Ctrl Sub Delete -

Chapter 1

Right. Let's get this out of the way, I fix printers for a living. And computers. And occasionally people's ability to turn things off and on again. You may call it a virgin, but no. I'm actually an IT technician.

Thirty years old.

South London.

Quiet flat above a vape shop. Smells like blueberry regret most days, but at least I'll never accidentally walk into the wrong building, it's the one that looks like it's permanently on fire.

My life is basically "Ctrl alt delete" with some Tesco meal deals and mild existential dread in between.

I've got a decent routine. Wake up, fix something that isn't broken, get blamed for something that is, and repeat. I spend a worrying amount of time explaining to people that "the wifi being slow" isn't entirely a personal attack. My wardrobe's 90% hoodies, black ones to be precise.

I collect novelty mugs without meaning to. One day I spotted a mug that said "UNT," and the C shaped handle did the rest. Hilarious at the time. Thought it'd be a one off. Now I've got a cupboard full of passive aggressive slogans and mugs shaped like animals, and I think I might need help. I once spent a full Saturday reorganising my cables and called it 'self care'.

Anyway, here's the bit I don't usually talk about.

I like being told what to do.

Not in the passive "yeah, whatever you want, babe" kind of way, but properly. Directly. Like, "sit," and I sit. "Wait," and I wait. Someone calm, in control, and not asking for permission to run the room.

Basically, like the Shih Tzu we had when I was a kid. Only I don't spin in circles before I lie down. Or lick my own bumhole. Often.

Didn't grow up craving it or anything, it just sort of developed. Like hay fever, but emotionally.

I'd catch myself in meetings zoning out when someone gave a firm instruction and realise I was... weirdly into it. Even if it was about server updates.

Dating? Useless. I tried all the apps. Everyone's out here chasing gym lads with six packs or blokes who think shouting over a pint in the local spoons counts as personality. Meanwhile, I'm just a soft lad hoping someone out there knows that being submissive doesn't mean being a doormat. Not traditionally first date material, is it?

One Thursday night, after a long shift and a questionable £2.99 microwave curry, I was sat by the window accidentally hot boxing myself with raspberry haze from downstairs, when I ended up scrolling through a forum. Not just any forum. Submissives, power exchange, emotional obedience, the sometimes scammy type.

It wasn't always sleazy. Sometimes even serious!

Made an account. Chose the name ProperPolitePup96. Somewhat regret that now. Sounds like I'm a Chihuaua with a LinkedIn, but hey, panic decisions are often made in my life.

I didn't post at first. Just watched. Read. Related too hard to every post about surrendering control and trusting someone else to take the wheel.

Feeling envy for those talking about their experiences.

Then one night, fuelled by a monster energy drink, and a playlist called "Playlist #362", I posted this,

"Soft spoken IT lad. Decent listener. House trained. Bit shy. Looking for someone who knows what they want and tells me what I'm doing wrong, in a nice but stern way. No barking. Will bring snacks."

Then I dragged myself to bed full of regret. Standard.

Two days later, I somehow got a reply.

No "hi," no flirty emojis, just...

"Come when called. Wear something decent. No yapping. -- M"

I stared at it for bloody ages.

It didn't feel like flirting. Felt like being given instructions. Clear, direct.

For the first time in years, my brain stopped running in circles. I didn't feel totally pathetic. I felt... oddly ready, and only slightly pathetic.

Still not sure who she is.

But I'm starting to think she knows exactly who I am.

---

Chapter 2

So here's what I've learned, when someone signs off with "Come when called. Wear something decent. No yapping." It's not a suggestion. It's a warning. The sexy kind, but still.

I read the message about twelve times. Screenshotted it. Considered printing it and sticking it on my fridge next to the expired Sainsbury's coupons and my passive aggressive dentist appointment reminder. Although, the old picture of my Nan looking like she's growling because we've hidden the TV remote to save the misery of being forced to listen to EastEnders is more fitting next to nagging note.

Then, suddenly panic set in.

Not the picture of my Nan, no.

"Wear something decent."

What does that even mean? Decent like... church decent? Or date decent? Is it a trap? Am I being judged on designer count now? I spent the next hour staring at my wardrobe like it had betrayed me. Which, to be fair, it had. All it offered was six black hoodies, one pair of jeans that fit funnily around the crotch, and a suspiciously tight polo from 2017. Fucking hell, I'm a fashion liability.

