Gifted
1993 Words
"I might wear something boring today. No signal to tempt you."
That's what she almost sent.
Instead, Aimee took a picture of her breakfast—a simple café table in the middle of the mall. A cream-colored mug, pancakes with strawberries, sun spilling through the glass. She cropped out Riley across the table and added a soft filter.
Then she hit send.
Aimee: Good morning ☀️ Thought of you when I saw this.
The reply came instantly.
Mister L: Of course you did.
She smiled without realizing it.
A soft, secret kind of smile—the kind that only belonged to one person now.
"Okay," Riley said, pointing her spoon accusingly, "that's the third time you've smiled at your phone like it whispered a dirty joke.
Spill."
Aimee blinked. "What? No. It's not like that."
Riley tilted her head. "It's exactly like that. And don't say it's your cousin or a funny meme—I've known you since we were in
braces."
Aimee poked her pancakes. "It's just someone I talk to sometimes. Online."
"Someone who makes you smile like that?"
Aimee didn't answer.
She didn't know how to explain Mister L without saying too much. Without giving away just how deep in she was. How his voice
lived in her. How even now, she felt like his eyes could be watching her through the lens of that photo she sent.
Riley leaned forward. "You haven't said anything about a guy in months. And now you're all... glowy."
"I'm not glowy."
"You are so glowy."
Aimee took a sip of her coffee, cheeks warm. "It's nothing serious."
"Mmhmm." Riley narrowed her eyes. "For now."
They went dress shopping after breakfast.
Or at least, Riley did.
Aimee trailed behind her through rack after rack of fabrics that shimmered, clung, and dipped way too low.
"Ooh, what about this one?" Riley held up a backless red number that looked like it belonged on a runway or a very expensive
rooftop party.
Aimee winced. "I don't think I can breathe in that."
"That's the point!" Riley laughed. "Breathlessness is fashion."
She tried on dress after dress. Nothing felt right.
Too much skin. Too tight. Too bold.
She stared at her reflection in one, pale blue and strapless, clinging to every curve. It didn't look bad, exactly. But it wasn't her.
It didn't feel like hers.
And by the end of the day, she still had nothing.
That night, she flopped onto her bed and unlocked her phone.
Aimee: I hate everything I tried on today.
Mister L: Because none of it saw you the way I do.
She stared at the message. Her heart squeezed.
Aimee: It's frustrating. I want to feel pretty but... like myself. Not someone I'm pretending to be.
Mister L: Then let someone dress you who knows what's underneath.
She blushed.
But she didn't reply.
Because the thought of him picking something just for her made her body hum in ways she didn't know how to explain.
The next day, they tried again.
Different mall. Same story.
Riley was persistent, but Aimee's discomfort only grew.
She just didn't want to wear something for the world to see.
Not when the only person she wanted to be seen by was someone whose face she didn't even know.
The morning after, she woke up late.
Still in pajamas, hair messy, yawning into the sun that peeked through her curtains.
Until she opened the door.
A package sat quietly at her doorstep.
No tag. No card.
Just a matte white box tied with a thin black ribbon.
Her pulse skipped as she carried it inside, sat cross-legged on her bed, and untied the bow with trembling fingers.
Inside was a dress.
Soft gray-blue. Modest neckline. Short sleeves that draped gently off her shoulders. The waist cinched just enough to hug her figure
—but not reveal it. Elegant. Subtle. Beautiful.
It looked like something from a quiet dream.
Something she would wear.
And below it, nestled in velvet, was a small jewelry box.
Her breath hitched as she opened it.
Inside:
A delicate silver bracelet.
Matching earrings.
And a necklace.
Simple. Timeless.
With a charm shaped like the letter L.
She stared.
She didn't have to ask.
She knew.
Her fingers reached for her phone.
Aimee: Was it you...?
The typing bubble appeared.
Then:
Mister L: You wanted something that felt like you. I wanted something that looked like mine.
Her chest tightened.
Aimee: Thank you... it's beautiful.
Mister L: You'll wear it for me, won't you?
She didn't think. She didn't overanalyze.
She just typed what felt real.
Aimee: ...Yes.
She just sat there, staring at it. Fingertips brushing over the delicate fabric, the tiny silver L resting against her palm like it weighed more than it should.
Her phone buzzed again.
Mister L: Put it on.
She stared.
Mister L: Right now.
Aimee: Now?
Mister L: Now, sweetheart.
She hesitated. Looked at the time. Looked at the dress.
Her chest fluttered.
She stood, peeled off her pajama shirt, slipped into the dress slowly. It glided over her skin like it already knew her shape. Fit
perfectly.
When she looked in the mirror, she saw... someone different.
Not someone louder. Not someone sexier.
Just... someone who looked wanted.
Her phone buzzed again.
Mister L: Video.
She didn't even hesitate this time.
The call connected.
The dim screen. The shadows. His silence.
Then his voice, low and reverent.
"Let me see you."
She stepped back, holding the phone up, her camera aimed at her reflection.
She watched as his breath caught through the speaker.
"Spin for me."
She turned.
Slowly.
The hem swayed around her knees.
"You look..." He stopped. Like no word would be enough.
Her lips parted, unsure. "Do you like it?"
"Like isn't the word."
"You look exactly like something no one else deserves to look at."
