Stan wasn't looking for trouble. If anything, trouble had never been a part of his life.
He was thirty-six, married, comfortable. Not exciting, not thrilling, but comfortable. His wife, Lisa, was kind, dependable--everything a man should want. They had routines, shared a mortgage, argued about what to watch on Netflix. He had a solid job in financial consulting, a modest pension plan, a reliable second-hand sedan.
It was a good life. A normal life.
And then, one night, he clicked.
It started with an article. "Inside the World of Financial Domination: Why Men Pay to Be Controlled."
It had popped up in his feed late at night, wedged between the usual stream of news and work emails. A passing curiosity, nothing more. He clicked, expecting something sleazy, something easy to dismiss.
Instead, the article was polished, almost academic. It talked about psychological submission, about men with power who craved surrender. About goddesses--beautiful, ruthless women who bent men to their will, not with force, but with words.
Stan should have closed it.
But something held him there.
The article had links. A research study. A clip of a woman in a designer dress, sitting on a marble countertop, scrolling through messages of men begging to give her money.
And then, a name.
Princess Alexis.
Her website was sleek, nothing like the garish cam sites he'd expected. The homepage featured a slow-motion video of her walking poolside, a flute of champagne in one hand, a smirk curving her lips. She was blonde, poised, exuding an untouchable confidence.
Stan wasn't attracted to her. Not exactly.
But there was something magnetic about her. The way she barely looked at the camera, as if men clicking on her page were beneath her notice.
He scrolled.
The text was sharp, deliberate:
"You are here because you belong here. Because you are weak. Because you need me."
His pulse kicked up--a nervous thrill, foreign yet intriguing.
Further down, the video store.
Titles like "Obedience Training", "A Good Boy Pays", "You Were Born to Serve".
Stan exhaled, shaking his head. It was ridiculous.
But then he saw it:
"First Tribute -- A Special Message for My Newest Pet" (£9.99)
A small, insignificant purchase. Less than lunch.
His finger hovered. He wasn't seriously considering it.
And yet.
CLICK.
The video loaded instantly.
For the first few seconds, all he saw was Alexis' legs--crossed elegantly, one heel dangling off her foot. The camera panned upward, revealing a silk dress, smooth, flawless skin, a lazy, knowing smile.
Then, she spoke.
"So. You're curious."
Her voice was smooth, controlled, the kind that made men lean in to listen.
"They always say it starts as curiosity. That they 'stumbled' into my world. But you didn't stumble, did you? You clicked. You paid. That means something."
Stan swallowed, shifting in his seat.
"I know men like you. You pretend you're different, that this is just a 'one-time thing.' But here's the truth--men like you always come back."
Her smile sharpened.
"And the best part? You want to."
The screen faded to black.
Stan sat motionless, his laptop screen glowing in the dark.
His mouth was dry.
It was just a video, but he felt like she had spoken directly to him, like she had seen him.
His stomach twisted--not in shame, not in guilt, but something else.
Something deeper.
He should go to bed. Forget this ever happened.
Instead, he refreshed the page.
A new section unlocked:
"Personalized Obedience -- Let's Get to Know Each Other" (£50).
His hands hovered over the keyboard.
He should stop.
He didn't.
CLICK.
----------------------
Stan's second payment was a mistake.
That's what he told himself, anyway. A one-time indulgence, like buying a lottery ticket or sneaking an extra drink on a weekday. It wasn't serious. It didn't mean anything.
But when the transaction went through, his stomach tightened--not with regret, but with anticipation.
The video unlocked instantly.
The screen faded in, revealing Alexis. She was draped across a velvet chair, one leg crossed over the other, a wine glass in hand. The kind of effortless poise that made it seem as if she'd just pressed record on a whim, barely aware of the camera.
Then, she spoke.
"There you are. Again."
She didn't sound surprised.
"What did I tell you? You always come back."
Stan swallowed.
"And now that you've admitted it, we can begin."
She placed the glass down and leaned forward, resting her chin lightly on the back of her hand. Her eyes locked onto the lens--steady, knowing, as if she could see him, as if she knew he was watching.
"Tell me, what kind of man are you?"
She let the question hang.
"Don't answer. I already know."
A smirk curled across her lips.
"You're obedient. You just don't know it yet."
Stan exhaled, shifting in his chair.
"But don't worry," she said. "I'll help you."
The screen cut to black.
Beneath it, a message:
Tell me something about yourself. Let's see if you're worth my time.
The First Message
He hesitated.
The cursor blinked in the empty text box.
What was he supposed to say?
That he was married? That he had a good job? That he didn't usually do this sort of thing?
Because, apparently, he did.
He typed, erased, typed again. Finally, he settled on something neutral.
I'm Stan. I work in finance. I don't usually do things like this.
Send.
An hour passed before she responded.
Boring. Try again.
His pulse quickened.
What do you want to know?
Everything. But let's start with your wife.
Stan's stomach tightened.
Why did she want to know about Lisa?
He hovered over his keyboard, fingers motionless. This was a line, wasn't it?
She doesn't know I'm doing this.
Obviously. What else?
He should stop. Should close the window and forget this ever happened.
But instead, he kept typing.
The First Lesson in Obedience
Send one hundred pounds.
The message arrived without preamble. No greeting, no buildup. Just a command.
Stan stared at it. His heart beat faster.
A hundred.
It wasn't an impossible amount, but it was... more.
More than the last time. More than a harmless impulse buy.
He hesitated.
A second message followed.
What's wrong? Getting scared?
His jaw tensed.
I just wasn't expecting that.
Cute. But let me make something very clear--this isn't about what you expect. It's about what I want. Now be a good boy and send.
He swallowed.
It was absurd, sitting here at his desk, debating whether to obey a woman he'd never met, a woman who likely didn't care about him beyond the numbers on his bank statement.
A voice in the back of his mind told him to walk away.
She's manipulating you.
This is stupid.
Close the tab and forget her.
And yet--
He clicked the button.
A confirmation email arrived a second later.
Then, her response.
Good boy.
The breath left his lungs in a slow exhale. A sharp mixture of relief and something else--something darker, something thrilling--curled in his chest.
See? That wasn't so hard.
He shut the laptop.
His hands were shaking.
The Silent Treatment
The next day, he checked his phone compulsively.
Nothing.
No messages. No replies. Not even a single-word acknowledgment.
By noon, his stomach was tight with anxiety.
Had he done something wrong?
It was ridiculous. He barely knew her. But still, the silence gnawed at him.
Hours passed. He broke down and sent a message.
Hey.
No response.
Later, another.
Did I do something wrong?
Still nothing.
By evening, the tension was unbearable.
Finally, just before midnight, a notification.
Took you long enough. I was starting to think you didn't care.
Relief washed over him, heady and instant.
Before he could reply, another message arrived.
Send two hundred. Let's see if you've learned anything.
Stan barely hesitated.