She sent the address. It was one of those suspiciously tidy bits of East London where even the bins look like they've got a mortgage and the plants are somehow thriving like they've never seen a bus exhaust in their life.

The building looked expensive in a low effort way. Tall door. Black. No number.

You could tell it didn't need one. It was the kind of door that could ruin my credit score just by looking at it. So I closed my eyes, better to be safe than sorry.

I stood outside like a lost Amazon driver holding nothing but nerves and the world's worst 'it felt right at the time' haircut.

Then I knocked.

Three times. Like she said.

The door creaked open by itself. Finally I could open my eyes, no one in sight.

At this point, my brain had completely left the building. My heart was pounding like I'd just opened a surprise email from HR marked "Urgent! See Me."

I stepped inside. Warmth. Dim red lighting. It smelled like cinnamon, leather, and something expensive I couldn't name. Somewhere between a luxurious spa and a very tidy dungeon. Imagine a kinky Greggs. The kind of place where you're 50/50 on whether you'll get told off or offered Yum yums. Honestly, I was fine with either.

Then I heard her.

Not footsteps. Just... awareness. That feeling when someone enters a room and the air shifts slightly, like it's making room for them.

She didn't storm in, she glided. Effortlessly, Tall, elegant. Dressed in something soft that moved like water.

They say you can imagine the texture of licking ANYTHING just by looking at it. Not sure why I was but, hey.

There was power in her presence, sure, but not the loud kind. The quiet sort that comes from someone who's deeply comfortable in their own skin.

"Hi" she said, simply. "You made it."

I nodded, a bit too eagerly. "Yeah. Wasn't sure I would."

She smiled, genuinely, not smug. "But you did. That says something."

I wanted to say it probably said I was a nervous wreck with too much curiosity and a mild addiction to lazily named playlists, but I just nodded again.

She looked me over--not like she was judging, more like she was reading. Taking in the details. Hoodie guy turned obedient mess.

"You wore black" she said, with a small grin. "Safe choice, you like hiding."

"I like not showing food stains" I said before I could stop myself.

She laughed, actual laughter, unforced. "Fair enough. Still, let's see if we can get you into something a bit braver eventually."

My stomach flipped. Not because she sounded strict, but because she sounded sure. No pressure. Like someone who could hold your hand while making you do terrifying things and somehow make it feel like a gift.

She gestured to a leather chair in the corner. "Take a seat. You okay?"

I nodded. "Just nervous."

"Good" she said. "So am I."

That caught me off guard. I half expected her to say something cool like "Nerves are for the weak" before putting a cigar in her mouth, but nope. Just a calm, honest so am I. Somehow, that made me trust her more than any dramatic speech ever could.

I shuffled over to the chair and sat down carefully. You know when you sit somewhere too nice and feel like your posture might offend the ghost of whoever made it? That.

She sat across from me, legs crossed, totally relaxed, like this was just a catch-up over posh biscuits and not the start of my spiritual unravelling.

She didn't stare me down. She just... was.

That's when it clicked. She didn't need to force it or perform dominance like some leather clad villain, well maybe her online post sort of felt that way, but in person it felt different.

This wasn't about control for the sake of it, it was about care. With solid reinforcement.

And in that moment, I didn't just want to follow her.

I wanted to be the emotionally stable ProperPolitePup96 she could mould like clay, with slightly better posture and fewer trust issues.

So yeah. That's how it all kicked off. No big moment, no dramatic music, just me, sat in a fancy chair I definitely didn't belong in, trying not to overthink my breathing while she looked at me like she already knew how the rest of the night was gonna go. And maybe she did. All I knew was, for once, I didn't feel like running. Felt like staying put. See what happens.

Chapter 3

So, here I am. Still sat in this luxurious leather chair that probably costs more than my flat, including the dodgy air fryer I bought online that recently made headlines for supposedly having microphones inside, selling my information to companies. Well, good luck to them if they really want to know about my habits of reheating chicken nuggets at 2am whilst asking out loud if I'm actually hungry or just bored.

Imagine running that through Google Translate thinking you've uncovered top secret information.

Sorry, I went on a tangent. Maybe check your air fryers though.

M is sat across from me, looking like she runs some sort of mindfulness cult I'd accidentally join because they offered free Fruit Winders.