Her breath caught.
She glanced down at the necklace.
The silver L resting against her collarbone.
"You wore the necklace."
"I did."
"Good girl."
A beat of silence passed. She shifted under the weight of his gaze, even from behind the shadows.
Then—
"Take it off."
Her heart skipped.
"What... the necklace?"
"No. The dress."
She blinked. "But you just gave it to me."
"And now I want to watch you undress from it like it was made for me to take off you."
She swallowed.
The dress suddenly felt heavier. Tighter. Like it belonged to him more than it did to her.
"Aimee."
She stood in front of the mirror, phone propped up against a stack of books. Her bare feet curled against the carpet as she reached behind her back—slowly. Hesitantly.
She found the zipper.
Paused.
"Eyes on the mirror, sweetheart."
Her breath caught.
She didn't look away.
Her fingers moved the zipper down inch by inch. The soft sound filled the silence like a secret unraveling.
The dress loosened around her waist first. Then her shoulders.
It slid—slowly, deliberately—down her body.
She let it fall.
The fabric pooled around her ankles.
She stood there.
In nothing.
Just the necklace.
Just the earrings.
Just the silver L resting over her bare skin.
His breath came through the speaker. Audible. Shaken.
But he didn't speak.
Not right away.
She shifted, arms twitching to cover herself.
"Don't."
The command was soft—but immovable.
"Don't hide."
Her hands dropped.
She forced herself to meet her own gaze in the mirror.
Flushed cheeks. Bared chest. Slight tremble in her thighs.
She'd never looked more exposed.
She'd never felt more kept.
The silence stretched long. Heavy.
Then:
"You have no idea what you're doing to me right now."
Her breath hitched.
He wasn't telling her to touch herself.
He wasn't guiding her anywhere.
He was just watching her.
Owning the moment.
Every part of her was on display—not as an object. But as something sacred.
"This..."
He exhaled slowly, voice barely above a whisper.
"This is what submission looks like. Not for pleasure. Not for release."
"But because you want me to see you."
She nodded once. Tiny. Shaky. Honest.
"You're not mine because I made you take your clothes off, Aimee."
"You're mine because you wanted to give me the moment you did."
The words laced around her like silk and chain.
And still—she didn't move.
Still—he didn't command her further.
They just stayed like that.
Her bare. Vulnerable. Wearing nothing but a necklace with his name.
"Sleep like that tonight," he said after a long beat.
"And know that no one else will ever see you this way. Not while I'm still breathing."
She whispered:
"Okay."
The next day
Her mother gasped the second she stepped out of her room.
"You found the one," she whispered, hand fluttering to her chest. "And it's... it's you."
Aimee gave a soft smile.
"I didn't think you'd actually pick something," her mom added. "But wow, baby—you look beautiful."
Aimee didn't say anything. Not about the box. Not about the necklace.
Because this wasn't something she picked.
This was something that found her.
And she wanted to keep it secret. Just for a little longer.
Her makeup was soft. Simple. Her hair swept into a low, elegant style. She barely recognized herself in the mirror, but not in a bad
way. She looked like who she was becoming.
Someone who knew she was wanted.
Her phone buzzed.
Mister L: Show me.
Her breath caught.
She stepped away from the crowd in her living room, tilted her camera just enough, and took the photo. Her in the dress. The
earrings. The necklace.
She hit send.
The response came so fast it made her heart squeeze.
Mister L: Look at you.
Mister L: My perfect girl.
Mister L: I'd kiss your knees if I saw you walk in like that.
Her face flushed.
She sent one more message:
Aimee: Thank you. For this. For today. For everything.
He didn't reply right away.
But she didn't need him to.
The ceremony was a blur of camera flashes, music, handshakes, and claps. Her name echoed across the gym speakers, and she
walked—heart full, chin high.
Afterward, her mom and dad took her to her favorite restaurant. Her dad ordered too much food. Her mom cried twice.
That night, after the pictures had been taken down and the makeup wiped off, she changed into pajamas, curled up sideways on her
bed, and let her body sink into the mattress.
Her phone leaned against the wall beside her, propped up just enough.
When it buzzed, she didn't hesitate.
She answered the video call with a sleepy smile.
His screen lit up in dim shadow.
"Hey," she murmured.
"Hey, sweetheart."
She tucked her hand under her cheek. "Did you like the picture?"
"I loved it."
She smiled softly, eyes barely open.
"Tell me about your day," he said.
And she did.
She told him everything—the walk, the heat, her parents' proud smiles, how her shoes hurt but the dress still made her feel like the
most beautiful version of herself.
She talked more than she usually did.
And he let her.
Every word, he just listened. Not demanding. Not teasing.
Just... there.
"I'm really happy," she whispered eventually, blinking slower now. "I feel like... I don't know. Like I'm lucky. Not because of the
dress. Or today. But because I met you."
She paused. Yawned quietly.
"You always know exactly what I need. And I'm thankful, Mister. For all of it. For... for you."
He inhaled.
Was about to speak—
But stopped.
Her lashes fluttered once.
Then again.
And then—she stilled.
Her cheek pressed against the pillow. The corner of her mouth curled into a sleepy smile.
He watched her.
"Goodnight, baby."
A pause.
"I'll be here when you wake up."
Then the screen went dark.
- Writer
