Mind Me, Won’t You?

The fatigue had settled into her bones long before the night began. It was the kind of exhaustion no sleep could touch—the slow erosion of being unseen, unheard, sidelined in every way that mattered. She could still show up physically, but inside, she was a ghost.

When people listened only to reply, not to understand, her words dissolved into static. Her heart was denied. Her voice echoed only in the hollow chamber of her own mind.

She opened the inbox....

Dallas had praised her body like it was a gift he’d unwrapped, but never asked what it had survived.

Bert had kissed her wrists and called her “his,” but changed the subject when she spoke of fear.

Terran had held her like a secret, then ghosted her like she’d been a rumor.

The messages didn’t just blur—they bruised.

Each one left a mark she couldn’t point to.

Her stomach clenched at the midnight texts.

Her chest tightened at the emojis that replaced empathy.

Her breath caught when they called her “princess” like it was a leash.

They said “thinking of you” but never asked how she was.

Liked her photo, ignored her caption.

Touched her body, skipped her story.

It wasn’t a pattern.

It was erosion.

A slow dissolving of self beneath the weight of being almost seen.

She had just poured herself out—vulnerable, honest, raw. The cursor blinked in the corner of the screen, as if waiting for something better than what she’d given. Then the reply came:

“I want your thighs around my head, mouth buried deep, tongue long firm strokes, little flickers, exploring your body properly… till your legs shake.”

Her stomach turned. A slow, sour roll that made her press a hand to her middle. Her tongue curled against the taste -Salted rust, like tears steeped in time and left to tarnish.

The glow of the screen was too bright. The room too small. She read the words again, as if repetition might change them. It didn’t.

She almost laughed. Not from humour, but from habit.

“Don’t mind me,” she thought.

Not a joke. Not humility.

A stitched apology for breathing.

She whispered it aloud.

A sorrow. A spell. A breath that felt cold, full, and empty all at once.

She tried again. She always tried again. To express herself. To fight the voice inside that hissed: You don’t belong here!

She wrote from the heart—slowly, deliberately, as if each word was a thread pulled from her chest:

“I want to explore. Not just the edges of desire, but the depth of it.

I’m no longer looking through borrowed eyes—I see through my own now.

I used to think being broken made me worthy of less.

I learned to submit before I learned to speak.

I defaulted to obedience, mistaking silence for safety.

But I’ve discovered that happiness and kink can coexist.

That I can want softness and intensity.

That I can crave both nurturing and surrender.

I still want to play—sweetly, wildly, deeply.

But only with someone who holds me like I matter.

Someone who sees the whole of me, not just the parts they want to touch.

I want to know what it feels like to let go…

and be caught.”

The silence after sending was louder than the message itself. She watched the screen, not for a reply, but for proof that she hadn’t disappeared.

Then the reply came like salt in an open wound:

“I want you as a little. And my sex toy too. You turn me on so much… it’s your fault I keep having to cum over you.”

He took, as they all did.

He gave nothing.

Her existence seemed to serve a purpose—but never her own. Her reflection felt like a glitch in someone else’s fantasy. A face she recognized but didn’t belong to.

Another message arrived:

“You are under my skin, little one. Have you thought of me?”

She had.

She thought of what she gave, even with her limits.

She thought of what she got in return.

She thought of what Daddy and Dom were supposed to mean: a guide, a mentor, a protector.

Not a consumer. Not a thief.

It wasn’t new.

The inbox was just a modern version of the same game.

Her uncles had called it “play.”

But she remembered the carpet under her knees.

The smell of stale breath and plastic toys.

The way pretend felt like punishment.

She learned to submit before she learned to speak her truth.

To please before she learned to breathe freely.

To believe her broken pieces made her more desirable.

Years lost.

Trust eroded.

Softness stolen.

Now, as an adult, she took crumbs like they were life support—drowning in the stench of home. The foul desires of men who didn’t care she was a person. She was a mirror. A muse. A mouth. A hole. Never a whole.

But something shifted.

A stillness she had rarely felt—as if her body had learned to gaze at the world without flinching. She could read people the way most read the weather, sensing the storm before the first drop fell. And now, she was becoming the calm in her own story.

Her fingers hovered over the delete button.

Not with hesitation, but with ceremony.

She didn’t just close the inbox.

She exorcised it.

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t know what to say, but because she knew it would be ignored. Still, she wrote it anyway, not for them, but for herself.

She wrote her truth:

“If you call yourself a leader, lead.

If you call yourself a protector, protect.

Don’t pretend to care while you consume.

Some of us are healing.

Some of us are learning love beyond survival.

And we deserve respect.”

Still, the inbox filled with strangers who may as well be the same man. They took the vulnerable and made them more so. The whisper returned.

This time, it wasn’t a taunt. It was a truth. It was a turning. It was a ritual of release.

She opened the window.

It was 12:18 a.m.

The streets were so quiet, the passing train sounded like it was tearing through the sound barrier.

Echoes of distant cars hummed like ghosts.

Musical birds cooed in the dark, their songs oddly misplaced.

The whooshing outside matched the ones inside her head.

The house held an eerie silence—like too many horror films had taught her that even normalcy could be a lie.

The air outside was sharp.

Her lungs expanded like they hadn’t in years.

She stood in the stillness, breathing in the night.

And smiled.

“I don’t belong here anymore,” she said aloud.

She didn’t know exactly where she was going—only that it would be hers. She was not a genie for men’s desires. She was human. She had needs. She had wants. She had a voice. And she was done apologizing for it.

When the next message came—another man, another mask—she didn’t flinch. She didn’t reply. She didn’t explain. She didn’t perform.

She simply whispered:

“Don’t mind me.”

And this time, it was not an apology.

It was a boundary.

It was a guideline.

It was a beginning.