Jessie's obsession

Whats Done in the Dark

The sun creeps through the glass doors, brushing golden warmth against my bare skin, but it’s not what wakes me.

It’s him.

The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.

The way one of his hands is still tangled in my hair, even in sleep.

Like even unconscious, he’s claiming me. Holding me.

And the worst part?

I haven’t moved.

I don’t want to.

I’m curled into his side like I belong there, like last night didn’t strip away every ounce of resistance I had left. Like I didn’t beg him. Moan for him. Let him pull sounds from my throat I didn’t even know I could make.

And now I’m here. Still.

After.

I should feel humiliated.

I should hate myself.

I should hate him.

But all I feel is… wrecked. Raw.

And somehow more me than I’ve felt in years.

His fingers twitch in my hair, and for a second I think he’s waking up—but he only exhales, deep and calm, sinking further into sleep. So peaceful, like he didn’t unravel me piece by piece only hours ago.

My thighs ache. My lips are swollen.

And my heart?

My heart is screaming things I’m not ready to hear.

What the hell have I done?

Worse… why do I want to do it again?

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to breathe past the storm building behind my ribs.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be the enemy. The mistake. The danger I’d never let close again.

But last night… last night, I let him in.

And now I don’t know how to take it back.

Or if I even want to.

---

Days shift into weeks of Jessie showing me exactly what happens to brats and as weeks turn into months I find myself comfortable and relaxed in his presence.

The first time I call him “Sir,” it slips out on a whisper.

I don’t even realize I’ve said it until his eyes narrow — not in anger, but in approval. His fingers tighten just slightly around my jaw, tilting my face up toward his. My breath stutters, but I don’t look away. Not this time.

Not anymore.

His smirk is slow, dark, dangerous. “Say it again.”

I should roll my eyes. I should bite back with some sarcastic retort, something that proves he hasn’t actually won. But the heat in his gaze roots me to the floor, holds me still, and I like the way my spine straightens at his command. I like how he watches me like I’m something precious he already owns.

“Sir,” I murmur again — bolder this time.

His pupils dilate. “Good girl.”

God help me, that praise sinks right into my bones, spreading a flush down my neck that he sees — of course he sees — and drinks in like a challenge. I hate how easily he reads me, how fast I’m unraveling. And yet…

Every day since the party, it’s been like this. A look. A word. A single snap of his fingers and I find myself falling into place without even thinking. I’m not sure when obedience stopped feeling like surrender and started feeling like power. Like control, in the most twisted and beautiful way.

He lets me submit.

He demands I rise to meet his expectations.

And somehow that makes me feel stronger, not weaker.

He doesn’t ask me to be soft. He doesn’t want some hollow version of me. He wants me — mouthy, defiant, sharp-tongued — but only when I’ve earned it. And when I don’t? He takes what’s his. And I let him.

No.

I love it.

When I kneel, it’s not in shame.

It’s in fire.

In choice.

In something I never thought I’d crave — being his.

And the part of me that once fought it with everything I had?

She’s still there. Watching. Quiet.

But now, she’s curious. Intrigued.

And maybe a little bit thrilled.

Because I’m not afraid anymore.

I’m learning how to bend without breaking.

How to take pride in the way I obey — and the way he rewards me when I do.

This isn’t who I was.

But maybe it’s who I was always meant to be.

---

Absolutely 😈 Here's a continuation from Cassie's POV, where she starts to push her boundaries again — a little bit of rebellion creeping back in — only to find herself in a whole new level of dominance she wasn’t quite ready for. The scene also introduces Jessie’s world more fully, including other Doms and subs, and a new layer of structure and rules.

---

The moment we arrive at the baseball field, I know something’s up.

Jessie doesn’t even bother to hide it. His posture is too stiff, his jaw locked in that way that always means trouble for me. He turns to me just before we step out of the car, eyes burning with authority.

“You sit on the bleachers with the others,” he says, low and firm. “You’ll recognize them. They’re not here to flirt, and neither are you. You can talk, but keep your voice down. Coach doesn’t like distractions.”

My brows shoot up. The others?

“You mean your little fan club?” I smirk, just to needle him.

Wrong move.

His hand snakes out, gripping my chin in that commanding, possessive way I’ve started to crave more than air. “Watch your mouth,” he growls. “Or you’ll find yourself gagged and kneeling in the dugout. You think I won’t?”

My stomach flips. Heat blooms low in my belly.

“No, Sir,” I whisper. It tastes like temptation.

He releases me with a slow drag of his fingers and points to the bleachers with a jerk of his chin. “Go.”

I make my way up and immediately clock the others: three girls, sitting straight-backed with practiced posture, all dressed in cute but modest sundresses. No shorts. No cleavage. One of them — a tall, icy blonde — gives me a once-over like she’s not impressed with what she sees.

Perfect.

I take my seat near them, crossing my legs slowly and deliberately. “So,” I start, flashing a fake-sweet smile, “are we all prisoners of the same twisted kingdom?”

The redhead snorts. “Welcome to practice. Where we play nice, smile pretty, and stay silent.”

“Unless we want the Coach to notice,” the brunette adds with a grin that says she definitely doesn’t mind being noticed.

I glance toward the field. Jessie’s already warming up with two other guys — both tall, muscled, and exuding the same quiet, watchful authority that Jessie does. I recognize one of them from school. His name’s Owen, I think. And the way his eyes flick to the bleachers every now and then?

Definitely a Dom.

Interesting.

The girls start whispering more animatedly, and I don’t exactly help. I ask questions, test limits, throw in a few giggles just to see what will happen. We’re not loud, exactly, but we’re not being careful either.

Then the Coach’s whistle pierces the air.

He turns slowly toward the dugout, then jerks a thumb toward the stands. “Handle it,” he barks. And just like that, Jessie and the other two start heading straight for us.

