The travel agency was both her kingdom and her gilded prison. Ashley lifted her eyes to the plaque on the door, “Dreamaway Travel,” a name she had chosen years earlier, back when she still believed that organising escapes for others might be enough to quiet her restlessness. Now, sitting behind her desk as the owner, that same restlessness was finding an outlet she could never have imagined.
The chat had become her hidden territory. A private space carved out between one booking and the next, concealed behind screens of flights and luxury hotels. To her employees, she was the flawless manager, composed, efficient, untouchable. To her husband, she was the reliable wife, the woman who had built a successful business from nothing. No one could have guessed what happened when she opened that discreet window on her computer.
Dago had entered her life the way the most dangerous temptations always do. Slowly. Almost without leaving a trace. At first, just brief exchanges, light jokes slipped in between clients. Then longer conversations during the quieter hours at the office. Until, without her fully realising when it had happened, those digital words had begun drifting into places that felt increasingly intimate.
There was something in the way he wrote. A controlled calm. A sharp intelligence wrapped in irony. With him, she felt safe enough to explore parts of herself she had kept sealed for years, hidden behind the polished façade of a successful businesswoman. With Dago, words came more easily. Freer. Shielded by the illusion of digital anonymity.
That Friday afternoon, as the office slowly emptied and the slanted sunlight turned the blinds a warm shade of amber, her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She hesitated, aware that what she was about to write could not be taken back. Then she typed the confession that changed everything.
I’d like to know what it feels like to be a man’s pleasure slave.
I’d like to meet a man who uses me to satisfy his desires, without limits, without shame.
The cursor blinked after the last word. One second. Two. Long enough for her to understand exactly what she had asked. Ashley held her breath, struck by the sudden clarity of a dangerous truth. What you desire deeply enough, you risk making real. This was a desire she had never given a voice to. Not even in her own thoughts.
His reply arrived with the calm she was beginning to recognise.
If you want, I can satisfy that curiosity.
Another pause. Longer this time.
You’ll receive an email from me. Read it carefully. Then decide.
The rest of the day became an exercise in control. Ashley moved among the desks as she always did, discussing itineraries with her staff, managing bookings, keeping intact the façade of efficiency she had built over the years. Yet every gesture concealed a tremor, every professional smile masked the anticipation tightening in her stomach.
She walked past the desks of Chiara, Elena and Marta, her “girls,” as she called them, but her thoughts were fixed on one thing alone. The email icon. She checked it with a frequency that bordered on compulsive, disguising each glance as part of her work routine. Five minutes. Ten. Her inbox remained stubbornly empty, as if Dago were deliberately testing her patience, savouring the slow rise of her desire.
She finally gave in when, well past midnight, sleep overcame her anxiety. In the silence of the bedroom, while her husband slept deeply beside her, her thoughts tormented her like invisible lovers. Dago could be unstable. Dangerous. Capable of hurting her, even killing her. No. It couldn’t be that. Something deeper than reason, more visceral than instinct, whispered that she was wrong. Sleep pulled her under in a swirl of images, arousing, unsettling, provocative. As if her subconscious had already made its choice.
When she woke, her body still hummed with the sensations of the night. Her husband had already left, leaving her alone with desires she had never allowed herself to name. Her hand slid naturally between her thighs, where dampness betrayed her forbidden dreams. Starting the day with an orgasm was one of life’s simplest pleasures.
She slipped out of the T-shirt she had slept in. Her fingers, practiced and sure, began to tease her clitoris while her tongue sought her nipples, licking them slowly. The blurred memory of her dreams left her more aroused than usual. She reached into the bedside drawer for what she kept hidden there. A vibrator.
She closed her eyes, letting her imagination turn that cold piece of plastic into the man from her dreams, surrendering herself to him in every opening. The orgasm hit her hard. Violently. Her body shook uncontrollably, as if seized by a convulsion. She lay still for a few moments, catching her breath, until the radio alarm reminded her she was running late. On her way to the bathroom for a revitalising shower, she passed by the computer and switched it on without even realising it.
The shower did exactly what she needed. She dressed quickly and was sipping her usual coffee when she remembered the computer was still on. This time, her expectations were not disappointed. Dago’s email was waiting for her.
Subject: The rules of the game
Just reading the subject sent a shiver through her. One she had never felt before.
The foundation was simple.
I decide when. I decide how. I decide how much.
One single evening as a slave would never allow you to fully taste this experience.
You will be mine for forty-eight hours.
You will arrive on Friday evening.
You will leave on Sunday evening.
For forty-eight hours, your only purpose will be to satisfy my desires, to serve my pleasure, and to obey my requests.
Before any of this begins, you must send me an email listing your limits, the things you are absolutely unwilling to do, and two words to be used in case of emergency. You have until Monday at noon to tell me whether you accept these conditions or not.
If your answer is yes, I will let you know how and where.
If your answer is no, I trust we will be able to continue this friendship.
Have a good weekend.
Dago
The words on the screen seemed alive. Forty-eight hours. From Friday evening to Sunday evening. The thought made her tremble with an anticipation she had never known, while her mind began circling possibilities, risks, and excuses she would need to invent for that weekend of transgression.
