Rules 🫦

June 16, 2025

This is a short story I’m making and this is the first part. I hope you enjoy. 🫶🏾

_________

The light in the room is soft. Late afternoon. You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, blanket around your shoulders. He sits across from you—knees apart, forearms on his thighs, gaze steady but calm.

He doesn’t look angry. He looks serious. And somehow, that feels safer.

“Julia,” he begins, voice low and clear, “I want to talk to you about some rules.”

You tense, just a little. Not sure what kind of conversation this is.

He notices.

“These aren’t punishments.”
He leans in slightly, elbows resting on his knees.
“These are agreements. Boundaries that protect you. Routines that ground you. And safety nets you can fall into when things get dark.”

You nod slowly, listening. You can feel your body responding to the tone—nervous but soothed by the structure. You want to know what’s expected of you. What will make him stay close. What will make you feel safe.

He holds up one finger.

“First rule: honesty. Even when it’s hard. Even when you think it’ll upset me. I’d rather hear the ugliest truth than a sweet lie. Understand?”

You nod.
“Yes,Daddy.”

“Good.”
He holds up two fingers now.
“Second: communication. You don’t disappear on me. If you’re slipping mentally , you say something. A word. A message. Anything. I need to know when you’re drowning so I can reach you.”

“Even if I don’t know what to say?”

He nods.

“Especially then.”

Three fingers.

“Third: care tasks. Basic. Non-negotiable. You shower. You eat. You drink water. Even if it’s just a few bites, a rinse, a sip. I need you to meet me halfway, so I can carry the rest.”

You sigh trying not to catch an attitude and he gives you a sharp look but continues.

“Fourth: sobriety. Clear. Non-negotiable. No ***. Not to cope. Not to escape. Not to numb. Your body is mine to protect, and I can’t do that if you’re not present in it. I need you aware, safe, and honest with me—so I can keep you grounded when it’s hard to stay.”

You swallow.
“Okay.”

“Not okay. Say it right.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his.
“Yes, Daddy.”

“There’s my girl.”

He lets that sit for a moment. Then five fingers.

“ Fifth: you come to me. Not your vices. Not the blade. Not the bottle. Not the vape. If you need release, if you’re overwhelmed, if you’re angry—you come to me. Use your words, your body, your tears, anything. But you reach for me.”

You blink quickly, throat tightening.
“What if I don’t think I deserve to?”

He leans forward, voice firm now.

“That’s not your call to make. I decide what you deserve. And you deserve love. You deserve safety. You deserve me. So if you forget that—you come anyway. I’ll remind you.”

You nod, a tear slipping quietly down your cheek.
“Yes, Daddy.”

Six fingers.

“ Six and final for now: when I say enough, you stop. When I say look at me, you look. When I say I’ve got you—you believe me. Because I do.”

Silence settles between you.

Then, softly:
“Do you agree to these rules, Julia?”

You nod—stronger this time.
“Yes, Daddy. I do.”

He reaches over and takes your hand.

“These aren’t chains. They’re anchors. So you don’t drift. So you remember who you belong to when the storm hits.”