The Duty Roster

The zipper of my jeans pulled shut with a rough, metallic scrape over the freshly locked resin cage. With every step I took toward the desk, the cold plastic chafed unyieldingly against my overstimulated, swollen flesh. Every single nerve in my body still remembered the massive release from just moments ago, yet the suffocating grip of the cage mercilessly cut short any lingering sense of relief.

“Over here. On the floor,” Loona instructed without turning her head.

She was already seated on the swivel chair in front of her laptop, one hand resting loosely on the keyboard, her legs casually crossed. The hem of her skirt rode up a fraction, the black over-the-knees catching the warm glow of the desk lamp with a faint sheen. I sank to my knees beside her chair, resting my forearms against my thighs, my head level with her knees.

On the screen, the interface of a media player flickered. A silent file ending in .mp4, which she had pulled from Emma’s phone via AirDrop only minutes earlier.

“Let’s see what had you so terrified you nearly died of shame,” she said with razor-sharp amusement. Her manicured fingernail struck the spacebar.

The video began playing. No sound, no static—just the fixed, slightly distorted wide-angle perspective of a pet cam that had been sitting on the sideboard among decorative knick-knacks. Right beside the scratching post.

On the screen, the massive dining table in Emma’s house filled the frame. And right in the middle: me. Hunching over the math binders, soaked in sweat, shoulders hunched up to my ears.

“Look at you,” Loona murmured, nudging the toe of her boot lightly against my hip. “Ten days of abstinence, and you’re sitting at that table like an open book. Anyone could spot the panic on your face from ten feet away. Like a beaten dog that knows he’s about to make a mess.”

Then the silent footage showed Emma dragging her chair closer, pressing her leggings flush against my thigh and laying her hand over my knee. My expression on the clip gave everything away: wide eyes, silent desperate pleading, zero resistance.

“And here she comes,” Loona went on mockingly. “Slides her knee between your legs, puts her hands on you—and the big math tutor loses his mind completely. But the best part is yet to come.”

In the video, Emma leaned in. She grabbed me by the collar, pressing her lips against mine—and you could see the exact split second when my whole frame seized up. My pelvis jerked forward, my fingers clawed into the edge of the tabletop, and across the screen, Cleo the cat leapt off the sideboard in pure panic, darting through the shot and rattling the wooden decorations.

“Freeze,” Loona said, tapping the spacebar.

Using two fingers on the trackpad, she pinched to zoom in on my lap. With the image blown up, the dark, wet stain spreading silently and unstoppably across the pale denim of my jeans was on display in excruciating detail.

“Look at that, John,” she whispered, her voice dripping with malicious fascination. She leaned down toward me, her cool breath washing over my burning cheek. “One single kiss. A hand on your pants. And you blow your load in your boxers like an awkward thirteen-year-old, right in the middle of someone else’s living room while the cat runs for its life. That was your big, dark secret?”

I stared at the screen, physically unable to lift my head. The shame burned so hot in my throat that it nearly choked me.

“And look at her,” Loona said, shaking her head as she let the playback resume, pointing a finger at Emma, who stood frozen on screen before doubling over with laughter. “The little princess sets up a pet camera to keep an eye on her cat, catches you having the most humiliating accident of your life by pure chance, and actually convinces herself she’s holding the blackmail leverage of the century.”

Loona let out a dry laugh—a cold, dismissive sound.

“What was she going to do with it? Run to the principal? Present a silent video showing herself groping you against your will while you soil yourself? She broke the law, the little idiot. Violation of intimate privacy, sexual coercion—I would have torn her and her high-flying lawyer parents to shreds in court. But you? You shit your pants, drop to your knees, and let her push you around.”

She snapped the laptop halfway shut with a sharp thud. The display went dark.

Loona swiveled her chair fully toward me, looking down from above, and rested her hand heavily on the crown of my head. Her fingers dug deep into my hair, tilting my chin slightly backward.

“That’s why the file stays right here with me,” she stated with icy clarity. “Not to spread it around. But as a reminder to you. The moment I give you a little leash, you surrender your brain to the first skirt that walks by. You need the collar, John. Without it, you’re completely helpless.”

My jaw clenched silently, a dying ember of pride protesting deep down—yet the undeniable proof of my utter humiliation had just played on loop across her screen.

“Come Monday at school, you’re going to do her homework,” she continued, her fingers easing into a casual, condescending scratch behind my neck. “Let her believe she saved face and gets to boss you around. That keeps her quiet. But…”

She seized my chin, squeezing hard enough to ensure I couldn't evade her dark stare.

“…every text, every chore, every single touch from her gets reported to me first. If she touches you again, I want to know about it before second period. You belong to me, understood?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I forced out hoarsely.

Right then, my phone buzzed twice against the edge of the desk, sharp and demanding.

The screen illuminated. A white WhatsApp banner flashed across the glass:

Emma:

“Monday, first period. The German analysis and the history summary on my desk, finished. Don’t you dare be late.”

Loona glanced down at the notification, then dragged her eyes slowly back to me. A faint, merciless smirk traced the corners of her mouth.

“Well, look at that,” she murmured softly. “Your shift schedule just arrived.”