The Curse Of Crumbs

He touched her.

But not just with physicality.

It wasn’t only his fingers that stroked the side of her face, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear.

It wasn’t just the warmth of his body as he cradled her.

He touched her soul—her curiosity.

His charm didn’t sit on the surface; it came from the depths.

It was the kind of charm that didn’t ask for attention—it earned it, quietly, like a secret remembered.

He asked her to bare herself to him—not her body, but her soul.

Her identity.

What lay beyond the scarred armour that shielded her from layered burns that never stopped.

She had been asked before. But never like this. Never with such reverence for the unseen.

“Tell me, little one...

If you had no moral constraints—and I know you do—what would you do and feel?

I’d like to know. For me.

You once asked what I get out of us... and that’s part of it, I guess.

If we have boundaries, let’s not have them in messages.”

Many words crossed her mind.

Smiles stretched wider.

Her face tucked into her neck as she shied away, cheeks rosy red with lustful blushing.

His question was simple in layers, but not in depth.

What is life, if not full of complications and limitations that arrive with every new obstacle?

She took a breath.

She composed her smile, her tightly raised cheeks.

And her heart gave her the core of his answer—in the only way she knew how to respond to a question that must remain dormant.

“That isn’t something I can explain in words.

It’s a feeling my body gets—almost a pull I yield to without knowing.

Suddenly, my need to protect myself, to be on guard, collapses.

And all I feel is a desire to serve, to worship—an all-over sense that consumes me in ways that can’t be articulated with man-made words.

I think you know, as well as I do, how I feel.

But knowledge and acknowledgment don’t carry the happiness others might feel.

Such feelings will only cause an avalanche of woe.

My feelings—they’re in my stories, in my giggles, etched in everything I do.

They come with me, just as my shadow does.

But to think on such things, to speak of them, becomes counterproductive.

Lines are already danced on with mischievous cheek, tempting the goddess of sinful pleasures.

The feeling will live nameless—for such things are as forbidden as the first apple plucked from His tree.”

There is something that lingers.

An electric pulse.

A thousand conversations felt in a single glance.

The softness of his eyes as he stares into her soul—and she into his.

The sins are felt.

And the pull comes with resistance.

It isn’t a mere challenge—it’s a struggle.

Like sinking, and still opening your mouth to find breath.

In the attempt to be saved, you condemn yourself.

And in one swoop, that breath draws water to your lungs.

Agony. Panic. Desire. Greed. Home.

She feels everything—the demise, the joy, the lust, the love, and the pain that shackles the ankles, punishes the heart, and bruises the soul.

Such things do not go away.

It was the endurance never meant to be felt—and yet it blooms, anyway.

Words will not pass her lips.

But she will take his hand.

She will rest his palm against her face.

She will lay her ear to his chest and count his beats, measuring her own rhythm against his—two heartbeats echoing in a chamber of silence.

He grew in the darkest corner of her heart—her guilty pleasure, her permanent ache.

Her broken heart he may claim.

The tears will come, and his name will be seen in every spill.

And still, her silence, her denial, her submission—it will stay, a forced dormant.

It will remain nothing more than a statue of memories.

He will never be forgotten.

Her skin feels him in every season.

Her soul craves him.

Her life...

All but his.

Dallas and Isabella were not just drawn from intimacy. They were soul-bound.

Their connection felt like a reunion—souls that had travelled through every life cycle, finding each other once more.

The souls never changed.

Only the bodies.

New skin. New names.

But the familiarity was undeniable.

They had been lost loves.

They had been friends.

They had been family.

They had been enemies.

And now, in this life, they reunited again—just as they had in every other cycle.

It wasn’t that mortals could time travel.

It was that souls could.

And they never stopped looking.

Yes, their lives lived without each other.

That was the grand design. The souls were simply meant to find each other before their final cycle ended.

They had always found each other.

In temples. In trenches. In lullabies whispered across centuries.

But this time, the reunion came not through fate’s poetry—but through algorithms.

It was a strange kind of magic.

Not divine, not ancient—just digital.

A swipe. A scroll. A profile that pulsed with something more than pixels.

Not incense or prophecy—but a push notification.

Isabella hadn’t expected anything sacred.

