Every Silence from His Mistress Came with a Price to Pay

It had been five days since the last message. Five days that felt like an entire month. Morgana’s silence was a constant weight, an invisible presence breathing down Damián’s neck even when she wasn’t there.

Every morning he repeated the same routine: he picked up his phone from the bedside table, opened the conversation, and ran his thumb over the last words she had left him before disappearing. Nothing new. Her name was still there at the top of the screen, but no green light, no notifications, not the slightest sign of life.

The world kept turning, though for him everything seemed frozen. Work, meetings, emails: everything reached him from far away, blurred, as if filtered through dirty glass. Any vibration from the phone made him turn his head sharply, with the absurd hope that it was her.

It never was. It was never her.

At night, the insomnia returned. He lay there staring at the ceiling, piecing together her voice from memory. Sometimes he heard her say his name; other times, only a short, cold laugh blending into the darkness of the room. Sometimes he swore he could feel the weight of an order that no longer came.

And his body responded. He would find himself with his cock hard beneath the sheets, his hand in his boxers almost without realizing it, moving slowly, searching in the memory of her voice for what she was no longer giving him. He masturbated thinking of the way she had called him wallet, of the little laugh that escaped her before demanding another transfer. He came in silence, biting his lip, and the warm semen on his stomach left him emptier than before. He wiped himself on the sheet and lay staring at the ceiling, humiliated by his own hand, wishing it had been her ordering him to do it.

He tried to distract himself. He went out walking, forced himself to meet people, even opened the settings to delete the chat. But he couldn’t. Because deleting her would have been like killing her, and even if Morgana didn’t write him, her absence ruled him just as her words had.

Dependency no longer needed contact. It lived in his head, in the doubt, in the waiting.

***

The silence began to take shape. At first it was only absence. Then it became noise, a constant buzzing in Damián’s mind, like a voiceless voice reminding him at all hours who was in charge, even when she wasn’t speaking.

He woke before dawn with his chest tight, not knowing why. It took a few seconds to remember: Morgana hasn’t come back. That thought was enough to start the day off wrong. And wrong in more than one sense: he woke up with his cock swollen, throbbing against the waistband of his boxer shorts, soaked in a sweat that had nothing to do with heat. He grabbed it with his right hand and jerked himself off grudgingly, fast, not for pleasure, just to release. He came in three minutes, thick spurts staining his stomach and the sheets, and afterward he lay there on his back with disgust clinging to his fingers. Even that didn’t help. The orgasm didn’t relieve him; it made it even clearer how much he needed her for any of it to make sense.

Coffee had stopped tasting like anything. The hours at the office felt unbearable. Every time the phone vibrated, his heart lurched, but it was almost always something trivial: a reminder, an offer, a work matter. Nothing from her.

In the afternoons, his anxiety disguised itself as activity. He checked his accounts, mentally calculated how much he had left, how much he could send her if she wrote back. He hated himself for it, and did it anyway.

When he walked down the street, everything sent her back to him: a perfume as he passed someone, the clatter of heels against the pavement, a gaze held one second too long. The whole world seemed to carry her name written across it. One afternoon, crossing paths with a woman in heels and a black coat, he went hard right there on the sidewalk and had to shove his hand in his pocket to press himself against his thigh. He walked two blocks with his dick pinned against the fabric of his trousers, biting the inside of his cheek, and when he got home he went into the bathroom, pulled down his pants, and came against the tiles in less than a minute, moaning Morgana’s name through clenched teeth. Semen slid down to the floor. He stayed on his knees looking at it, with his cock still dripping in his hand, understanding that now even the street no longer belonged to him.

At home, the phone stayed on the table, lit up, like an altar. Sometimes he watched it for minutes, waiting for a sign. His mind played tricks on him: he thought he saw her name on the screen, thought he heard a notification that didn’t exist. He began to confuse desire with reality.

He had lost all sense of what was normal. He didn’t feel hunger, he didn’t feel sleep. He only waited. And while he waited, he imagined. Anxiety had become his routine, and though it was destroying him, there was a part of him that needed it, because that pain was the only thing that still tied him to her.

***

The sixth day began like the others: gray, slow, silent. Damián got home from work with no strength and no desire for anything. He collapsed onto the sofa, put the phone aside, and promised himself—for the first time—not to open the conversation.

