The warm afternoon sun slanted through the living room window, creating a streak of golden light across the floor. Ben lounged on the couch, absentmindedly flicking through his phone while the muffled hum of vacuuming drifted from the other room.

Brooke, his mother, appeared in the doorway, her sleeves rolled up and a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead. With a hand on her hip, she called out over the noise of the vacuum, "Ben, I've been cleaning up all afternoon. If you're not going to help me out, then you should head outside and enjoy the day. It's Friday, after all."

Ben looked up, eyes widening slightly. The casual tone in her voice carried an undercurrent of finality that left no room for negotiation. Brooke stood her ground, her expression firm yet not unkind.

With a sigh, Ben put down his phone and stood up, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, alright. I'll help. Where do you need me?"

Brooke's expression softened as she approached the couch where Ben stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Ben," she said with a sigh, "you help out with chores all the time. You're a good kid, you know that?"

Ben shrugged, his eyes darting away from hers. "Yeah, but you asked, so…"

She waved her hand, dismissing his concern. "Forget about it. It's Friday. Go outside, hang out with your friends. Maybe even find a girlfriend, huh?" A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Ben scoffed lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mom…"

"What? You're 19 years old, Ben! No social life to speak of. You don't want your best years to be stuck in here staring at your phone all day, right?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, alright. I'll head out for a bit. But if you need anything—"

She cut him off with a firm look. "Nope. If I need anything, I'll call Jenny. Go, enjoy the day."

Ben pocketed his phone, grabbed his gym bag from beside the door, and headed out. The fresh air of the late afternoon greeted him as he walked down the quiet street toward the gym. He understood his mom's intentions—she wanted him to be happy and enjoy life—but she didn't realize how tough it was to find friends in this unfamiliar town. Moving during his junior year in college left him disconnected from his previous social circle, and it felt like everyone here already had their groups.

The gym had become his refuge, a familiar and steady place where he could focus on his workouts and forget about everything else. As he entered, the hum of machines and chatter of other gym-goers filled his ears. He quickly changed in the locker room and hit the weights. With each lift, he felt the tension ease away, his muscles growing warm as he pushed himself.

In between sets, he caught glimpses of others around him—a group of friends chatting by the benches, a couple doing their cardio together, and solitary lifters focused on their routines. It was comforting in a way, knowing that people came here for their own reasons, each in their own world. He might not have close friends here, but this was just fine.

***

Back at the house, Brooke had her own mission in mind. The vacuum stood abandoned by the closet as she stepped down the hallway, passing framed family photos and a couple of her own amateur landscape paintings, until she reached Ben's room.

The door creaked open, revealing a neat, if sparsely decorated, room. His bed was made, clothes folded in drawers, and a small desk sat against the window, littered with only a couple of old receipts and a dusty notebook. Brooke took a deep breath, her gaze lingering on the worn chair and the poster of an old rock band from Ben's high school days still pinned to the wall.

"What's going on in here, Ben?" she murmured to herself.

She moved to the desk, quietly flipping open the notebook. The earlier entries were filled with class notes, formulas, and diagrams, all remnants of his college courses. But as she neared the end, her eyes caught sight of something peculiar. She froze momentarily, reading what appeared to be usernames and passwords scribbled neatly on the last couple of pages.

She frowned, confused by the entries. Some usernames were straightforward—variations of Ben's name, mostly—but the passwords were random and complicated. Brooke's heart sank. Her mind raced with thoughts of what these might be for.

"Ben," she whispered softly, even though he wasn't there to hear her. The idea of him living such a cautious, secretive online life tugged at her heartstrings. She carefully closed the notebook and placed it back where she found it. She stepped back from the desk, a mix of concern and love etched on her face.

Brooke knew she had to tread carefully. She didn't want to invade Ben's privacy, but she was his mother. She had a right to worry, especially now that he'd been spending so much time on his phone and seemed disconnected from those around him.

She returned to the desk; her resolve strengthened. She opened Ben's laptop and quickly flipped through the notebook, stopping at the last pages. With a deep breath, she entered what appeared to be the main password into the laptop. The screen blinked as it processed the login.