We're both pretty quiet.

Not awkward quiet, intentional quiet. Like during the build up of a scene in an episode of EastEnders just before something important happens and the Dun, Dun, Dun credits begin.

Then she leans forward slightly, hands clasped like she's about to deliver a TED Talk on how I look like I'm wearing clothing from Shein and how it's bad for the world.

"I want to try something," she said. Calm, like she was about to ask me if I fancied trying something super fun like bottle flipping.

She stood up, barefoot, and walked over to a finely polished cabinet in the corner of the room, opened it, and took out a small velvet pouch.

"I'm guessing five grand," I said, trying to guess the value of the pouch, expecting it to be hilarious. She just looked at me blankly before continuing what she was doing.

For a moment, I was genuinely terrified she was about to pull out tarot cards. Or maybe, finally, the Fruit Winders were coming out.

Instead, she pulled out a collar.

Simple. Black. Fresh. Collary.

Nothing over the top, just clean.

She didn't say "Do you want to wear it?" or "Would you mind?" No. Instead, she just held it in her hand. Calmly. Expectant. Like a child with a shitty drawing for their parent, fully convinced it's going to be posted on Facebook and flooded with compliments.

"This isn't about play," she exclaimed. "This is about trust. You don't have to say yes."

My mouth went dry. Not out of fear. Out of 'fuck, this is real.'

Maybe also because I'd been in this woman's presence for less than twenty minutes.

"Wow, it's beautiful" I said in awe, like I'd just been presented the Holy Grail.

I mean, worst case scenario, if things don't work out, I could always sell it online for next month's rent.

She stepped behind me. I felt her fingers brush my neck, steady.

She fastened the collar like she'd done it many times before, but also like it truly mattered.

And then, all of a sudden, just like when you're expecting your number to be called at McDonald's, but it's the number of the person who ordered two minutes after you... My shoulders dropped.

Like, physically.

All the tension I didn't realise I was carrying, hunched up, anxious, late night Pot Noodle bringing, stressed WIFI fixing energy, gone. Just like that.

Honestly, no one had ever done something so simple and made me feel so... accepted. Wanted. Held?

"Better" she said. "You're here now."

This weirdly overwhelming euphoric feeling had me thinking, if she'd told me to crawl into a cupboard and fill a gushingly leaky pipe with only toothpicks, I probably would've.

Not because I'd lost my backbone, but because I finally felt like someone actually wanted me. For once.

M smiled at me, then handed over a piece of paper and a pen.

"Write one thing you want to leave outside that door" she said.

I stared at the paper. It felt daft, in a way. But also serious. Like that time during COVID when I had to write my name and address every time I entered a club, just so they could alert me that my demise was coming because someone had tested positive on their system.

I replayed what she said again in my head. "Write one thing you want to leave outside that door."

I came close to writing The memories of my mother's cooking, but realised that would start a conversation I did NOT want to relive.

Plus, maybe that's a slight waste of a genie wish... Maybe not, actually. It was really bad food.

Eventually, I wrote

'Being in charge of everything, all the time.'

I handed the note back to her. She didn't even read it. Just held it for a second, then calmly set it alight in a little ceramic bowl I hadn't noticed on the table behind her.

No dramatic flair. Just the faint crackling sound of paper burning, smoke curling upward like it had somewhere better to be than in a room with my presence.

Moments after the last remnants of the note had faded away, M looked at me again.

"That's it for tonight. No more decisions. No more roles. You've done enough."

Then she reached out and touched my hand. Just once. No lingering.

But I felt it.

She didn't have to say it, but I could just hear her voice, 'you did well', in the back of my head.

Everything felt peaceful, for the first time since before the doctor slapped my arse after just been birthed.

I left twenty minutes later. Collar off. Brain lightly foggy. Heart weirdly full.

Walked back through East London like someone who'd just had their soul cleansed, pressed and still warm from the tumble dryer.

Didn't even check my phone. Didn't want to. I didn't need validation. Didn't need a summary.

Just needed to let it sit.

Something had started. Quietly. Gently.

No fireworks. No grand moment.

Just a shift, and for once, it didn't feel like I was playing a part.

It felt like I'd finally shown up.

"That'll be 75p."

Pissing hell. Fruit Winders have gone up in price.

