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☘︎ CALEB’S GIRL TOY
Synopsis: You don’t know his name. He doesn’t want to know yours. What you do know is that he’s chosen you—not for who you are, but for who you resemble. And you said yes. This is a fantasy you were never meant to be part of, but you’re already playing the part. He’s charming, commanding, impossibly hot—and somewhere beneath the control, something cracks. But not for you. Because you were never supposed to matter. Just a stand-in. Just a girl toy—for Caleb.
Details: 3000 words of unhinged dom energy. 18+ stuff. Notinoti stuff. No s*x, but plenty sexy time heeeh. Expect sexual tension, humiliation, control, and the kind of mouthwatering, mind-warping power play only Colonel Caleb can deliver. Submissive reader POV, nonMC fem. And yes—he’s broken. Of course he is. You’re welcome. (Just a lil drabble pilot from a series I might be working on. If you like the vibe I’ll continue with more chapters)
Chapters: Chapter one, chapter two, chapter three
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Borrowed Skin | Pilot
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You met him online.
No fireworks, no grand declarations. Just a message one night when you were bored and a little drunk on wine, clicking through profiles with a kind of casual hunger. His username was stupid—smug. His first message, cocky. But clever. You remember the way he phrased it like he already knew you’d answer.
C_You_Naked: ever had someone make you stand at attention through a screen?
You answered.
And now you’re weeks deep. A few messages turned into entire nights on your phone. You’ve talked about everything and nothing. Laughed until your ribs hurt. Dared each other, teased each other. You’ve exchanged photos. A few video calls. You know what his voice sounds like at 2AM when he’s tired and laughing under his breath. You know what his collarbones look like in dim lighting. You know what his belt looks like coiled in his lap.
And you know what his fingers look like wrapped around a his cock.
One night, while you were getting ready for bed—face washed, silk shorts clinging to freshly lotioned skin, the quiet hum of your room settling around you—your phone buzzed.
A message from him.
He’d sent another picture.
Not to scare you—just to tease. Playful, but with that unmistakable undercurrent he always carried.
It was a picture of something made of black leather, sleek and straight, with a short strap attached at the end—more like a flattened tongue than a proper whip. Elegant. Mean-looking. Strange. Beautiful, in the way sharp things can be. “Interrogation tool” he’d captioned it.
Followed by a winking emoji that somehow felt more like a smirk.
You’d answered with a flushed, blushing emoji. Half-shy, half-inviting. You weren’t fooling either of you.
C_You_Naked: you’re sure? you don’t even know what this thing does yet. might not be able to walk after.
The next image that came through was almost artistic—his gloved hands holding the leather, the tool curled obediently across his palm. His fingers gripped it lightly, like he was offering it. Or warning you.
Either way, it made your breath catch.
C_You_Naked: pretty little toy for a pretty little girl.
You hesitated only a second.
YOU: yes.
C_You_Naked: mm. don’t say i didn’t warn you. if you flinch, I’ll stop. if you cry, I might not.
You laughed. Flushed. Wrote something flirty back.
YOU: you’re awful.
C_You_Naked: nah. i’m careful. awful comes later. when you’re begging me not to stop.
But he never crossed the line. Not really. Every time the conversation dipped into darker waters, he checked in. Asked how you felt. Teased you, yes, but never cruelly. He’d joke and then soften it, say something stupid to make you laugh. It kept the knife edge from cutting too deep.
But he made you ache.
He’s hot—insanely so. That much is undeniable. Tall, with sharp cheekbones and a mouth that looks like it was made to sin. His hair falls in dark bangs often slipping into his eyes—eyes that feel too sharp, too steady. Like they don’t just see you, but see through you.
And his voice… the kind that hums in your chest before it ever reaches your ears. It moves like silk—teasing, amused—until it turns.
But you don’t know his name. And he doesn’t want to know yours.
You were allowed his phone number—for convenience, he’d said, like it wasn’t a privilege. And you’re allowed to call him C through text. Or Colonel—when he wants to hear it sharp between your teeth on a call.
And now, C is in your city. Like a storm that changed its path just to find you.
C: in town for a few days. want to see you. want you on your knees.
Your breath stuttered. You stared too long, the glow of the screen washing over your face—then your fingers moved, answering before your thoughts could catch up.
YOU: send me the address.
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Now it’s late, and you’re walking through the city night. Heels clicking against the pavement. The cold nips at your bare legs, sharp as teeth, but you don’t mind. You shaved. Wore perfume. Lined your lips. Every move tonight was made for him.
