Chapter 10. Florian
The classroom emptied around me, students shoving laptops into bags, chattering about weekend plans I'd never be part of. And I wondered why I didn’t have friends: I left campus as soon as possible, and I felt angry all the time. It was easy to guess why.
I shoved my paper deep into my backpack where I wouldn't have to look at it anymore. My hand brushed my wallet, and before I could stop myself, I pulled it out, fishing for the one thing I'd been obsessively checking all week.
Knox's business card. Cream-colored, heavy stock that felt expensive between my fingers. Robert Knox stared back at me in bold, black typeface. I ran my thumb over his name, feeling each raised letter like braille.
A week. It had been a whole week since I'd left his house, since he'd spanked me raw and then fucked me with such devastating care.
Since he'd wrapped me in sheets that cost more than my monthly rent and held me like I was something precious.
And then... nothing. No text. No call. Just silence, as if that day had been a particularly vivid dream.
I tucked the card back into my wallet, hands trembling slightly.
With a deep breath, I pulled out my phone and opened the app that had started this whole mess.
My profile was still there, with that stupid, filtered photo and those desperate words.
I stared at it, swiping through the messages I'd ignored all week: other men, other offers, other ways to pay my rent. But none of them was Knox.
With a decisive swipe, I deleted the app.
I couldn't bear to keep it, not after knowing what it felt like to be treated as something more than a transaction.
The moment the icon disappeared from my screen, my phone buzzed with a text.
My heart leapt stupidly, hoping… but it was from Mark, my manager.
"Hours cut this week. Budget cuts. Sorry."
I closed my eyes, calculating rapidly. Half my usual hours meant half my usual pay. With rent due in ten days and an account balance that already looked like a bad joke, I was fucked.
The thought of Knox made my cheeks burn. I shouldered my backpack and slipped out of the classroom, avoiding Professor Harmon's gaze as I passed his desk. I couldn't deal with another humiliation today.
Tuesday found me in my Comparative Literature class, my head bobbing as I fought to stay awake.
I'd taken an overnight shift stocking shelves at a 24-hour convenience store that Luna had tipped me off about.
One night of extra cash. The professor's voice droned on about Kafka, about men turning into bugs, about alienation in modern society.
My eyelids felt lined with sand, even though I desperately wanted to pay attention.
Wednesday brought new disasters. I was late for my shift at the grocery store, having overslept after another night of tossing and turning on my thin mattress, my mind spinning with memories of silk pajamas and cashmere throws.
I grabbed the only clean shirt I had left, a faded blue button-down that had seen better days, and rushed out the door, travel mug of coffee clutched in my hand.
The bus hit a pothole just as I was trying to take a sip.
Hot coffee erupted from the lid, splashing across my chest in a scalding wave.
I gasped, the pain momentarily blinding, and jumped up, holding the dripping fabric away from my skin.
"Shit, shit, shit!" I hissed, grabbing napkins from my bag, dabbing uselessly at the spreading stain. An elderly woman across from me frowned in disapproval. I got to work with my shirt still damp, the coffee turned cold against my skin.
Thursday, I came home to find a bright orange notice taped to my apartment door.
‘FINAL WARNING BEFORE EVICTION PROCEEDINGS.’ The words blurred as tears pricked at my eyes.
I tore it down before any neighbors could see, my hands shaking so badly I dropped my keys twice before managing to get inside.
I slumped against the closed door. My apartment was a shithole, but it was mine. The thought of losing even this pathetic shelter made my chest tighten until I couldn't breathe.
That night, like every night that week, I lay awake on my mattress, staring at the water stains on the ceiling.
I replayed every moment with Knox in high definition: the gentle press of his hand on the back of my neck by the pool, the way he'd fed me that perfect pasta, how he'd wrapped me in silk and bound my wrists when I couldn't stop touching him.
Most of all, I remembered the respect in his eyes. How he'd seen my vulnerability and hadn't exploited it. How he'd given me the money anyway. How he'd cared for me in a way no one had since... well, maybe ever.
My body ached with the memory of his hands, my skin still sensitive in places where he'd spanked me. I couldn't stop my hands from wandering down, touching myself where he'd touched me, a poor substitute for the real thing.
By Friday, I was a mess of nervous energy. My leg bounced constantly under desks. I couldn't sit still. I couldn't focus. I couldn't stop the ritual I'd developed: pulling out Knox's card, staring at it until the numbers blurred, then putting it away with a mixture of longing and resentment.
Why hadn't he called? Had I been just another transactional encounter for him, despite everything? The answer was obviously yes. He had no business calling me, I wasn’t his boyfriend, partner, or submissive.
I was nothing, just a boy he’d hired and now the job was done.
Had I imagined the care in his eyes, the tenderness in his touch?
I wanted to hate him for showing me a glimpse of something I'd never have.
For making me feel safe and then vanishing.
