Daddies (MxBxM)

Today is the first day of my punishment.

I’m being left behind in New York while my dom, Sam, and my boyfriends Jessi and Cory, his subs are on their way to France for three weeks.

Three weeks without me. Three weeks where I’m not there to cause problems, not there to act out, not there to ruin things.

I guess I deserve it.

I deserve to be left behind.

The thought settles deep in my chest and doesn’t move. It repeats so many times it starts to feel solid, like something permanent. By the time I step out of the bathroom, my hands are shaking.

I’d cut a few lines down my arms nothing dramatic, nothing new and wrapped them carefully, like I always do. The sting is still there, sharp and grounding, keeping everything else from spilling over.

I crawl into bed and curl up on my side, pulling my knees toward my chest. Tears slide down my face and soak into the pillow before I can stop them.

“I deserve it,” I whisper.

Saying it out loud makes it feel more real.

I’ve been acting out for weeks now. Throwing tantrums. Refusing to listen. Ignoring Sam’s orders. Pulling away from Jessi and Cory, not giving them affection the way I used to. I know how it looks. I know how frustrating it must be.

Our dynamic used to be clear.

Sam was the dom to all of us. I submitted to him, and I topped Jessi and Cory when they wanted or needed it when they needed reassurance, structure, grounding. It worked. It made sense.

But something shifted about a month ago.

I didn’t want to top anymore. I didn’t want to be dominant or in control. I didn’t want to lead. I wanted them to be gentler with me. Softer. I wanted to be spoken to quietly, touched carefully, like I was fragile instead of difficult.

Sam didn’t change.

He stayed firm. Sharp. Commanding.

He treated me like a slave.

And maybe that’s what I was at least I had been but lately, I didn’t want that anymore. I tried to talk about it. God, I really did. But every time I tried, it got shut down before I could get the words out properly.

Wrong timing. Too emotional. Not making sense.

After enough failed attempts, I stopped trying to explain myself.

Instead, I started acting out.

And the more I acted out, the harsher the punishments became. The harsher they became, the more desperate I felt. It turned into a loop I couldn’t get out of, no matter how hard I tried.

This morning, they left without me.

Sam didn’t hesitate when he said it.

“You’re not coming with us. We want to enjoy this vacation without you acting out and ruining it for all of us.”

The words hit hard, sharp pain blooming in my chest like something had cracked open.

But I can’t blame him.

He’s right.

I’ve been a terrible sub. Disobedient. Emotional. Too much. I deserve to be left alone. I deserve to sit here and deal with myself instead of dragging everyone else down with me.

The thought drifts somewhere darker before I can stop it.

I should just disappear.

I grab my phone and turn the music up loud enough to drown out everything else. The noise fills my head as I press down on the bandages, forcing the pain back into focus until my thoughts blur together. It’s easier to sleep than to think.

So I sleep.

Time passes strangely after that.

I sleep most of the day, every day. When my stomach starts to hurt too badly—when it feels like it’s trying to fold in on itself—I eat an apple. Sometimes half. Sometimes just a few bites. Every couple of days. Just enough to keep going.

Two weeks pass like this.

My arms and thighs are covered in cuts, old and new overlapping where I’ve started to run out of space. I’ve lost fourteen kilograms. I was already underweight, but now it’s obvious.

My under-eyes are dark and sunken, my cheekbones too sharp, my lips cracked and dry from not eating or drinking properly.

I look wrong.

That night, I lie awake playing with the edge of my pillow. I slept eighteen hours today, so sleep won’t come back. Loud music plays in the background while I stare at the wall, unmoving.

I’m barely surviving. Just doing the bare minimum to stay alive.

I can’t take care of myself. I don’t have the motivation or the energy. Living feels heavy, like something I keep failing at.

My thoughts start getting loud again too loud so I pull myself out of bed and head toward the bathroom.

There’s one thing I can’t handle.

Being dirty.

I don’t care if the house is a complete mess.

Dishes can rot in the sink. Laundry can pile up on the floor. None of it matters. As long as I’m clean, it’s fine. Being clean is the only thing that makes my skin stop crawling, the only thing that quiets the buzzing in my head even a little.

When I step out of the shower, my hands are shaking again.

I rebandage my arms as carefully as I can, fingers clumsy and weak, tears blurring my vision. I mess it up twice and have to start over. By the time I’m done, my chest hurts from how hard I’m crying.

I shuffle back to the bed and curl up like before, pulling the blankets around myself.

“Red,” I whisper.

“Red… red… please…”

My voice cracks.

“Red, Master.”

It’s stupid. I know it is. The apartment is empty. No one is here to hear me. But some part of me small and desperate keeps hoping that saying it out loud will make this stop. Like the safe word might still work even when I’m alone.

I fall asleep muttering red under my breath, tears soaking into the pillow again.

More days pass.

I stop eating completely and switch to drinking juice. It keeps me alive—barely. Sugar is easier than chewing. Swallowing over and over feels like too much effort, like something I don’t deserve.

Today is the day they’re supposed to come back.

I wait for relief to hit me. For anxiety. For something.

Nothing comes.

I don’t feel happy. I don’t feel exhausted. I don’t even feel relieved. I just feel heavy. Like their return is another thing I have to survive.

I don’t want to face them.

I don’t want to explain myself. I don’t want to see the disappointment on Sam’s face, or the concern in Jessi’s and Cory’s eyes. I don’t want to be the problem standing in the room again.

I want to leave.

I want to disappear.

I want to die.

But—hey. I deserve it, right?

That way I won’t ruin anything else for them.

A weak, humorless chuckle slips out of me as I drag myself out of bed. I set the half-drunk cup of juice on the nightstand and head back into the bathroom.

Another shower.

Another cut.

I’m running out of space now. My skin feels crowded, marked up, like even my body is tired of holding everything in. But it’s fine. It’s all fine.

I deserve it.

When I’m done, I pull on an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, fabric swallowing me whole. Everything is covered. Hidden.

“That’s better,” I murmur to myself. “I don’t look as ugly now.”

I crawl back into bed and turn the music on again, loud enough to fill my head completely. I stare at the wall, unmoving, letting the noise carry me.

The front door opens.

Laughter spills into the apartment. Real laughter. Light. Easy. The sound of people who weren’t falling apart.

My stomach twists.

I don’t move.

Footsteps echo down the hall.

Voices overlap Jessi’s laugh, Cory’s softer chuckle.

“Leo, baby, where are you?” Sam calls out, smiling in his voice like nothing is wrong. Like I wasn’t left behind to rot.

I stay where I am, staring at the wall.

The bedroom door opens.

Sam steps in first, Jessi and Cory right behind him. They look… good. Relaxed. Sun-kissed. Whole.

I turn my head slowly to look at them.

I try to smile.

I try to speak.

Nothing happens.

My throat feels tight, my body heavy and unresponsive, like I’m stuck somewhere deep inside myself watching this happen from far away. All I can do is stare at them blankly, hollowed out and silent, while something small and frightened curls tighter in my chest.