She didn't know what to expect, but when a familiar gaming platform's interface appeared, she relaxed a bit. Brooke scrolled through the list of friends and recent activity, and a sense of relief washed over her. Ben was playing online games, a fairly normal pastime for someone his age, yet she couldn't shake the nagging feeling of unease.

As Brooke delved deeper into Ben's online activities, her concern grew stronger. It wasn't just that he was watching porn—many young men in their twenties did that, after all. But it seemed as though Ben was far more than just a casual observer; he appeared to have a fixation on one particular aspect of these materials: feet. His Instagram feed, had transformed into an alarming assortment of images featuring young women showcasing their feet, often with provocative captions such as "lick my dirty foot slave."

Brooke couldn't shake the feeling that her son was involved in something more than just casual internet browsing. The prevalence of foot-related content suggested a deeper fascination—a fixation, even. With hashtags like #footfetish and #dirtyfeetlover popping up in nearly every post, she couldn't help but wonder: what had driven her once-innocent boy down this path?

As the reality of Ben's online habits began to sink in, Brooke found herself grappling with a mix of shock, disbelief, and overwhelming concern for her son. How could he have allowed himself to become so consumed by such an unusual fixation? And what would it mean for his future relationships, both personal and professional, if this continued to consume him?

She couldn't help but wonder what had led Ben down this path. Had he always been interested in feet, or had something triggered this fascination? She knew that online communities could be influential, but she couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this story than met the eye.

Delving further into Ben's digital life, Brooke clicked on the Twitter icon on his browser, anticipating a similar pattern to what she had already seen. Much to her relief, the content appeared to be slightly less provocative than the Instagram feed—mostly comprised of attractive women posing for selfies.

However, as she scrolled through the timeline and began reading some of the captions accompanying these images, her fear returned. Phrases like "Back to draining weak betas" or "Give me cash then fuck off" indicated as some kind of sexual kink even she was unfamiliar with. When examining his conversations, she found an abundance of references such as "Send 50 now piggy" and "you are officially my paypig." Add to that the multitude of unfamiliar hashtags with obscure words, which were entirely foreign to her, and she was officially intrigued. This raised a concerning question: was her son actually giving money to those women?

Worried that Ben might return at any moment, she closed the laptop and put everything back exactly as she had found it. She tried to get back to vacuuming, but the simple task now felt burdensome. "I'll ask Ben to finish the rest," she muttered dismissively.

Her thoughts lingered on the significant discovery she'd just made about her son. Being a single mother was tough, and she'd always managed everything alone. Yet she couldn't shake the nagging thought that she might have done something wrong. One thing was certain—she would help Ben with this peculiar matter. First, she needed to learn more about it.

***

After a quiet dinner, Brooke sat across from Ben at the table, her fingers tracing idle circles on the wood. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, she hesitated. Then, she took a deep breath and steadied herself. "Ben, I want to talk to you about something."

Ben looked up, his fork pausing over the half-eaten casserole. "Sure, Mom. What's up?"

Brooke leaned forward; her voice gentle but unwavering. "I've noticed you've been spending a lot of time online lately, and I'm a little concerned."

Ben shifted in his chair. "Concerned about what?"

"About the kind of things, you're engaging with online," she said cautiously. "I'm not judging you, but I think we need to talk about it."

Ben's expression hardened, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. "What do you mean?"

Brooke chose her words carefully. "I saw some of your accounts. Your Twitter, Instagram... and I noticed some patterns that made me worry. The way you're interacting with people, the sort of content you're following. Honey, it doesn't feel right to objectify women that way."

Ben's eyes dropped to the table, fear running through his spine. "So, you went through my stuff?"

"I did," Brooke admitted. "And I understand if you're upset, but I did it because I care about you."

Ben sat back; his gaze stuck down. He couldn't utter a single word.

Brooke gave him a measured look, trying to gauge his reaction. "I don't want to control what you do, but I want you to think about how this might be affecting you. Is this really what you want to focus your energy on?"

Ben was quiet for a long moment before rubbing his forehead with one hand. "So, what exactly did you see, Mom?"