The hotel looms sleek and modern—expensive without being flashy. You step through the doors like you belong, head high. Your coat clings to your body, and you can feel a few eyes on you. You don’t meet them. You don’t care.
You text C.
YOU: I’m here.
With your heart hammering, you wait. You nod at the receptionist, casual. Just a girl in heels and a trench coat, standing a little too confidently to be lost.
Your phone buzzes.
C: 891. if you’re nervous, turn around. if you’re brave, knock twice. if you’re mine tonight, don’t say a word when you come in. just kneel.
Your breath leaves you in a single, shaky exhale and you walk toward the elevator, and you hold your breath.
It’s not nerves exactly. Not fear. You know what this is. You’re not naive. You’ve read between every line of his messages, caught the cold steel beneath the velvet. C isn’t here for love. Not for sweet talk or second dates.
He wants you. As in—what you can give him.
And you’ve decided you’re willing.
The elevator dings softly when it arrives. You step in alone. A low hum fills the small space. Chrome walls, sterile lighting. You watch yourself in the mirror paneling—lips slightly parted, pupils too wide, coat pulled tight across your chest. You smooth your skirt with trembling fingers. Cross one leg behind the other, then uncross. Breathe.
A small hiss as the doors close.
Eighth floor.
You ride up in silence. If there’s any soft lounge music playing in the elevator, you don’t hear it—all you can hear is the thudding of your pulse behind your ribs, loud and steady, like a warning you’re far too gone to heed.
When you step into the hallway, the carpet hushes your footsteps. Everything smells expensive—leather, pine, the soft hush of wealth. You keep your chin lifted. Count off the numbers on the doors.
885.
887.
889… 891.
You stop. Stand before it. The hallway is still, thick with quiet like something is holding its breath with you.
You reach into your bag. Pull out your compact. Your fingers are steady as you apply a thin coat of fresh lipstick. Deep red. The color you know he likes. You press your lips together once. Twice. Inhale. Exhale.
This is your last chance to walk away.
You knock.
Twice.
The door clicks open.
And you step inside.
The suite hits you first with its size, then its silence. It’s enormous—vaulted ceilings, sleek marble floors half-shadowed in warm, low lighting. And then the scent hits you, soft but distinct—his cologne. Sandalwood, clean and grounded, edged with something cooler, metallic. Underneath it all, a crisp sweetness lingers—bright, almost edible. Like something ripe just out of reach. It curls in your lungs and makes your stomach flutter.
To your right, the bathroom door is cracked open. Through it, you can see a freestanding tub near glass walls that stretch from floor to ceiling. A nighttime view of the city glitters beyond like a galaxy laid out just for you.
In the main room, a bed dominates the space—massive, wide, decadently made with dark gray sheets that gleam faintly in the low light.
And there—angled slightly away, a leather chair facing the window, not quite straight—
Him. C. The Colonel.
You stop. Just for a second.
From this view, all you see are the long lines of his legs, one draped lazily over the other. A glass glints in a gloved hand, catching the low light like polished onyx. The liquid inside is clear—water? Vodka? You can’t tell. He’s just posture and silhouette for now—pristine white uniform trousers, boots still on, black wool coat worn like armor over his shoulders.
A mystery with perfect posture. And too many secrets.
The Colonel still hasn’t turned.
“You made it,” he says, voice curling through the room like smoke. Amused.
The glass lifts in salute—graceful, effortless.
“Wardrobe’s on your left.”
And still—he doesn’t look at you.
You move before your mind can catch up. The coat slips from your shoulders like it was always meant to fall. Fingers tipped in red polish reach to unbuckle your heels—instinct, habit—
“Keep the shoes on,” C murmurs. A pause. Then, “…please.”
It’s the please that gets you.
Heels stay on. Black. Pointed. Slim.
Sharp—like the woman you thought you’d be tonight.
But as you pass the mirror near the wardrobe, something shifts. You pause. Not to fix, but to submit. To recognize what’s about to happen.
Yes. This is you. Just sharper now, softer now.
Ready to be unmade.
You nod once.
Then you walk.
Each step toward the chair sounds impossibly loud, your heels striking the floor with measured rhythm. And just before you reach him—
C rises.
And stops dead.
Staring like you’ve just knocked the air from his lungs—like something sharp hit behind the ribs and lodged there. His gaze catches on your face and stays. Mouth parted. Breath stalled. The glass in his hand lowers, forgotten.
