James
She was drooling around his cock, eyes glazed, body shaking as he held her down. She didn't beg him to stop. She begged him to never stop.
And when she came—trembling, ruined—she smiled like she'd finally come home.
I sat back in my chair, hand hovering over the keyboard.
The cursor blinked. Another 2,000 words logged into the draft. Another chapter finished.
I glanced at the live reader count climbing in real time. Forty thousand views within the first five minutes. My inbox was already piling up with notifications—fanmail, commissions, dirty praise from strangers begging for the next update. Most of them had no idea they were talking to a tenured university professor.
And that was exactly how I liked it.
They called me SalemVeritas. Online, I was a legend. Offline, I was James Weller—structured, sharp, boring. No one ever put the two together. Not even my colleagues. Especially not them.
I closed the draft, adjusted my pants, and leaned back in the chair.
Still hard.
The kind of scene I'd just written always hit too close. Not because it was taboo. But because it was real—too real, sometimes. Every time I brought that kind of power dynamic to life on the page, it dragged something up from the bottom of me. Something old. Something that had been there since I was a teenager.
The first time I felt it, I was sixteen.
I'd had this dream—dark, vivid, and far too specific to be random. In it, I wasn't begging anyone for anything. I was in control. She was kneeling, collared, looking up at me with that perfect mix of hunger and obedience. She wanted to be used. Trusted me to take her apart and put her back together. It wasn't just about sex. It was deeper. It was about ownership.
I came hard in my sleep that night.
I didn't talk about it. Didn't tell anyone. But I started writing.
First in notebooks. Then Word docs. Then forums. Then someone suggested I serialize.
By twenty-three, I was already making money. By twenty-eight, I was making serious money. Now, at thirty-three, I make more in a day online than I do teaching for a whole semester.
And yet I still showed up to class in a suit, whiteboard markers in my pocket, playing the part. Not because I needed to—but because I liked the cover.
No one looks twice at a man in a blazer with tenure. No one suspects the high-functioning professional who uses "sociolinguistic inferencing" in lectures to be the same guy writing gangbang collar play under a fake name. It's the perfect mask.
And under it, I'm free.
I glanced down at the bulge in my pants, sighed, and unzipped.
If I was going to be late for class, might as well earn it.
My hand wrapped around the base, the motion as familiar as the thought behind it. It wasn't just about the last scene I wrote—it was what the fantasy meant.
A submissive like the ones I write wouldn't roll her eyes or make sarcastic jokes about what I wanted. She wouldn't flinch if I gripped her jaw. She'd ask for it. She'd crave the rules, the structure, the power exchange. And in return, I'd take care of her like she was priceless.
Obedience for everything. That's the deal. It's not just sex—it's a pact.
I came fast, cleaned up faster. Years of practice will do that.
My phone buzzed. I didn't need to check the name.
Dad.
I picked it up. No greeting.
"You'll get the seventy today."
A pause.
"Didn't ask yet."
"You always call when you need it. Let's skip the warm-up."
I waited. No response. Just that quiet, disappointed breath he always let out when I made it clear we weren't going to pretend we liked each other.
I ended the call.
It wasn't worth the conversation.
I sat there a second longer, thumb hovering over the home screen, jaw tight.
I hated that man.
Not because he was cruel. That would've been easier. He wasn't abusive. He was weak.
Spineless. Needy. The kind of man who flinched when a woman raised her voice. My mother was a drunk—mean, manipulative, loud. And my dad? He just… took it. Sat there at the dinner table, quiet, letting her destroy him in slow motion. He never raised his voice. Never protected me. Never protected himself. He let her humiliate him over and over until there was nothing left to respect.
I learned early not to rely on him.
The only time I ever saw him show any kind of spine was at her funeral. Not because he was grieving—but because he looked relieved.
Now?
Now he's sixty, living alone in a downtown apartment, blowing seventy grand of my money every month on wine, rent, and his little secret: a twenty-seven-year-old dominatrix who makes him kneel on all fours and crawl like a dog.
I know about her. I've seen the receipts. Hotel rooms, cash deposits, the "coaching" sessions she bills as physical therapy. He thinks I'm too busy to notice.
He doesn't know I've seen the messages.
"Did you miss Daddy today?" "Yes, Goddess. I've been a bad boy."
Pathetic.
We're opposites in every way. He gets off being stepped on. I get off being in control.
And the only reason I keep wiring him that money every month is because he's the one person alive who knows who I really am. He found out two years ago. Hacked into my laptop when he visited for Christmas. I was careless. He opened a doc he shouldn't have seen, then followed the trail. He never said anything directly—but two weeks later, I got a call.
"You know, you're doing pretty well for yourself these days, huh?"
That was the deal.
Seventy grand a month to keep his mouth shut.
I wired it immediately. I had no choice. If anyone found out I was SalemVeritas—the man behind "Blood Surrender," "Collared Obedience," and the four-book series that broke every erotica record on Kindle—it would be over.
The job. The tenure. The whole fucking mask.
So, I pay. And I don't ask questions. And I don't look at him when we pass in public, on the rare occasions we're even on the same street. To anyone else, we're just another father and son with nothing to say to each other.
Which is about right.
I shut my laptop, adjusted my shirt cuffs, and checked the time. Seven minutes late.
I stood, grabbed my notes, and left the office.
Back to campus. Back to the podium. Back to pretending I was just a man who taught students how to dissect communication patterns—when, in reality, I was halfway through writing a 300-chapter domination epic about a succubus who begged for punishment and loved every second of it.
No one had ever made me feel that way in real life. Not yet. I'd dated, sure. Slept around. Had a few serious things. But none of them gave up control the way I wanted. Not fully. Not without conditions. Always some limit they were performing within. Always a wall.
That's what led me to the writing.
If the world wouldn't give me what I wanted, I'd build it myself.
And maybe—just maybe—one day I'd find someone who saw it the same way.
But until then?
I had 300 million readers. And none of them ever said no.