"Brooke sighed, taking a deep breath before speaking. 'I noticed on your Instagram, the pattern of foot-related content. It seems like this has become quite an interest for you.'" His face turned a deeper shade of red. "Honey, I don't know when or how it started, but honestly, it feels a bit strange to me."

"Why do you think that way, Mom?" Ben asked, clearly taken aback by her words.

Brooke hesitated for a moment before continuing, "Well, back in my day, when I was your age, there was this guy I had just started dating who liked my feet and would kiss them... What a loser." She chuckled softly as she realized the irony of her words and tried to cover her mouth with her hand. "What I meant to say is that the relationship didn't last very long."

Stunned, Ben questioned her words. Did his mother actually call him a loser? "Well, I am glad that you think so of me," he replied sarcastically.

"No honey I am sorry. What I want you to understand is that it's alright to have interests that might seem strange or uncommon, as long as they don't hurt anyone and make you happy."

For a brief moment Ben felt as if everything was going to be alright again, but then again there was something else. " So, what else did you spy on my computer, Mom?"

Brooke wasn't exactly sure how to approach this. She chose her words carefully, "I saw your Twitter profile as well." After a short but dead moment of silence, she continued. "What were all those posts saying humiliating things about?"

"Sometimes because of the similar topics you're interested in, the algorithm shows you strange things you didn't intend to see," Ben replied nervously. He found it difficult to admit his findom addiction to his mother and how much he enjoyed it. After all, she had already thought foot fetish was odd.

"Then do you mind explaining to me your conversations? Because they surely looked strange to me."

"Did you see my dm's. Oh ma..." Ben exclaimed. "It's all a joke I pull off, just playing along with them. It's just fantasy stuff."

"I sure hope so." Brooke responded. "Given how hard you work, I don't want to see your money go to waste. I care too much about you, sweety. And don't forget about the dreams of buying your own farm someday."

The conversation was finished; there was nothing more to say. For Ben, it was too overwhelming to go on. Almost trembling with embarrassment, he stood up, took his plate to the sink, gave it a quick rinse, and retreated upstairs to the safety of his room.

***

As she started typing words like "foot fetish" and "paypig" into her phone search bar, she felt a mix of fear and curiosity. The more she learned about these subjects, the more concerned she became for her son's well-being.

Financial domination, also known as findom, was something entirely new to Brooke. She couldn't imagine who would be stupid enough to willingly want to be in such a relationship. And while foot fetishes were not uncommon, the combination of these two interests seemed bizarre and troubling. In her mind this stemmed from someone being too submissive. And now that she thought about it more, her son was exactly like that sometimes. There were countless times she recalled that Ben would treat her like a princess, going out of his way to make her life just a bit easier.

Brooke knew that she needed to approach this situation delicately. She didn't want to push Ben away or make him feel uncomfortable, but she also couldn't ignore the potential dangers associated with his online activities.

As she lay on the couch, feet propped up on the armrest, a chilling thought struck her: What if those women were exploiting her son? Not only using him only as a wallet but also mocking him about it. And while he gave them who knows how much free money, they didn't even scarify a single hair about his existence. No, this isn't right, she thought, the smile fading from her face.

As she delved deeper into the world of foot fetishes and financial domination, Brooke found herself confronted by an array of opinions and experiences that both disturbed and fascinated her. While some individuals spoke candidly about their own journeys with these interests, others were more guarded, sharing stories of exploitation and heartache.

One particular story that stood out to Brooke was about a young man who had become deeply entwined in the online world of findom. He had started by simply chatting with those involved but quickly found himself drawn into a dangerous spiral of escalating demands for money.

As he became more and more invested in this new world, his relationships with those around him began to suffer. His friends and family grew increasingly concerned, but he was so consumed by his online activities that he barely noticed his withdrawal from his life.

Ultimately, the young man lost everything—his job, his home, even his sense of self-worth. He ended up in a hospital, where he had to be treated for severe depression and anxiety caused by his addiction to findom.

