suddenly felt thin and brittle, like ice ready to crack. She looked small there on the floor, smaller than she had seemed when she was spitting venom at my door, and the sight twisted something I didn’t want to name. I opened my mouth to say I was sorry, or maybe to tell her to get up, or maybe to order her to forget it ever happened; the words tangled on my tongue and refused to come out.

She watched me through the blur of tears, waiting, chest rising and falling too fast. The mark on her cheek darkened with every heartbeat, and the silence between us stretched so tight I could almost hear it hum. I could still taste the salt of her skin on my lips from moments ago, could still feel the heat of her body under my hands, and part of me wanted to kneel beside her and promise this would never happen again. Another part, darker and louder, whispered that she had earned it, that she deserved whatever came next for every ignored message and every careless swipe.

My shadow fell across her face as I took one slow step closer, close enough that she had to crane her neck to keep my eyes in view. She was helpless before me, completely unable to defend herself. I could do whatever I wanted to her, so it was up to me to decide what I wanted to do to her and how I was going to treat her. And I choose...