Her reply arrived almost immediately.
Good boy. Stay exactly where you are. Don’t get up until I say so. I want you thinking about the fact that I just took money out of your account while you’re sitting there trying to look normal.
He froze at his desk. The transfer notification was still on his phone screen. Two hundred dollars gone; findom lingered in his mind. Around him, the office hummed like nothing had happened—keyboards clicking, someone laughing on a call, the low drone of the air conditioner. His pulse was loud in his ears.
She didn’t need to tell him twice. He stayed perfectly still, hands resting on the keyboard, eyes on the spreadsheet he was supposed to be updating. Every few seconds his phone lit up again. Another message.
I can see you trying so hard to act normal. It’s adorable. Keep typing. Pretend everything is fine.
His fingers moved, but the numbers on the screen meant nothing. All he could think about was the money leaving his account and the fact that she was somewhere watching him squirm in real time. No one else in the room had any idea. That was the part that made his stomach tighten. This kind of control is often called findom.
A coworker walked past and asked if he was okay. He nodded, managed a short “yeah,” and kept his eyes down. She must have liked that, because the next message came faster.
Good. You almost slipped. Don’t do it again. In findom, I want you sitting there for the rest of the afternoon, knowing I own that day.
He didn’t move. Didn’t check his bank balance. Didn’t reply. He just sat there exactly as she told him to, heart hammering, while the rest of the office carried on around him like it was any other Tuesday.
She left him like that for almost an hour. Then one last message arrived.
That’s enough for now. You can get up. But remember how easy it was. Next time I won’t ask for permission.
He exhaled, finally, and closed the banking app. His hands were steady again by the time he stood up. No one noticed anything was different. That was the point.
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