Feeling the weight of the day urging her towards a much-needed change of scenery, Brooke headed to her room. She needed a fresh perspective, and her evening run seemed like the perfect escape. As she changed into her running gear, she caught her reflection in the full-length mirror that stood against the wall.

Even at 37, Brooke’s commitment to her daily jogging routine was evident in her fit figure. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, swaying slightly as she moved. Her blue-grey eyes, a striking combination that always seemed to capture light in just the right way, reflected a mix of determination and youthfulness. Her skin had the smooth, healthy glow of someone who spent a fair amount of time outdoors, radiant and imbued with a confident aura. Brooke looked at herself, acknowledging that despite the challenges of single motherhood, she had maintained not just her strength but her vitality. By all standards, she was a knockout.

Standing there, Brooke couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. She was more than just fit; she was vibrant, a testament to her resilience and proactive lifestyle. As she admired her reflection, a small smile played on her lips. Yes, life threw challenges her way, but she faced them head-on, looking and feeling strong. With a nod to her reflection, she grabbed her headphones, stepped into her running shoes, and headed out the door for her run, ready to clear her mind and recharge.

***

The soft light of morning filtered through the thin curtains in Brooke's bedroom, casting gentle patterns across the walls. Though she had woken up, the comforting embrace of her bed and the serene atmosphere of her room coaxed her to stay under the covers a bit longer. The run yesterday had been a much-needed release, a chance to process the overwhelming emotions of her discovery. Now, with a clearer mind, she wondered how she could help Ben without driving a wedge between them.

The soft rustling of leaves outside the window and the distant chirping of birds created a peaceful background melody as she lay there, her thoughts spinning. What she'd seen on Ben's social media accounts was deeply troubling, but she understood that the most important thing was not to shame or mock him. She had to approach this smartly.

Rising from bed, she wrapped herself in her robe and headed downstairs to start a pot of coffee. The rhythmic drip of the brewing machine was soothing as she mulled over how best to tackle the situation. She knew Ben often felt isolated in this new town, and maybe that was why he sought solace online.

After pouring herself a steaming cup, she sat at the kitchen table and made a plan. She already knew his Twitter handle. What if she made a secret anonymous account so she could find and keep an eye on her sons' online activity. There would be no need for her to reveal her face; instead, she could simply post a picture of her feet. Ben would probably sell his soul to the devil to catch a glimpse of those captivating toes, she thought, a devilish smile flickering across her face.

Perhaps, she could even pretend to be one of those findom ladies that posted all those humiliating things about their subs as they called them. Just so she could see with her own eyes how dangerous this was and protect her son. She was simply thinking about him, there was no other reason. She loved him too much.

Brooke was just tucking her thoughts away as Ben shuffled into the kitchen, his hair tousled from sleep, eyes still heavy with the remnants of his dreams. He grunted a morning greeting, padding over to the fridge to grab some orange juice.

"Morning, Ben," Brooke said, her voice light and breezy, as if the previous night's conversation had evaporated with the evening dew. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah, pretty good," Ben muttered, pouring himself a glass. He leaned against the counter, sipping slowly. The kitchen was bright with morning light, casting sharp shadows on the floor tiles.

Brooke sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim of her mug. "I'm planning to hit the farmers' market today. Thought I might pick up some of that apple cider you like. Want to come along?"

Ben shrugged, a noncommittal grunt following. "Maybe. Not sure yet."

"That's fine. Just thought it might be nice to get out for a bit." Brooke placed her mug down, her actions smooth and practiced. Inside, her mind was racing, but she kept her exterior calm. "Anyway, let me know if you change your mind. No pressure."

Ben nodded, clearly relieved that the conversation was steering away from anything intense. "Will do."

As he finished his juice and put the glass in the sink, Brooke turned her attention back to her coffee, her mind returning to the plan she had been concocting. It was risky, unconventional even, but she felt a strange pull to understand more about this world Ben was entangled in, to ensure he wasn't in over his head.

"Alright, I'm off to shower," Ben said, breaking her from her reverie.