For treating me like I mattered, when clearly I didn't. But I couldn't hate him.
I could only sit in my empty apartment, pulling his card out and putting it away, again and again, like a prayer I didn't know the words to.
The following week, I stumbled out of the classroom into the late afternoon sunlight, my head pounding with exhaustion.
Another failed quiz, another disappointed professor, another day closer to complete collapse.
The campus bustled around me, students laughing, living normal lives that didn't involve counting pennies or crying yourself to sleep.
I leaned against the brick wall of the humanities building, sliding down until my ass hit the concrete, not caring who saw me falling apart.
I couldn't do this anymore. I just couldn't.
My phone felt heavy in my pocket, a constant reminder of the call I hadn't made, the number I hadn't texted.
I knew I could have texted him. I pulled it out with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling, staring at the blank screen.
What was I even supposed to say? "Hey, remember me?
The pathetic kid who cried on your couch and then let you spank him?
Just wondering why you ghosted me after making me feel like I mattered for the first time in my miserable life.
Oh, yes, I forgot, you just bought me like you buy everything else in your life. "
A week of silence. A week of sleeping alone on my shitty mattress. A week of checking my phone every five minutes like a lovesick teenager.
Before I could overthink it further, my thumb was swiping to my contacts, to the entry I'd created that night as I'd lain in his bed: "Knox." I pressed the call button, my heart throwing itself against my ribs.
One ring. Two rings. Maybe he wouldn't answer. Maybe I'd get voicemail and could leave a polite, restrained message that didn't betray the chaos inside me. Or I'd just hang up before the third ring.
"Florian?"
His voice. That low, calm rumble that had whispered "good boy" against my ear. That voice that had told me I was safe, that I was taken care of. I'd forgotten how it affected me, like a physical touch sliding down my spine.
And something inside me snapped.
"Why did you have to be so fucking nice to me?" The words exploded out of me, raw and jagged. "Why did you make me feel safe and then just disappear? A whole week of nothing! You can't just… you can't just treat someone like they matter and then…"
I gulped air, my throat constricting. I'd meant to be cool. Casual. But instead, I was coming undone, unraveling.
"I keep thinking about that night. About the pasta and the wine and the pool. About how you put me to bed instead of kicking me out when I was a complete disaster. About how you gave me the money anyway, even though I didn't... even though we didn't..."
My voice was rising. People walking by were staring, but I couldn't stop. A week of sleepless nights and the memory of his hands on my skin had hollowed me out, leaving nothing but this desperate need to understand.
"You called me 'little boy’ and made me feel like I belonged to someone. Like I mattered to someone. And then you just… what? Got bored? Found someone newer? Someone who doesn't fall apart on your expensive couch? I was just another whore, right?"
I was crying now, hot tears tracking down my cheeks, and I hated myself for it. Hated how weak I was. Hated how much I needed something, someone, to anchor me in this world.
"I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't stop thinking about you and your stupid beautiful house and how for one night I didn't have to be scared."
My voice cracked on the last word, anger dissolving into sobs that ripped through my chest. There was silence on the other end of the line.
Complete, terrifying silence. I had no idea if Knox was still there, if he'd hung up, if he was laughing at the pathetic kid who'd attached way too much meaning to what was, for him, probably just another night.
I tried to pull myself together, wiping my face with the sleeve of my hoodie, taking shuddering breaths that caught on lingering sobs.
Then, mortification washed over me in a wave so powerful it made me physically nauseous.
What had I done? Why couldn't I keep my shit together for five fucking minutes?
Knox had been nothing but kind to me, and I'd just verbally vomited all over him, accusing him of…
what, exactly? Not being my boyfriend? Not rescuing me from my life?
"I'm sorry," I finally managed, my voice small and broken. "This was stupid. I shouldn't have... I won't ever again… I'm so sorry… You won't hear from me again!"
I hung up, fast. I dropped my head into my hands, fingers pulling at my hair hard enough to hurt. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Even if he had been thinking about calling me again, he definitely wouldn't now. Not after that unhinged emotional tornado.
Minutes ticked by. I sat there on the concrete, trying to gather the energy to get up, to move, to face the rest of my day with this new humiliation added to the pile.
My phone felt like a bomb in my hand, evidence of my weakness, my neediness, my inability to handle even the simplest human interaction without falling apart.
Then it buzzed.
I almost dropped it in surprise. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely read the screen through my tear-blurred vision.
Knox: "I'm coming to pick you up."
Five words. No explanation. No response to my accusations.
I stared at the message, my mind unable to process what was happening. He was coming here? Now? After I'd just verbally assaulted him? My stomach lurched with a nauseating combination of terror and desperate relief. My phone quivered in my hand.
What would I say to him? How could I possibly face him after that outburst? What did he want from me? How did he know where I was?
And why, despite everything, despite my embarrassment, despite my fear, did those five simple words feel like salvation?