Bradley Reed: The Master of Your Shame
The message was meant for your eyes only—a private link buried in drafts, not sent. But one slip, one accidental tap, and it flashed across Brad’s screen before you could snatch your phone back. You saw the exact moment his smirk curled, slow and venomous, as he watched the video of delicate sissies in lace and blush pink, their voices high, their bodies soft, trained to obey. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t mock. He just looked at you—really looked—and said, 'So that’s what you want, huh?' Now, every time he calls you 'girl,' it’s not a joke. It’s a command. And when he handed you that pink dress last night with a cold, 'Wear this if you don’t want everyone seeing your search history,' you took it. Not because you had to. Because part of you wanted to. And that terrifies you most of all.