"Alright, honey. Enjoy your day," Brooke called after him as he left the room. Once he was out of sight, her expression hardened slightly with resolve. She needed to do this, not just for Ben, but to quell the rising tide of worry that had taken residence in her chest.

Brooke took out her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen as she contemplated her next move. Creating a secret account felt like stepping into a foreign territory, a role she never imagined herself playing. Yet, concern and curiosity urged her on.

She started setting up the account, choosing not to think too deeply about the implications of what she was doing. Instead, she focused on the practicalities: a username that was alluring yet it didn't reveal anything about herself. After mulling over previous suggestions from the day before, she made her choice - selecting the name 'Princess B'.

To prepare her profile picture, she swiftly went to her room and chose a dress she had recently purchased that her son hadn't seen yet. She began capturing photos and eventually opted for a mirror selfie, featuring only half of her body from the waist down while the other side was blurred.

She wasn't finished yet. After reading an article from the day prior while researching more about the topic, she encountered a term - "verification post." It involved her posting a photo of herself as usual but this time also holding a paper with her Twitter username written down. By doing so, she could ensure that she was indeed who she claimed to be and not just some random 40-year-old guy.

Ultimately, she opted to share yet another image. This time, her chosen pose was meant to be uncomplicated, but proved quite challenging. She had a brilliant idea of capturing a close-up photo of her bare feet with legs sprawled out; however, to get the perfect shot, she had to set up a timer. The accompanying caption was: "Lick my feet, paypig." With a self-assured smirk, she pondered aloud, "Who likes this stuff?"

After completing her preparations, she felt ready. Armed with yesterday’s knowledge, she got straight to work, following a few accounts that shared her interests, including her son’s. "Twenty people should do it," she thought. As she scanned her son’s familiar profile, she decided to send him a message: “Hello paypig.”

***

Brooke had already finished her shopping and although she had checked her phone 10 times by now there was no response yet. It seemed obvious to her that maybe Ben preferred to indulge in his hobby at night. And now that she was thinking about it the poor guy didn't even have any time to do so. After finishing with the shopping and putting everything in place, they simply decided to eat lunch.

"Now's the moment," Brooke thought eagerly, watching her son head to his room. She swiftly picked up her phone and settled on the couch, ready and waiting while the TV played in the background. Soon enough, she was engrossed by the glowing screen across her, losing track of time until a soft buzzing sound broke her focus.

Unfortunately, it was just another junk email. "Why hasn't he replied?" she wondered. She opened the app, hoping something had changed since her last check. There it was—a new message. "Nice of Twitter to notify me when someone finally responds," she muttered sarcastically. It had been almost half an hour since her son had replied.

The message was a simple, anticlimactic "Hello, Princess." What had she expected—that he would hand her cash just like that? What was her objective anyway? Should she follow the approach of those other women, demand money for nothing, and mock him? Treat him like her personal ATM, dispensing cash on demand? Maybe she didn't have a choice. Not unless she wanted to learn more about him. This was the only way to help her son. She was doing this for him.

She made up her mind and typed out the message: "Send $50, pig." Then, she added her cash tag and hit send. A rush of exhilaration washed over her, the thrill unlike anything she'd felt before. Was this how her son felt when he immersed himself in this game? It seemed like a challenge now, a test of how much she could coax out. With every dollar, it was like receiving a compliment, a validation for simply being herself, as if the money was a way of saying she was perfect.

As soon as she saw the Cash App notification, Brooke leaped off the couch. Had he really sent her money? Moments later, his response popped up: "Sent, Princess. Thank you." She burst into laughter, quickly stifling it so her son wouldn't hear. Not only had he sent her money, but he was grateful for the opportunity. "Sending money is a privilege," she thought with a smirk.

She considered asking him again to make sure he wasn't suspicious. No girl would stop now. Most would try to get as much as possible, and stopping here would only plant doubt in her son's mind. She typed, "Send more, $100 this time," and added a laughing emoji before hitting send.

Like clockwork, Ben sent the money again. It was the easiest cash she'd ever made—$150 in her account within minutes. With his familiar response, "Sent $100, Princess. Thank you so much," it was clear he was enjoying this little game, too.