Temptation beat him in less than a minute. An almost automatic impulse made his thumb move to unlock the screen. And there it was. A new message. Her name.

His heart stopped for a second. The air turned thick. He opened the chat and read.

“Have you learned anything from my silence, wallet?”

He read the sentence over and over, unable to think clearly. His body reacted as if it had been shocked: shoulders tense, breathing shallow, hands cold. His cock went hard instantly, pushing against his fly, aching from how quickly it had responded. After so many days imagining her voice, seeing her write again completely threw him. Part of him wanted to get angry. The other wanted to kneel.

He typed slowly, weighing every word:

“Yes, Morgana. I’ve learned to wait for you.”

Seconds that felt eternal passed before the three dots appeared. His pulse raced.

“Waiting isn’t enough,” she replied. “Learning to need me is. That’s what makes you useful.”

A mix of relief and fear flooded him. She was back. And with a single sentence she had taken all the power again. The silence that followed was even worse than before, but different: it was no longer emptiness, it was expectation. Damián knew the next message would bring something. An order, a test, a new price. And though he feared what was coming, he found himself smiling, with his cock still swollen inside his pants, throbbing in time with his pulse.

***

The next notification arrived minutes later. He had barely had time to calm down.

“If you really learned to wait for me, prove it.”

He felt a knot in his stomach. The sentence needed no explanation; he knew exactly what it meant. His fingers trembled over the keyboard, but he didn’t reply. He waited.

“Silence has a price. Penitence tribute: six hundred euros.”

The figure left him paralyzed. It wasn’t a whim; it was a direct blow to the little control he still had over his life. His rational side reacted immediately. You can’t afford that. It’s too much. It makes no sense. But his body, his breathing, his pulse said something else.

“Don’t think about it,” she wrote. “Those who think fail. Those who feel serve.”

Each word was a hook. Each pause, an invisible rope tightening around his chest. He opened the banking app and checked the balance. Six hundred euros were not just numbers: they were time, stability, a safety margin. And yet he felt that his entire worth depended on pressing send.

His mind screamed no. His hands obeyed anyway. The sound of the transfer was almost a sigh.

“Good,” came the reply seconds later. “I don’t want your excuses, I want your actions. Every payment cleans a little of your mediocrity.”

Damián closed his eyes. He didn’t know whether what he felt was relief, guilt, or pleasure. He only knew that the fear had evaporated. She was back, and the price, once again, he had paid without hesitation.

Another message came in almost immediately.

“Now take it out. I know you’ve been hard since you read my first message. Take off your pants, grab your cock, and don’t come until I tell you to.”

He obeyed without thinking. He unbuckled his belt with trembling hands, pulled his pants down to his ankles, and freed his cock, so swollen it hurt at the head. He grabbed it with his right hand, made one long stroke from the base, and let out a hoarse groan against the back of the sofa.

“Stroke yourself slowly. Very slowly. I want you to know that even your cock doesn’t belong to you.”

He jerked off slowly, exaggerating the motion, feeling a thick drop gather at the tip and slide down to his fingers. He typed with his left hand, barely:

“Yes, Morgana.”

“Suck your fingers. The ones that are wet. I want you to taste yourself and know that you taste like nothing.”

He put his stained fingers in his mouth and sucked them, swallowing his own precum with a grimace. His head spun.

“Again. Faster. Don’t finish.”

He worked faster, breathing raggedly, feeling his balls tighten, feeling the orgasm coming closer. He stopped a second before it hit, panting, his cock pulsing in his fist with no one touching it.

“Good boy. Now come. On the notebook where you’re going to keep your accounts with me. Sign it with your semen.”

He reached out, dragged an old notebook from the table, and opened it on the sofa. With three more strokes he came in spurts over the first blank page. The thick semen soaked the sheet, forming two heavy stains that spread across the paper. He stayed there panting, his cock spitting the last threads over his fingers, staring at that white signature on the page.

“That notebook is mine now. Just like you.”

***

The receipt still glowed on the screen. He looked at it as one watches an open wound. It wasn’t just money; it was something torn from his will and handed over in exchange for a line of text. For a few seconds he felt hollow. Then came the relief, strange and almost sweet, as if the act of paying had emptied out something he had been carrying for too long.