Movement gives him away. Too fast. Too eager. Like some invisible thread yanked him forward before thought could even form
Shit.
You can see it hit him. The recognition. The mistake.
You really do look like her.
C steps closer. There’s no performance in it now. Just raw momentum.
Gloved fingers lift to your cheek. They don’t tremble—but they hover there, suspended like a question he’s afraid to ask. Then, slowly, they make contact. Leather dragging soft and firm along your skin, brushing the curve of your jaw, down the side of your neck, lingering at the delicate dip of your collarbone.
Breath slips from his nose—quiet, controlled, but not untouched by something trembling. His mouth parts slightly. What escapes is clean: minted from mouthwash, sharp and close. Beneath it, that same cologne—wood and heat and something colder, metallic—richer now, more human.
It lingers until you shiver.
Your gaze drops, instinctively following the path of his hand as it brushes your lower lip with the backs of his fingers—and that’s when you meet his eyes.
And then you see them.
Violet.
Dark.
Fractured.
They roam your face with the kind of desperation that isn’t lust—it’s hunger. A different kind. Deeper. Older. One that gnaws.
His gaze shakes as it searches yours, like he’s looking for something he knows isn’t there. Like if he stares long enough, hard enough, maybe he can conjure it.
Tears nearly push to the surface. Not yours.
His.
You see them, right there—almost—behind the violet. Not falling. But glinting, trembling at the edges of something he’s not ready to admit.
His lips press into a line.
And his eyes stay starving.
But it’s not for you.
It’s for her.
For who you resemble. For what he remembers. For something he wants, just for a night—even if it isn’t real.
Then his jaw flexes—a flicker of tension, the snap-back. The mask tightens.
Something shifts behind the Colonel’s eyes as he pulls himself from whatever memory he’d let wash over him. Like a door, quietly but firmly, shutting.
“We’re gonna have so much fun…” C lingers on the word like it tastes different on his tongue. “Just… try not to make me regret it too soon, alright?”
Then he turns away.
The coat shifts with the movement, long silhouette stirring like smoke in low light. He lifts his glass—whatever’s inside catches the light, cold enough that condensation beads along the surface. A low sip follows, and the corner of his mouth curls like he already knows what you’ll do next.
Deliberately, he coughs. Soft. Controlled. A quiet break in the silence, sharp enough to test your nerves. To see if you flinch. You don’t.
The Colonel watches you now.
Fully.
From the sharp points of your heels to the delicate curve of your collarbone, his gaze drags. One glove, then the next, peeled from his hands with unhurried precision. Each finger released like a countdown. He sets them aside on the arm of the chair—neatly—like it’s all part of a ritual he’s practiced a hundred times. A job. A rite. A claiming.
“You look like you’ll do,” he says, voice low, amused. Almost thoughtful. “But… Let’s just get something straight.”
C steps closer, hands bare now, warm and very real.
“I’m not here for your heart.” A pause. His head tilts, smile lazy. “Got too many feelings in my life already. Don’t need yours cluttering things up.”
Fingers brush your hip. “What I want tonight is simple. Your body. Your obedience.” The voice isn’t teasing anymore. The warmth from the messages, the charm in the calls—none of it followed him into this room. These aren’t requests. They’re facts, spoken like law.
He shrugs—one shoulder, lazy—and lifts a hand, gesturing toward the door like he’s dismissing an unnecessary thought.
“Everything else? Leave it there.”
The space between you shortens like it’s folding in on itself. A hand rises and he takes your chin between his fingers. He tilts your face up, and you feel it in your spine—the way the world stills in his grip.
Glittering irises find yours. Violet. Unblinking.
“When I say kneel,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing the curve of your lower lip, “you kneel.”
“When I say open your mouth, you don’t ask why.”
He leans in, breath warm against your cheek, lips brushing close—not a kiss, just proximity.
“And when I say spit on my cock…” C smiles like he’s letting the words sink in bone-deep.
“…you make it pretty.”
His grip lingers on your chin for just a second more. Then releases.
And it doesn’t feel like a threat. The way he says it—it’s not cruel. It’s honest. And the honesty might just be the cruelest part.
“Can you do that for me?” The question hangs between you like a blade. “If not… walk out. Now.”
Fingers laced behind his back, shoulders settling with that soldier’s ease, the Colonel turns his head and smiles at the door.
You say nothing.
You drop to your knees.
And the silence stretches.