Forty-eight hours as a slave to his desires. Her experiences had never lasted more than a few hours. In her fantasies, she had always stopped at a single night. After all, forty-eight hours didn’t seem that much more. It reassured her that he had explicitly said there would be nothing involving things she disliked. Still, she needed to think it through.
She shut down the computer, swallowed the last of her coffee, and left for the office.
On the way, she could think of nothing else. What could happen in forty-eight hours? Her curiosity had grown beyond control. As her mind tried to imagine Dago’s fantasies, her body responded. Her nipples ached. Her underwear was uncomfortably wet. The urge to touch herself returned.
She entered the office tense enough for her girls to notice immediately and headed straight for her desk. She typed her login credentials with almost aggressive urgency and replied to Dago’s email.
I accept.
The thought of what you might make me do is consuming me.
Ash
Concentration was nearly impossible. Her colleagues, unintentionally, made things worse by unloading a mountain of paperwork onto her desk. Only during her lunch break did she manage to check her inbox again. Nothing. Dago was still playing with her nerves.
Irritated, she imagined tying him up and taking her revenge. The image of him naked, restrained on a bed, her mouth exploring his body, lingering on his sex, sent her spiralling again. This time, she couldn’t resist.
She slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She quickly pulled off her panties and leaned against the wall, rubbing her clitoris with urgency while sucking on her fingers, imagining how she would take him into her mouth. Her imagination raced faster than her hands could follow. She made a mental note to keep a vibrator in her handbag. Spreading her legs, she focused everything on her clitoris, recalling his voice, one of the last tasks he had given her. Thinking of him, she came quickly. The hardest part was keeping silent.
After a brief attempt to compose herself, she returned to her desk. Her body still hummed with residual energy as she forced her expression back into something professional. Her eyes flicked to her inbox.
It was there.
Hello Ash
I’ve already sent invitation letters for a special convention at an exclusive hotel in Paris. Attendees receive a weekend for two in a five-star hotel.
This will be your excuse.
On Friday, 28 June, you will be at the address listed below this email in the evening.
From your home, it’s about one hour. Far enough to be discreet, close enough to return without difficulty.
You will receive instructions in advance.
Until then, we will communicate only by email.
Dago
That email marked the beginning of a ten-day metamorphosis. Ten days of feverish anticipation, careful planning, deliberate transformation. Ashley organised them with military precision. Appointments for total waxing, leaving only a thin strip framing her pussy, a signature she liked to keep. Long hours at the hairdresser’s to perfect her colour and cut. Quick raids on lingerie boutiques, choosing pieces that whispered promises.
Every evening, after closing the agency, she devoted herself to beauty rituals. Oils that left her skin silky. Masks that made it glow. Creams that enhanced every curve. It wasn’t vanity. It was preparation. Devotion. An offering. As the calendar edged closer to Friday, 28 June, every act of care became a step toward the woman she had always wanted to be.
Workdays stretched painfully. Each task demanded double the effort. Her thoughts returned again and again to the email, the address, the instructions she had been given, the ones still to come. She knew he would keep her uncertain on purpose. Elena and the others must have noticed something, her distracted gaze, the way she checked her phone, but they had the tact not to ask.
The silence of the chat weighed on her like a physical absence. She missed the rhythm of their exchanges, the way his words guided her thoughts. That absence was part of his control. A way to remind her how deeply he could affect her, simply by withholding himself.
She chose her clothes carefully and packed a small bag, paying special attention to her underwear. Every item felt charged with meaning.
Friday afternoon dragged on. She checked the clock every five minutes, willing it to move faster. Time stretched and compressed unpredictably, each minute heavy with expectation.
The final hours at the office felt unreal. Ashley moved through her routine on autopilot, signing documents, answering calls, smiling at clients. Everything familiar felt altered, as if she were playing a role while excitement and fear ran beneath her skin.
Elena stopped her as she was leaving. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem… different.”
Ashley smiled and spoke of the convention, the opportunity, the details Dago had carefully constructed. The lie worked because it was partly true.
Friday evening traffic flowed around her car in streams of red and white. One hour, he had said. One hour to leave behind her ordered life. One hour to become Ash.
The navigation system guided her as the city gave way to suburbs, then countryside. The roads narrowed, darkened. She checked her reflection more than once. How does one prepare to cross a line like this?
At sunset, she turned onto Via dei Mille. Her heart raced as the house numbers passed. The villa appeared from the shadows. Anonymous. Perfect.
The gate was open, just as he had said. She parked and sat there for a moment, listening to her own breathing. In her bag, the tools for transformation. Makeup. The red lipstick she thought of as whore red, matching perfectly the shoes he had given her.
The rear-view mirror bore witness as she touched up her face. Not vanity. Ritual. For him.
She stepped out of the car. Earlier that day, she had worn a long coat, out of season. At a motorway stop, she had changed, putting on everything she had chosen during sleepless nights. She added her own details. Red heels. A steel anal plug. Something only he would fully appreciate. The gate closed behind her. She took a deep breath. Her red heels struck the path with a decisive sound.
All that remained was to cross the threshold.