He walked around the living room with the phone in his hand and his cock still soft against his thigh, dripping remnants that stuck to the hair. There was no reply, only silence. But this time the silence didn’t hurt in the same way. He had complied. He had obeyed. He had come when she commanded and where she commanded. He thought of what he could have done with that money: fixed the car, paid the rent without strain, given himself a breather. He didn’t feel regret. He felt purpose.

In his head, Morgana’s voice kept echoing: Those who think fail; those who feel serve. Every word sank into him like a needle, and deep down it made him feel more real. For the first time in a long time he had a direction, a fixed point, a reason to act. Sacrifice was not loss: it was devotion. His faith had a name, and its altar fit in the palm of his hand.

***

The next message arrived when he least expected it, a brief, sharp sound that broke the fragile calm of the morning.

“That’s what I like. Pain makes you real.”

That one sentence was enough to make his body react. A shiver ran down his spine. His cock rose again under his pants, stubborn, obedient, as if answering her before it answered him. A whole day had passed without news, but Morgana was never late: she arrived just when the silence started to hurt more than the money lost.

“From today on, you’ll keep records,” she ordered. “Every payment, every date, every thought that causes you anxiety or desire. I want to see your progress. Not as a person, but as an investment.”

He read the message three times. A ledger of his own surrender. He took the same notebook from the previous night, with the dried stain of his cum already hardened on the first page, turned two pages, and wrote the date, the amount, and beside them a sentence that surprised even him: I feel empty, but calm.

“Every word you put there will be another chain,” she added. “And sign each entry with your real name. Shame is part of the process.”

Shame. That was the point. Every line in that notebook was a tangible reminder of what he had given up, and at the same time a way to keep her close, to give her a physical space inside his world. In the middle of the afternoon, without thinking too much about it, he wrote something else in the lower margin: Thank you for keeping me tied down. For the first time he didn’t feel guilt. He felt structure. She was shaping him, and he knew it; but inside that mold he found calm.

That night, before going to bed, he opened the notebook again and jerked himself off slowly over it, eyes fixed on his own cramped handwriting. He came over the signature, and added a trembling line underneath: Signed with mine too.

***

As the days went by, the notebook became his new habit. Every night he opened it, wrote the amount and what he had felt. First it was guilt. Then calm. In the end, dependency. Morgana no longer needed to spell out each thing; a short sentence was enough and he anticipated it.

“Don’t spend on yourself.” Three words, and with them she changed the way he lived. He gave up his expensive morning coffee. He stopped going out for beers with coworkers after work. He even stopped looking at shop windows. Every euro he didn’t spend was potential tribute, a silent act of obedience she called “devotional self-management.”

“Don’t come unless it’s on the notebook.” Another order, another habit. Every time he got hard thinking of her—and that was almost every night—he took out the notebook, rested it on his chest or thigh, and jerked off over it. His cock dripped before he was ready, precum stained his fingers, his hand moved with an obedient rhythm that was no longer his own. He came in thick ropes over the written pages, dirtying his own notes, and then wrote the date beside the stain. The paper curled, grew rigid, each sheet stiff with dried semen. It was his way of signing. It was his way of existing for her.

“When you start thinking like me, I won’t have to remind you who’s in charge,” she wrote one afternoon. And she was right. Damián began making decisions without consulting her, but always with her in mind. A small luxury filled him with guilt; a small saving, with pride. One night, while reviewing his account, he realized he organized his life as if he had two budgets: his own and Morgana’s. And, without noticing it, the second always seemed more important. Control had stopped being visible. Now it lived inside him.

***

One morning, almost without thinking, he closed the notebook, shoved it to the back of the drawer, and decided not to look at it again. He felt impulsive, almost brave. He had spent too long orbiting a voice he didn’t even see.

The first day was uncomfortable. The second, worse. By the third, the room felt colder. He checked his phone every few minutes even though it was on silent. He kept telling himself he expected nothing, and he knew he was lying. Work stopped holding his attention. Any ordinary noise—a door slamming, a bell, an alert—made him react with a mix of hope and fear.

