Chapter 14. Knox
The days that followed became a study in willpower, or the total lack thereof.
The kid had rewired my brain. Every hour that I wasn’t in a meeting, I was hunched over my phone like a degenerate, waiting for Florian’s next message.
My work-life, once disciplined and controlled, was now taken by his bratty, insatiable presence.
I kept it professional on the surface, signing contracts, hosting video calls, but beneath that was the knowledge that at any moment, Florian might drop a photo, or a text, or a string of emojis rude enough to turn my face beet red in front of the entire M&A team.
He was relentless. He sent me selfies from beneath the library table, tongue out in agony, eyes pleading for rescue.
He sent me photos after exercising, sweat beading along his collarbone, the waistband of his shorts riding so low I could see the line of hair vanishing into the elastic.
He sent voice notes, short and obscene, the soft sound of him breathing "Daddy" into the speaker at odd hours of the night.
He delighted in tormenting me, and I let him, let him flood every rigid crevice of my life with his chaos.
A package arrived at my office one Tuesday, rainbow-bright and addressed to “The CEO” in a messy scrawl that made my assistant raise an eyebrow.
Inside: unicorn and dolphin stickers, holographic, and glitter.
Tons of pink glitter. It would take me weeks to get rid of all the glitter.
‘Mark the days of our dates with these,’ read his note.
“Do you think you can tell me what to do, brat?” I immediately texted him. A moment later, a new text arrived. “What’s with all this damn glitter?!”
“Maybe if I bat my lashes and look at you with my best puppy eyes. Enjoy the glitter!” he answered. I couldn't stop smiling and, of course, I got one unicorn sticker and placed it on the next Saturday.
That night he sent me the first video. I was sitting in my home office, reading the latest reports on the new container terminal in Long Beach and sipping a rye whiskey.
The clip was only nine seconds. No warning.
Just Florian, sprawled shirtless on a heap of tangled sheets, the phone angled above his face.
He looked up at the camera with that infuriating mix of innocence and challenge, then stuck two fingers in his mouth and sucked hard, moaning softly as he rolled his hips up against the mattress.
He popped the fingers out with a wet, obscene sound and whispered, "Bet you wish that was you, Daddy," then ended the recording.
I watched it four times before I could bring myself to breathe. Then I called him.
He picked up on the first ring, the laughter already in his voice.
"Hi, Daddy."
"You're out of control," I said, pretending to be stern, but I was smiling.
"Isn't that what you like about me?" he countered. "Besides, you never said I couldn't send videos. You said I couldn't touch without permission, and I'm not touching."
I pinched the bridge of my nose, fighting the urge to laugh. "I suppose I didn't, and that you aren't. Do you want a new rule of no teasing?”
"You wouldn't. You like it too much." I could hear the grin in his voice. "Are you going to punish me, Daddy?"
I exhaled, sharpening my tone. "You're going to wish I could reach through the phone," I said. "You keep this up, and next time I'll make you beg for it."
He made a low, desperate sound. "I can beg now if you prefer."
"Take your hand," I said, "and run it down your stomach. Tell me what you feel."
He hesitated, then did as I asked. "I'm kinda cold. And... I'm hard. I'm always hard, now, thanks to you," he complained, but there was no heat in it.
"Good boy," I said, and listened to the catch in his breath. "Now slip your hand under the waistband. Touch yourself, but slowly. You don't get to finish until I say so."
He groaned, the sound ragged. "You’re a sadist," he whispered, as if it weren’t the highest compliment. I could picture him on the other end of the line, sprawled out in his messy room.
He moaned into the phone.
“Mmm, that's right. Keep going. Good boy.”
He gasped and whined. There was a hunger in him, I could listen to it, and it almost made me lose control. I let my own voice drop, keeping it low and even.
“Tell me what you’re doing,” I said, and my own hand trembled.
His breathing grew ragged. “I’m stroking it, like you said. It’s so… fuck, Daddy… it hurts a little. I want to come so bad.”
“That’s not your decision,” I reminded him, letting the threat of denial hang between us. “You do what I say. You wait for my permission.”
He whimpered, softer now, and I let him have a moment of comfort, praising him for patience I knew he didn’t really have.
“Good boy,” I told him. “That’s it. Take it slow.
Don’t rush.” My voice dropped to a growl.
"Slower. Tighter at the base. Now drag up, yes, like that.
" I closed my eyes, picturing his fingers obeying every command.
When his breath hitched, catching on a sob, I pressed the phone closer.
"That sound. Make it again for me." He did, a broken little noise that vibrated straight through me.
"God, you sound perfect when you're desperate. "
Each time his breath quickened, I'd order him to slow down, to pull his hand away completely. "Count backward from twenty," I'd command, listening to his shaky numbers dissolve into whimpers when he lost track around fourteen. Then I'd let him start again, his voice cracking on every third word.
“Are you going to make me beg to cum? Because, fuck, I'll do it, I'll do it right now, I'll beg so pretty you can't say no, Daddy, please,” he said, desperation evident, trembling.
“Go ahead, then, ask me nicely for it."
"Please," he whispered, voice catching. "Please, can I…"
"No. Try again."
"Daddy, please let me cum." His voice cracked on the word 'cum.'
"Hmm. Not quite there yet."
A whimper, then: "I need it so bad, Daddy, I've been good, haven't I? Please, I'm shaking, I can't…" His words dissolved into a ragged breath. "Please, Daddy…”
I let his ‘please, Daddy’ hang in the air until his breathing grew ragged. "Not enough. Tell me exactly who gets to decide when you cum." His voice broke in a sob.
"You do, Daddy." I waited another beat, savoring the soft whimper that escaped him.
"And why is that?" The phone rustled as he squirmed.
"Because I'm yours," he whispered.
It did something to me, listening to him like that. For years I’d trained myself to hide, to never show vulnerability or open desire, but with Florian it all came pouring out.
I could tell when he was truly close, his voice gone hoarse, the words crumbling into nothing but desperate little whimpers. I made him hold still, made him wait, just a few seconds longer, just until he thought he might break.
When I finally gave him permission, his breath caught, then broke into a strangled gasp.
The phone clattered against something hard, his teeth, perhaps, before a raw sound tore through the speaker.
I listened to the ragged catch in his breathing, the little hitches that slowly evened out as I murmured into the phone.
"That's it, little boy. You're so good for me." His soft "mmm" in response was barely audible, the word "thank you" slurring at the edges as exhaustion pulled him under.
“Stay with me for a second longer. How are you feeling? Do you need anything from me?” I asked.
I wanted to be there. I wanted to touch him, to hold him, to see the way his eyelashes tangled together when he fell asleep. I wanted him in my bed, in my house, in my life.
He didn't answer me directly. He just said, "Daddy?" he mumbled after a long silence.
"Yes, little one?"
He didn't answer at first. I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then, quietly: "You'll see me again, right? In person?"
I closed my eyes. "Nothing could keep me away."
I hung up after making sure he was okay, then spent the next thirty minutes in my dark office with the phone in my hand, watching that goddamn video on loop, trying not to picture the taste of his skin or the sound he'd make when I got my hands on him for real.
I wanted all of it, his need, his trust, his brattiness, and his desperate, puppyish hunger for approval.
I wanted to take care of it, to be worthy of it.
I wanted to be his Daddy in every sense.