Chapter 4

It was a new day, and I was back at work, sat at my desk with a cup of tea and Gary from accounts trying to bond over a dodgy 'fitness' granola bar he'd bought from Amazon that tasted like regret and dusty wood chippings. Honestly, not even the weirdest start to my week.

I walked into the office feeling kind of floaty, like everything was just a bit softer than usual. Even the carpet felt weirdly bouncy under my feet. I dunno, maybe it was in my head, but it felt like my hoodie was still holding onto the way her, or should I say my collar touched the back of my neck the night before. Like it hadn't quite worn off yet.

Gary clocked something was off straight away.

"Oi, you look weirdly calm. You alright? Back on meds or something?" Gary asked, mid bite of whatever granola shit brick he was chewing like it owed him rent money.

His jaw was doing overtime, like he was trying to eat through awfully cooked steak.

I said something about someone helping me feel a bit less in control, and his face went full alarm bells. I backtracked straight away, cracked a dumb joke to cover it, then quickly shuffled myself out of the situation, over to the printer, acting like it was my enemy. Classic damage control.

But the truth?

I'd changed.

It wasn't some big dramatic thing. I wasn't walking around like I owned the place or anything. Definitely not strutting through the server room like some kind of boss. But something had shifted. I felt a bit lighter. Like I could actually breathe properly for once.

It wasn't just the collar.

It was the moment she'd looked me in the eye and told me I'd done enough.

I thought about it through the commute home. Headphones in, mind elsewhere, barely registering the announcement about leaves on the line. Got home, dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes.

I didn't know what me and M were. What any of this was. But I knew one thing.

I wanted more.

Later that same day, halfway through a meal deal (chicken caesar wrap, salt & vinegar crisps, mango Rubicon, just anything to get rid of that dusty granola bar STILL in my throat.) I saw the notification.

It was her, M.

"Tonight. My place again. Bring the one thing in your flat you'd be mortified if someone found."

She doesn't mess about in her texts, I'll give her that. Straight to the point. Honestly, I respect it. I've dated people who'd send "hey" in one message, "you" in the next, and then thirty more messages you'll have a single sentence. My phone used to have a panic attack every time they typed.

One girl even sent me "wyd" in four separate texts. Don't ask me how, I was too scaring thinking I was being haunted by a very lazy ghost.

Still, wouldn't hurt her to chuck in the odd emoji. Lighten the vibe a bit. I swear, you could probably threaten someone and still make it sound friendly if you slap a cheeky little 😁 on the end.

---

Chapter 5

Cut to 8pm. Hoodie on. Bag packed. Heart doing some kind of tap routine in my throat.

I was outside that same black door again, trying to act casual but feeling like a Poundland spy. No skills, no gadgets, no sharp cheekbones, just me and a stomach full of nerves.

Three knocks. Like last time.

Door opened, same quiet, smooth sweep.

Same calm stare. But not on the sofa, she was standing. Barefoot, wearing these soft black trousers and a silk cami that looked like it belonged to someone who could either cuddle you through a panic attack or absolutely ruin your life without breaking a sweat. And I loved it.

I stepped in, gripping my bag like it was either a newborn, or something I'd just nicked from Currys... Or a newborn I'd just nicked from Currys.

She smiled. Barely. One of those small, knowing ones.

"Show me" she said.

I unzipped the bag slowly, like I was handling explosives. Questioning if I'd gone too far with the item I'd actually chosen.

And then, I pulled it out.

A plush toy. Bit rough around the edges, one eye gone. A sad looking little lion called Mr Snugglesworth, the full time shelf ornament... Just, slightly hidden on the shelf. My nan gave him to me on my 5th birthday, it helped me through some tough times but it's barely something you'd want a lady friend to see.

Did I say I had issues? No? Cool. Well, here's a bloody gammy lion to prove it.

She looked at him, not with mockery, but with genuine intrigue. Walked over. Took it gently from my hands, like he was sacred.

"I'm glad you brought this."

She didn't laugh. Didn't raise an eyebrow.

By this point, I was starting to question whether she was even human. Like, was this some kind of ultra sophisticated Al experiment? Because no one's that calm, that poised, that barefoot all the time.

She placed him, gently on a shelf next to a flickering candle, like some kind of tiny, dishevelled altar for childhood trauma.

"Tonight," she said, almost like a whisper, "we're playing with shame."

I blinked... Numerous times. "Sorry... what?"