She leaves

"You're disgusting!" Aalia says, before she turns to run away. You lick your lips at her athletic little butt jiggling with every step.

It takes all your self-control to remain in your chair. You're reasonably certain you wrote the rules down specifically enough. She'll have to come back to you, soon, and when she does, she'll have **** but to submit.

In the meantime, you fix the house.

Organization: Me.

Old rule: The house was built the way I wanted it.

Suddenly, you're sitting in a large leather recliner, one of sixteen, facing a wall-to-wall projection screen.

You walk through the house in mild shock. Each room is themed and decorated in ways you wouldn't have chosen for yourself, and then it hits you. You hired a decorator. Her name is Veronica. In any case, it's much better than the white asylum your ex had built.

You open the stainless steel refrigerator and see neatly packaged and organized containers of pre-cooked meals. You take one out and notice a white label. "Dinner, rest day, 3 mins, full power, no lid," is written in Sharpie.

You pop it in the microwave and sit down to a boring meal of vegetables and lightly seasoned chicken. Unsatisfied, you add a rule.

Old rule: I like healthy foods.

Now, you lick your lips, wishing there was more to eat. This could get dangerous, you think. If you can simply rewrite your own personality traits, pretty soon you may no longer be yourself. Time to set up a fail-safe.

Organization: All reality

New rule: rules cannot be written to change who people are, at their core.

You're not exactly sure what the repercussions of that might be, but if you need to refine it, you have an eraser. For now, at least, you feel safer.

The door bell rings. At just after 10:00pm, there is only one person that could be.

Aalia stands on your porch, laptop in her hands, wearing exactly what she was wearing a few hours ago. With one exception, her wavy hair now lays freely on her shoulders.

"You buy these tickets," she says, showing you a web page that she's already brought up on screen, "and you can have one night with me."

You pretend to consider the offer. Then counter. "I'll buy those tickets after you prove to me you're willing to be my ****. And not for one night. Until your parents are back in the States."

"B-but, those flights don't come in for five days."

You shrug, you feel like you've been doing a lot of shrugging lately. "Without me, they won't come back at all."

Aalia lifts her chin defiantly. "Fine." Then uncertainty breaks her defiant tone. "What do you mean by '****'?"

"I mean, you can't say no, to anything I tell you to do."

A long pause.

"Fine," she says again, although it's barely even a whisper. "What do I have to do to prove myself?"

"Take all of your clothes off, right there, on my porch," you say, pointing at her feet.

Aalia looks around. At the house to the right, at her own, to the left. Finally, she makes a decision and puts her laptop on the ground.

She takes her shoes and socks off first. She has pretty feet. Small, with toenails painted pale pink. The yoga pants go next, revealing a simple black thong. She folds them and lays them next to her shoes, probably stalling for time. Her tank top joins the pile, showing off her toned brown stomach.

Her cheeks, despite her naturally dark skin, are somehow red. She hesitates at her bra, then pushes her panties down instead. Her pussy is shaved smooth. You don't try to hide your lingering stare. Finally, her bra lies at her feet. Her hands want to cover her breasts, but she balls her fists and holds them at her sides, chin held high and defiant.

You can see why the young woman might be embarrassed of her breasts. They're small, plainly put. Almost flat. Though large brown nipples harden in the chill evening air.

She stares at you with angry eyes, jaw working nervously.

You nod, "Come in."

She kneels to pick up her pile of clothes, but you stop her. "Leave 'em. You won't be wearing much this week."

You hear a whistle of air as she inhales with frustration. Then she straightens her back and steps through your door, small bare feet padding on the now-wooden planks.