Oh s**t.

Owen gets to the bleachers first and nods toward the redhead and the blonde. “Down. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument, and both girls scramble to obey. The brunette is pulled down by the third guy — dark-eyed and intense — and they disappear behind the bleachers without a word.

Jessie doesn’t speak at first. Just stands in front of me, arms crossed over his chest, staring me down like he’s trying to decide just how bad I’ve been.

I lift my chin. “What? We were just talking.”

“That’s not what I said you could do.” His voice is ice and heat all at once. “I gave you rules.”

“And maybe your rules are stupid.”

His eyes narrow. “Wrong answer.”

Before I can blink, he’s got a hand on the back of my neck, guiding me off the bleachers and away from the others. The look on his face is pure fire — not angry, but deadly calm, and that’s somehow worse.

We stop at a quiet corner of the field, out of sight from most of the team.

He pins me with a look that has my knees weakening.

“You want to act like a brat in front of my friends? Fine. But don’t think for a second I won’t discipline you in front of them too.”

I open my mouth to argue — but all that comes out is a shuddering breath.

I pushed.

He’s pushing back harder.

And god help me, I love it.

---

He doesn’t speak again. Not with words. Jessie’s fingers tighten around the back of my neck, guiding me with slow, deliberate steps toward a metal storage shed just beyond the fence line. It's out of sight but not out of earshot.

I hear the sounds of the field: the thwack of bats, the thrum of feet, the echo of the Coach’s whistle.

And then I hear nothing, because the shed door closes behind us, and it’s just me and Jessie.

And a storm I created.

“Hands on the wall,” he orders, voice low and steady.

I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to—God, I do—but because this is it. This is the line I’ve been tiptoeing toward ever since the first time I sassed him back. The moment where I see if he’ll actually do what he’s promised all along.

My hands tremble as I place them flat against the cold metal wall.

Jessie steps up behind me, his body heat pressing close. I can feel his breath at my neck, heavy and controlled. Barely.

“You don’t get to decide which rules matter, Cassie,” he murmurs, voice like velvet over steel. “You broke mine. And now you’ll learn exactly what that earns you.”

A flicker of panic stirs in my chest—but it’s laced with heat. A wicked ache that settles low, pulsing with anticipation.

I feel him reach for my skirt, flipping it up like I’m some bratty little schoolgirl. I yelp and start to turn around, but his hand comes down fast—hard—against the curve of my ass.

I gasp.

“Count it,” he growls.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

“One…” I breathe, cheeks burning. “Sir.”

Another slap, harder this time. The sting spreads through my skin like fire and lightning, and my knees wobble.

“Two, Sir…”

His rhythm is punishing but measured, each strike a brand of dominance I can’t run from anymore. I’m squirming, panting, dizzy with arousal and shame and need. Every time I try to clench my thighs, he notices—and corrects me with a firmer slap that has me biting back a moan.

By the seventh, I’m whimpering. Not from pain exactly, but from the intensity of it. The surrender. The heat pooling in my stomach, the way his control wraps around me like a leash I asked for.

“You think this is fun?” he asks, voice rough now. “Think it’s a game?”

“No, Sir,” I whisper, my voice cracking.

Another slap. “Then why are you wet?”

I choke on my breath. I can’t answer. I’m too humiliated. Too turned on.

“Use your words,” he commands.

“Because…” I close my eyes. “Because I like it.”

His hand smooths over the spot he just punished, soothing the sting. “You like being mine.”

I nod slowly, unable to deny it. “Yes, Sir.”

He leans close, his lips brushing my ear. “Then act like it.”

I expect him to pull away, to leave me trembling and undone—but instead, his hand slips under the waistband of my panties, finding proof of everything he just said.

I cry out, half-shamed, half-wild with need.

“Goddamn,” he murmurs. “My filthy little brat.”

And I don’t argue. I can’t.

Because I am.

And I’m his.

---

I feel the sting every time I sit down.

My thighs tense instinctively as I lower myself onto the cold metal bleacher, trying not to wince—trying not to react—but the other girls know.

Oh, they know.

Their smirks say enough.

They saw Jessie pull me toward the shed. They saw the look on his face. And they saw the way I walked back—cheeks flushed, head down, skirt tugged low like it could hide what had just happened.

It couldn’t.

“You okay?” one of them whispers, her voice sticky-sweet with fake concern.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, still hearing Jessie’s words echo in my head:

You keep your mouth shut. You sit here, like the good little girl you pretend not to be. You don't speak unless you're spoken to. And if I hear even one complaint from Coach—or anyone—you’re not going to sit comfortably for a week. Understand me?

I’d nodded. I’d meant it. I still do.

Mostly.

But I can feel the brat in me, simmering just under the surface. Sore and silenced and, somehow, craving more.

Still, I keep my head down. I don’t speak.

The practice field blurs slightly in the heat, sunlight glinting off bats and helmets, the whistle sharp in the air. Jessie doesn’t even look at me. Not once. He’s laser-focused on the drill, barking orders, commanding his team like he didn’t just turn me inside out twenty minutes ago.

And for some reason… that makes it worse.

It makes me want to act out again. To get his attention back.

But then my phone buzzes.

Jessie 💀: You even think about mouthing off and I’ll bend you over the damn bleachers in front of them all. Test me again.

A pulse kicks behind my knees.

God. He knows me too well.

I clench my fists in my lap, forcing myself to be still. To obey. The way he wants. The way I need to learn how.

Across the field, Jessie finally glances my way. His expression is unreadable. Dangerous. Mine.

I swallow hard.

Message received.

And just like that, I stay silent.

Because this game we’re playing? It’s not about winning.

It’s about learning how to lose the right way.