At night he got into bed face down and rubbed his cock against the mattress in anger, trying to come the old-fashioned way, for nobody, for himself. It didn’t work. He would get halfway there, with his cock hard and his balls tight, and no matter how much he drove his hips against the sheets, the orgasm never came. His body had grown used to obeying, and without Morgana’s order it didn’t know how to finish. He rolled onto his back, panting, with his cock pointing at the ceiling and his eyes wet with frustration.

On the night of the fourth day he turned on the computer, opened the chat he had sworn not to touch, and typed a message he deleted three times before daring to send it:

“Morgana… do you need me today?”

For hours, nothing. Regret mixed with a stab of anxiety. Until, just before dawn, the screen lit up.

“Always, as long as you pay.”

A short, precise sentence, enough to make everything collapse. The impulse returned. The adrenaline, the vertigo, the surrender. The notebook came out of the drawer, and Damián understood he hadn’t had a relapse: he had simply remembered who he was.

That dawn, after transferring four hundred euros to her without being asked, he knelt on the floor with the notebook open between his legs and jerked himself off staring at the dark screen. He came across the pages with a harsh moan, thick semen spilling over the recent date, and whispered against the paper, “thank you for letting me come back.” His cock kept dripping into his hand for a while longer while he cried in silence, grateful.

***

Morgana’s return brought something new. Her messages were no longer direct orders, but formulas that sounded innocent while leaving a long echo, hard to erase.

“You don’t just pay me. You go into debt with me.”

He read the sentence several times without fully understanding it. He thought it was just a way of speaking, one of those ambiguities she liked to play with. The next message clarified it:

“Every euro you give me doesn’t free you. It binds you. Every tribute opens an account that never closes. Don’t try to settle it; only keep it alive.”

The word debt left him breathless. Until then he had thought of his payments as sacrifices, acts of devotion. Now he understood they were shackles, and the most unsettling thing was that he liked the image. That night he opened a new section in the notebook: Active debts. He wrote down amounts and dates and, without knowing why, left a blank space at the end titled Pending with Morgana.

In the following days he began thinking in terms of balance, not at the bank, but in his relationship with her. If he took too long to reply, he felt the debt was growing. If he obeyed quickly, he felt he was reducing it. She had taken him into new territory: the territory of constant guilt. There was no longer any need for her to demand anything; the mere idea that he owed her something kept him under control.

“A debt isn’t punishment,” she wrote. “It’s a bond. If you ever pay me in full, you’ll stop existing for me.”

Damián closed his eyes and understood that he would rather owe her everything than lose her. That night he jerked himself off again, this time without explicit permission, with guilt, and came over the word pending in a long jet that soaked three lines. He felt even more indebted. He liked it.

***

It didn’t take long for him to turn theory into practice. The message arrived on a Sunday morning, so simple it was frightening.

“Check your account.”

He obeyed instantly. The balance was lower than he expected; between tributes and expenses he had crossed a line he had sworn not to touch.

“The imbalance is your fault. You failed in management. Fix it.”

His stomach tightened. He didn’t know exactly what she meant by fix it, but he guessed. He wrote one word: “How?” The answer was immediate.

“Sell something. Something that matters to you. You don’t deserve to have objects that aren’t aligned with your surrender.”

He looked around. The room was modest, with almost nothing of real value. There was only one thing he didn’t want to lose: a wristwatch he had inherited from his father, kept more for memory than for taste.

“That watch you’re looking at… sell it.”

A chill ran through him. How did she know? He didn’t stop to find out; maybe she had guessed, maybe she knew him too well. The watch ended up listed on a secondhand site that same afternoon. Two days later, the money went into his account, and before thinking he transferred it, without her even having to ask.

“Good. Now you understand what your devotion is worth.”

He stared at the receipt, wrist bare, light, strange. He didn’t feel poorer, but emptier. And that emptiness, perversely, gave him peace. He had given up a memory, a piece of the life he had before her. There was less and less of him left that didn’t belong to her.

That night another order arrived.

“On your knees in front of the mirror. With the phone on the floor, looking at the screen. Your cock out. Don’t touch it until I say so.”

He did it. He knelt naked in front of the bedroom mirror, knees pressing into the parquet, his stiff cock pointing at his navel, the phone laid out below. He looked at himself in the reflection: face flushed, chest rising and falling, cock dripping without anyone touching it.

