Regret sinks in

I ease her back gently, her lips parting from me with a soft, wet pop that echoes in the quiet living room. Her blue eyes search mine, confusion flickering beneath the devotion, her hand still hovering near my thigh as if afraid to drop the connection entirely. "Wait," I say, my voice rougher than I intend, thicker with the frustration coiling in my chest. She freezes, obedient as always, her bare breasts rising and falling with quick breaths, nipples peaked from the interrupted arousal.

I tuck myself back into my pants, zipping up slowly to buy a moment, the denial sharpening the haze in my head. Her presence feels heavier now, not a balm but a mirror reflecting choices I can't unmake. "Tell me about your day," I murmur, pulling her up to sit beside me instead, her warmth curling against my side like a habit I both crave and resent. She blinks, the question catching her off guard; in her world of commands and cravings, small talk rarely surfaces.

"My shift?" she echoes softly, adjusting her bra but leaving it unclasped, as if any barrier between us might displease. Her fingers twist in her lap, the jeans still damp at the seam, a testament to the day's built hunger. "It was... busy. Morning rush hit hard after my run, customers yelling for lattes like they owned the place." A faint smile tugs at her lips, real rather than woven, her voice warming as memory pulls her in. "This one guy tipped extra because I remembered his order, double espresso, no foam. Felt good, you know? Normal."

Normal. The word lands like a stone in my gut, stirring the unease I've been shoving down since the app's glow first lit my phone. I watch her talk, the way her hands gesture animatedly, freckles dancing on her cheeks as color returns. Before this, before the weaves and the claims, she had days like that on her own terms, stolen moments of pride amid the grind, not just orbiting my whims. Now every craving circles back to me, her autonomy stripped thread by thread, rewoven into something unbreakable. Eternal ****. The term tastes bitter on my tongue, even unspoken; what right did I have to sculpt her like clay, to dim that independent spark until all she craves is my approval?

Guilt surges, hot and unwelcome, twisting up with the lingering ache for Elena. Elena, who chats about hikes and failed dates without a single influence prompt, her laughs unbidden and her touches chosen. Real. No app humming between us, no ledger tracking devotion points. With Sarah, I hold every string, but pulling them now feels less like power and more like theft, stealing her voice, her choices, wrapping them in silk bonds that **** what made her hers. Did she ever resent the barista rush before, or does the weave color even that, turning every irritation into prelude to my return?

"Sounds like you handled it well," I say, forcing a nod, my arm draping over her shoulders to ground us both. But doubt creeps in deeper, a quiet erosion. What if the app's rush blinds me, turns conquest into cruelty? Elena slipped away tonight because I tried chasing truth without it, and it shattered, vivid, raw. Sarah nestles closer, her head on my shoulder, but her earlier worry lingers in the air, unspoken. I could command her forget this falter, weave the pleasure seamless again, but the thought sours. Instead, my mind races ahead: to Elena's text still unsent, to tomorrow's possibilities without the crutch. For the first time, the power feels less like a gift and more like a chain of my own making, binding not just them, but me too.