Too Much to Touch
1469 Words
They wanted to touch her, but not be touched by her. That was their mistake.”
The halls of Saint Madeleine’s Academy smelled like roses and repression.
It was a cathedral in disguise—a place where gold-plated crosses hung beside honor rolls and pastel uniforms hid the battle scars of girlhood. Every girl here had a legacy, a trust fund, a tailored coat for autumn and a curated future by spring.
Dominique moved through it like a specter. Everyone noticed her, but no one really saw her.
Her ballet flats clicked against the marble floor as she passed the atrium. Her hair was braided in a perfect twist, lips painted a soft cherry gloss, sweater pressed to perfection. She held her textbook close, like a girl who cared about civics and calculus instead of rope burns and leather.
“Dominique! Hey—Dom!”
She flinched slightly at the nickname. The only one allowed to call her Dom was herself. Or someone begging for permission.
She turned.
Matthew Bennett. Quarterback. Lacrosse. Voted “Most Likely to Marry an Actress or Cheat on One.” He wore his uniform shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of gym effort and Axe body spray.
She’d gone on a date with him once. Just one.
It had ended with his hand on her thigh during a limo ride and his words slurred from wine he wasn’t old enough to drink.
“You like control, huh? I can tell. Makes me wanna mess you up, baby.”
She’d leaned in, lips brushing his ear, and whispered, “Then try.”
He hadn’t touched her since.
“Been ghosting me, Devereux,” he said now, grinning like it was a joke. “You make a guy think you’ve got something to hide.”
Dominique gave him a look that didn’t blink. “Maybe I do.”
Matthew’s grin faltered. That was the problem with boys like him. They liked ideas of girls. Girls in bikinis. Girls who gasped. Girls who moaned on cue. Girls who didn’t expect them to work for it.
They liked girls they could throw around. Not girls who threw back harder.
He moved closer. “You act all clean, but I know you like it rough. You’re just scared to admit it.”
Dominique tilted her head, calm. “Tell me something, Matthew.”
He blinked.
She stepped forward until their bodies almost touched—until she could smell his mint gum and fear. Her voice dropped, low and warm.
“If I did like it rough… what makes you think you could handle me?”
His mouth parted. No words came out.
She didn’t wait.
Dominique turned on her heel and walked toward the courtyard, where golden autumn leaves spun like lazy secrets around her ankles.
After school, Dominique did what she was supposed to do.
She went to fencing practice. She didn’t sweat.
She sat for a student council meeting. She didn't speak.
She smiled when faculty praised her poise. She gave a fake laugh when a father asked if she’d be applying to Yale like her grandfather.
She walked out into the evening haze with a migraine blooming behind her temples and the metallic taste of boredom coating her tongue.
By the time she reached home, Dominique had already unzipped her uniform halfway in the elevator.
The penthouse was empty. Her mother was out late at an opera gala. Her father was in Europe managing hedge funds and secret mistresses.
She walked barefoot to her bedroom and locked the door.
Then locked the inner bolt.
She moved on instinct: tossed her school bag aside, unbuttoned her blouse, slid out of her skirt. She kicked off her flats and stood in the middle of her pink palace in nothing but thigh-high stockings and silence.
Then she reached under her bed and pulled out the black box.
Inside: Domica’s skin.
Latex gloves. A velvet choker. Polished boots with red-bottomed soles. A leather bustier. Two floggers—one stiff, one soft. A mask.
She didn’t put them on yet.
First, she lit a single black candle and turned off every light in the room except the glow of her laptop screen.
Then she logged in.
Her inbox was full, as always. Clients begging. Clients praising. Clients offering double her rate if she’d send a voice clip saying their name while she slapped someone else.
She ignored them all.
Except one.
WolfEyes89: “Were you thinking about me?”
Dominique’s breath caught.
She hesitated.
Then typed.
Domica: “You overestimate your effect, little wolf.”
WolfEyes89: “Funny. I had a dream. You were on your knees. Want to hear it?”
She did.
She really, really did.
But she couldn’t say that. Not yet.
Domica: “Careful. Dreams can become nightmares.”
WolfEyes89: “Only if you fight them.”
She stared at the screen, heart pounding.
She could practically feel his voice. Smooth. Commanding. Dangerous.
This wasn’t submission. Not yet. It was seduction through suggestion.
And for the first time in a long time, she was the one shifting in her chair.
Dominique didn’t message him again. She couldn’t. Not now. Not when the aftershock of their exchange made her feel more like Dominique than Domica—naked, vulnerable, exposed.
She needed to reclaim herself.
So she selected a private session from her request queue. Two men. Known regulars. They adored pain. One was an investment banker in real life. The other, a philosophy professor who liked to whimper.
Perfect.
She slipped into her Domica skin with clinical precision—corset snapped, boots zipped, gloves pulled up her arms like a second soul. Her crimson mask obscured her cheekbones but left her eyes gleaming with command.
The cam went live. The men were already waiting in their respective windows.
One was naked and kneeling, his eyes glassy, a thick leather shock collar tight around his neck. His hands trembled in his lap, thighs bruised from the last session.
The other stood in position: legs spread, hands behind his back. Clothespins lined his n*****s, but that was just the appetizer.
Domica’s voice sliced through the screen.
“Did I give you permission to stare?”
Both dropped their gazes instantly.
“That’s better,” she purred, voice like velvet dragged over a blade. “Let’s remind you who owns your body.”
She reached off-screen and retrieved her favorite toy: a slim, stainless steel electric prod—not the kind that left permanent damage, but the kind that seared obedience into the soul.
She leaned forward, let them see the glint.
“Color, pets?”
“Green, Mistress,” they whimpered in unison.
She started with the professor.
“Count for me.”
She pressed the prod to his inner thigh—just enough to make his muscles jump. He gasped.
“O-one.”
Another zap. Slightly higher. His body shook, his c**k stiffening with each sting.
“T-two!”
By the fifth jolt, his chest was heaving. She walked him to the edge—let the tremble build, let his whimpers rise—then reached forward, unclipped the pins from his n*****s with a swift snap that left him moaning.
Then—without warning—she touched the prod to his right n****e.
He screamed. And came. Without touching himself.
She clicked her tongue.
“Filthy little accident. Now you’ll stay on your knees until permission is earned again.”
She turned her gaze to the collared one.
“You. Crawl forward.”
He obeyed instantly, on all fours, chain dragging across the floor. She lifted her boot slowly—gleaming black leather with a stiletto heel—and pressed it between his shoulder blades.
Hard.
He groaned, back arching beautifully under the pressure.
“Do you want to be shocked too?”
“Y-yes, Mistress.”
“Then beg.”
“Please shock me. Please use me. Please punish me, Mistress—I’m nothing.”
She applied pressure with her heel, just enough to leave a mark.
Then activated the collar.
Zzztt!
His body jerked beneath her boot like a marionette yanked by invisible strings.
“Again.”
She shocked him twice more, letting him drool, letting his eyes roll back.
Only when he was fully still did she lean down, her voice cold and honeyed:
“Good boys make noise. But better boys make messes.”
He whimpered, c**k twitching against the ground, untouched.
Domica didn’t let either one of them finish again. They would stew in denial until the next session. They liked it better that way.
She ended the feed.
Only then did Dominique take off the mask. Her hands trembled—not from the session, but from what had come before.
From a single line.
“Only if you fight them.”
- Writer