“Say it out loud. ‘I’m Morgana’s wallet.’”

He swallowed and repeated it, his voice breaking. “I’m… Morgana’s wallet.”

“Again. Louder. So it can be heard.”

“I’m Morgana’s wallet,” he said louder, and felt his cock jump on its own as he said it.

“Now grab it. With two fingers. Only two. Like the piece of shit you are.”

He took it with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing it halfway down, and jerked it that way, with two fingers, feeling ridiculous and hard at the same time. Precum leaked from the tip, slid down the shaft, wet his fingers and the bare wrist where a watch had once been.

“Come without a hand. Just with those two fingers. And swallow whatever comes out.”

He squeezed harder, moving his hand only a little, panting in front of his own reflection. When he came, semen splattered across his own chest and onto the floor. Without thinking, he ran his hand over his stomach, gathered what he could with his fingers, brought them to his mouth, and swallowed. The taste made him gag, and also made him feel, for an instant, that he had complied perfectly.

“Good. Now you’re mine on the inside too, wallet.”

***

After the watch, nothing was ever the same. Morgana stopped sending direct orders; she didn’t need them anymore. Damián had learned to act without instructions, as if every everyday decision had to pass through an invisible filter. When he got up, he checked his account before the news. Every expense he made carried her name in his head. Even opening his wallet reminded him of who he really belonged to.

Sometimes he caught himself repeating her phrases under his breath, like prayers. Other times he wrote her name in the margins of the notebook, for no reason. He began to feel her presence where she couldn’t possibly be: a tiny voice when he hesitated, an imagined perfume in the hallway, a faint murmur calling him from the dark screen. There was no punishment or reward, only habit. A habit that felt like love, but was pure obedience.

Every night ended the same way: kneeling or on his back, notebook open, cock in his fist, jerking off slowly until he came over the pages. Thick semen soaked the notes, dried over the figures, hardened the sheets. The notebook smelled like him, like sweat, like dried cum. He liked opening it and finding his own stains piled up, layer upon layer, tangible proof of each time he had emptied himself for her. Every release onto the paper was another payment, one that didn’t come from the bank.

His coworkers noticed he was quieter, more absent. Some asked if he was all right. He answered with a smile that never reached his eyes and changed the subject. At home, every night, he added a line to the notebook. Sometimes just one word: Present. Other times, a whole sentence: I don’t need to see her to feel her. And it was true. He had internalized her to the point of no longer needing her to speak in order to stay bound. She lived in his breathing, in his gestures, in his fears. The idea should have frightened him, and instead it offered him something he had never had before: constancy.

***

Time began to lose its measure. Weeks, maybe months; everything melted into a sequence of identical days. Morgana never wrote again. And yet Damián kept paying.

He did it without ceremony or messages. He chose a random amount, wrote the date in the notebook, and pressed send. He didn’t expect a reply. The act itself was enough; it was his way of making sure the bond didn’t break. Sometimes he stopped to think about the absurdity of it: giving when nobody had asked, keeping an echo alive. But as soon as doubt surfaced, so did the fear of losing her completely.

And after each transfer, without exception, he pulled down his pants and came onto the notebook. He no longer needed to fantasize about anything: it was enough to look at the freshly written date, the amount, his name beneath it. He jerked off methodically, without haste, until the hot spurts fell onto the paper and signed what the bank had already signed. It was his second transfer, the one only she would understand. His cock always kept dripping for a while after, spitting threads onto his fingers, and he sucked them without thinking, savoring the only thing he could still give himself.

Money had ceased to be a transaction and become an offering, and her silence had turned into his constant test. Every transfer was an imagined conversation: he gave, she forgave him; he emptied himself, she made him necessary again. With time, the notebook’s records filled entire pages, tight and neat, splashed with hardened stains. Without anyone telling him to, he had built his own system of penance.

One night, when he closed the notebook—already stiff as cardboard, heavy with so much double payment—he looked at himself in the mirror. His gaze was calm, almost serene. He understood that Morgana no longer had to watch him: she had taught him to do it himself. Silence was not punishment. It was method. And its price, the perfect tribute.