One brow lifts, just a touch. His expression unreadable, save for the flicker of something close to amusement—or maybe disappointment. Like he’s letting you stew in the choice you almost missed.
“Hmm… Still not kneeling properly,” he murmurs—voice low, vibrating through your skin.
Boots shift against the marble as he steps in closer, circling you once, slow. He stops just behind you—breath brushes the crown of your head. Instinct tugs at your spine—you shift slightly, lowering your shoulders, parting your knees just a fraction more. A silent offering. A quieter shape.
“But look at that… you’re finally catching on.”
Fingers brush your hair back from your shoulder, almost tender, baring the curve of your neck.
“Took you long enough. Don’t get bratty on me now—I’m not in the mood to train tonight.”
His mouth finds the hollow where your neck meets your shoulder. Pressed right over your pulse like a warning.
“Oh—… Is that it?” His lips graze your ear. “You want me to train you?” He breathes in, slow. Almost amused. Almost not. “Tsk… You want that position, you earn it.”
A beat. Then lower—final:
“Or you can crawl back out that door and spend the rest of the night wondering what it would’ve felt like to be owned.”
And with the last word still warm on your skin, his teeth catch your earlobe—just enough to sting, just enough to steal your breath. A hand rises, steady, firm, cradling the back of your neck like a claim. A reminder. You’re his. For tonight. For this.
The marble floor bites into your knees, polished and cold. You stay still—breathing, waiting, head bowed not in hesitation, but in silent acceptance. Of the terms. Of him.
Behind you, The Colonel moves. You feel the weight of his gaze on your back, and then the soft shift of fabric as he lowers himself again—his boots echo faintly as they reposition. He crouches beside you, leveling his head with yours, shoulder brushing your upper arm. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him.
“We’ve talked this through,” he murmurs. “But just to be sure… aside from moans, screams—” a pause, his lips ghosting your cheek, “this is the only word you’re allowed to speak.”
A thumb drags along your jaw, tipping your face toward him.
“Say it.”
You breathe in. The room feels heavier now.
“Your out,” he says softly. “You say it, everything stops. No questions. No guilt.”
He waits.
Still crouched beside you. Still watching like a man reading a confession in the shape of your inhale. His stare doesn’t soften—it sharpens. Measuring. Testing. Waiting for proof.
You meet his gaze. Your breath shakes.
“Apple,” you whisper, just to feel it pass your lips. It tastes strange. Foreign. Like a weapon you don’t expect to use—but have to know you carry.
His smile comes slow. Not kind. Not cruel. Just pleased.
Then he tilts his head, one brow barely lifted. Casual. But his eyes gleam.
“And if you need something from me?” he asks, voice almost lazy. “What do you call me?”
Your stomach tightens. It’s a trap. You know it. You feel it sink its teeth into the silence before your brain can catch up.
He watches you. Waits.
Say it, his eyes seem to dare. Try.
Your lips part. The shape of C touches your tongue—
You stop.
Try again—Co——but you freeze. The rest dies there.
Jaw tightens. Lips press together. Teeth catch the soft swell of your bottom lip, biting down—gentle, deliberate. A silent I understand.
The gleam in his eyes turns to something molten.
You passed.
“Good girl.”
The praise slips over your skin like warm silk—earned, edged, and entirely his. Teeth flash—he bites your cheek. Cruel enough to make your skin sing, your blood flash hot. His lips follow the sting, brushing the mark like he’s sealing it.
“Mmh,” he hums, “would’ve been embarrassing if you messed that up.”
A soft chuckle follows—almost fond, but edged in pride and heat.
“Glad you’re not stupid,” he coos. “I’d hate to break something pretty just because it couldn’t follow orders.”
He straightens—slow, towering. One hand smooths down the front of his uniform, crisping the line that didn’t need adjusting, but he does it anyway. The shift in energy cracks through the air like static, dominance slipping back over him like a second skin.
Gloves, once forgotten on the armchair, are pulled back on with quiet ceremony. Each finger drawn in, leather creaking softly as if savoring the return. From beneath his uniform jacket, he draws it out. Sleek. Black. Cruel-looking in its elegance. The infamous “interrogation tool.”
It rests in his hand like it belongs there.
“Now…” The word drops like a stone into your stomach, his tone coiling low and thick. “Let’s see if my toy knows how to behave.”
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I’ll show you what you look like from the inside
And I’ll see you when the wrath comes around
Tonight, you have the answer
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Chapter one
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