Adrian hadn't even shut his laptop before her next message buzzed through. The screen glowed like a promise.
@MoniqueMonroeOfficial: I've been practicing tying my wrists behind my back. Think you'll approve, Daddy?
His cock twitched at the word.
Adrian leaned forward, jaw tight, eyes locked on her message like it owed him a confession.
Natural Dom? Nah. He was born for this.
He cracked his knuckles, then typed slow, like each word was a command etched onto her skin.
"You'll ask to be tied. You'll beg for it. And when you call me Daddy, you better mean it with soaked thighs and shaking legs. Got it?"
The three little dots showed up immediately.
She was waiting for permission to want this bad.
@MoniqueMonroeOfficial: Fuck. You're going to ruin me, aren't you?
He let that sit for a moment. Then dropped the bomb.
"You'll be lucky if you can walk after I'm done."
His phone buzzed again—she was typing fast.
@MoniqueMonroeOfficial: I want you to pull my hair while I whimper. I want to be made to kneel and thank you for every inch.
Adrian didn't even blink.
"Then you'll show up wearing that red lingerie you posted on Insta. No panties. You knock once. Then kneel. You don't speak until I let you."
Her reply came with a selfie—Monique in bed, biting her lip, hand between her thighs. Caption?
@MoniqueMonroeOfficial: I'm soaking. Just from your words. What happens if I touch myself before the stream?
Adrian's reply was instant.
"You'll edge. Nothing more. You don't come unless I say you can. And if you disobey? I'll tie you down so tight, you'll forget what mercy feels like."
The room was silent, but the air? Heavy with sin.
He tossed his robe off, fully hard now, staring at himself in the mirror like a predator about to feast.
This wasn't just content. This was power. This was control.
And Monique? She didn't just want it.
She needed to be broken in.
One knot at a time.
The next message from Monique came with a sleek photo—black lipstick, messy hair, and a choker that said Use Me.
@MoniqueMonroeOfficial: I'll send a car for you tomorrow morning. Be ready, Daddy. I want bruises.
Adrian exhaled through his nose like a man trying to hold back a growl. She wasn't playing.
And neither was he.
He tapped over to his streaming dashboard and cracked his knuckles. Time to fan the flames.
@StrokeDaddy: Posting…
Tomorrow night's stream: A VERY special collab. Let's just say… ropes might be involved. Bring towels. And holy water.
Then he attached a teaser pic. Just a shadowy shot of his hand gripping red silk rope, veins showing, knuckles tight.
The post went viral in under five minutes.
The replies were already a damn crime scene:
___
@CreamGoblin: OH MY GOD WHO IS IT WHO IS IT I'M SCREAMING
@TieMeDaddy: I KNEW YOU WERE A ROPE GUY
@WildeWife420: I will sell my soul for a behind-the-scenes cut
@SlipNSin: Tomorrow? I'm calling in sick to work.
___
Adrian closed his laptop with a little smirk. The couch beneath him was lumpy. His ceiling still dripped mystery fluid. But right now?
He was God with a countdown.
And tomorrow?
He'd finally put a leash on his most willing sinner.
Next Morning
The car came right on time. Sleek. Black. Windows so tinted they looked like sin itself.
Adrian stepped out of his building, hair tied back, collar popped, and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder—inside: ropes, blindfolds, and lube that cost more than his entire microwave setup.
The driver didn't say a word. Just tipped his head and opened the door.
Inside, the seats smelled like vanilla and leather. There was a note on the seat.
"No touching yourself on the way, Daddy. Save it for me." —M.
Adrian chuckled low under his breath.
"Oh, baby," he muttered, "you're the one who's gonna be begging for mercy."
The city rolled by. His fans were counting down. Monique was waiting.
And the ropes?
Already warmed in his hands.