She wasn’t looking for a soulmate.

She was looking for a space to be seen.

To be understood.

To be held in a dynamic that honoured her complexity, her softness, her strength.

She wasn’t seeking magic. She expected noise. But instead, she found a signal.

Because soulmates don’t wait for permission.

They arrive—sometimes through sacred ritual, sometimes through strange algorithms.

And so, there he was.

Dallas.

Not a stranger. Not really.

Just a familiar soul wearing a new name.

This time, they didn’t meet in temples or trenches.

They met in the white glow of a dating app—where desire is swiped, not summoned.

Where connection is reduced to pixels and profiles.

The equivalent of a child first discovering moving bits and pieces on their body.

It doesn’t stop being fascinating...

Until it does.

But fascination fades. And what remains is the ache of recognition.

She went on a BDSM kink app.

Her profile bio read:

“Submission is earned. Not taken. Not assumed. Not owed.”

She was clear.

She was unapologetic.

She was not for everyone.

I’m a non-sexual little.

My age regression is four.

And I’m a healthy mega-switch with a dominant core.

I’m ready to find my Alpha—someone worthy of the obedience I offer above and beyond compliance.

My submission is devotional, intelligent, and joyful.

But it’s not for everyone.

It’s not a kink accessory.

It’s not a shortcut to control.

It’s a gift.

And if you don’t understand that, I have no need for you in my inbox.

I believe in dynamics that elevate both Daddy and Little.

I will make my Daddy feel godlike—but only if he knows how to lead with clarity, care, and earned authority.

I respond to structure, interest, and incentive.

I thrive under the carrot, not the stick.

I’m playful, emotionally attuned, and loyal beyond measure.

But I don’t perform for strangers.

And I don’t test for free.

If you’re here to objectify or dominate without depth, keep scrolling.

If you’re here to co-create something sacred, I’m listening.

Her words were a boundary and a beacon.

A declaration of selfhood in a space that often mistook submission for silence.

But even clarity couldn’t shield her from the erosion.

Dating apps were dismantling the very definition of connection—of bonds, of love, of affection.

Brains melted under the weight of convenience.

Desire became a transaction.

Intimacy, a swipe.

There was a time Isabella drowned her IQ in dating apps—

Not to find someone.

To hurt someone.

By hurting herself.

Another example of humanity’s failed emotional logic.

And yet, it led her to Dallas.

Their conversation bloomed like a lotus—

Born from questionable waters,

Unfolding with defiant beauty.

Isabella wanted to understand herself.

She wanted to understand Dallas.

She wanted to understand the dynamic.

It mattered that he was happy.

It mattered that she was safe.

It mattered that there was care and affection beyond base-level flesh and devouring—

Though those memories still brought a smile from time to time.

Being a little was where Isabella felt safest.

Happiest.

Most like herself.

She felt her inner child.

She felt healing beneath her ribs.

There were moments of conflict.

Times she questioned her true incentive for embracing the lifestyle.

Could she not fit into the conformity guidelines everyone else slinks into?

Dallas had made peace with his vows—

Promises to another’s heart.

Promises he planned to keep.

Isabella struggled to understand certain aspects.

It was the contradictions that tripped her

Hypocritical words and actions that never seemed to align.

Pleasing her Daddy was her greatest joy.

She lived for those moments when their hearts intertwined, even across the miles.

When the ache became too loud, Isabella retreated to her sanctuary.

Her room, her plushies, her little world.

Each plushie—from the well-loved blue alien bear to the vibrant rainbow unicorn and polar bear—held a memory.

A fragment of her lost childhood she clung to like a lifeline.

The soft fabric pressed against her fingertips was a soothing comfort to her shattered heart.

Each gentle squeeze offered a fleeting sense of security.

It reminded her of simpler times—

When her biggest worry was whether her favourite toy would be there to greet her at bedtime,

Not the tumult of emotions that now threatened to engulf her.

And now Isabella felt that same conflicting home feeling

As she pressed herself into his chest and felt him—

His presence, his bond, HIM.

Still, the weight of her feelings pressed down on her,

As if a herd of elephants had stampeded across her chest,

Trampling her breath.

She sat cross-legged on her bed,

Her pants wet and soggy with reckless thoughts of him.

The pastel colours of her room swirled around her like a whimsical dream—

A stark contrast to the reality that loomed large in her mind.

Dallas is married.

Happily married.

With one desire: to have a little.

And that is why he wants Isabella.

A collection of trophies he can gather and own.

His and only his.

The realisation that she was falling for Dallas—

Someone she had only known for a short time—

Sent a shiver of confusion through her.

“What is wrong with me? He’s married... he’s not mine... how could I do this to her? I’m a monster.”

Her thoughts screamed at her.

Her body shivered and shook—

From guilt, from happiness, from inner disappointment,

From her own disapproval and shame.

She knew she wasn’t allowed.

But she couldn’t resist the pull.

She tried to fight.

She tried so hard to be a good girl—

Nearly split herself in two trying to find peace from the confusion and pain that followed her feelings.

Like a blanket of grief—

Consuming, cloaking, dampening—

She broke herself.

The echoes of laughter they had shared over video calls danced in her memory.

Each chuckle, each glance, each truth, bonded them closer,

Yet also stretching her heart taut with the uncertainty of when—

Always following with the guarantee of how it was going to hurt her the most.

And the equation would be the rapture.

It would be the end.

And still, her fight was for him.

Not herself.

And then, the room changed.

The air thickened.

The pastel walls dimmed.

A figure stood at the edge of her bed—not quite human, not quite shadow.

A stranger.

Genderless.

Timeless.

Their voice was soft and sharp, like silk wrapped around a blade.

“When he takes what he wants,” the stranger said, “as you give until you are hollowed—will your smile still reach your eyes?”

Isabella blinked. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

“Will your breath not falter beneath the weight of what you surrendered?

Will your heart not ache with the knowing—that you were never meant to be kept, only consumed?”

She clutched the plushie tighter. Her breath hitched.

“You will cry in places no one sees.

You will fracture in silence.

The pain won’t scream—it will whisper.

And that whisper will follow you.”

The plushie slipped from her hands. It landed with a soft thud.

“Happiness will become a currency you cannot afford.

And sorrow will be the debt you pay in full.”

The stranger stepped closer, voice low and final.

“The reaper won’t come cloaked in shadow.

He’ll arrive as a man with kind eyes and a promise he never meant to keep.”

Isabella’s eyes widened. Her mouth trembled.

“And when it ends—because it will end—you will be the architect of your own undoing.

Every choice.

Every bent boundary.

Every moment you mistook hunger for love.”

The stranger tilted their head.

“Tell me, my dear... does this warning not haunt you?”

Then the stranger asked again, voice softer now, but no less sharp:

“When he takes what he wants—as you give until you are spent—

will your smile still be seen as it is now?

Will tears not visit your eyes? Or shall you just not mind?

Will your heart not grow too heavy to carry?

Will the burden not keep you from feeling grounded?

Will you be able to say it was worth it—to know your desires will never be met in full,

and that denying yourself the crumbs feels more sinful than taking the bite?”

And then the warning came—not spoken, but cast.

A curse. A truth. A prophecy.

“You will cry a thousand tears.

You will split—not into confetti, but into pieces no one can gather.

Pain will echo through your vision like shattered glass—cutting deeper than before.

Happiness will be auctioned to the highest bidder.

And sorrow will be the harvest of what you’ve sown.

The reaper will not chase you.

He will wait.

And when he arrives, it will be a painful, it will be ruthless.

It will be final.

And it will be all on you.

Every action.

Every dare.

Every boundary pushed.

Every word spoken.

You paved the path long before it arrived.

Tell me little one!

Does this warning not scare you?”

She hadn’t answered.

Not aloud.

But her body had.

The tremble in her fingers.

The way her breath caught and refused to leave.

The way her heart clenched—not from romance, but from recognition.

She knew.

She had always known.

Even before the stranger.

Even before Dallas.

She had paved the path.

With every giggle.

Every boundary bent in the name of devotion.

Every moment she mistook hunger for love.

And now, she sat in the aftermath.

Not broken.

Not whole.

Just... paused.

The room fell silent.

The plushies watched.

The stranger vanished.

And Isabella was alone again.

Except for the whisper, that will be her forever.