I was so used to the hardened, too-cool scowls of dominant men on these apps. I liked his smile. It was attractive. There was something familiar about him. I couldn’t put my finger on it. But there was the nagging feeling like I’d seen him before—a face from a dream.
I scrolled through his public photos. You could add up to ten. He only had three. The first was his profile image. The second image showed more of him—he was sprawled in a chair, dressed trendy-casual (a t-shirt stretched across a broad chest, slacks fitted on a trim waist). His face was, again, hidden, but this time he held a book to his face—Stephen King’sIt—and had positioned the book so that it looked like the creepy, red-smiling clown face was his own. Points for creativity.
The last photo was the obligatory, kinky thirst trap. Taken in front of the mirror, maybe in his personal bathroom or at work, it was hard to say. He’d removed his shirt, showing off an impressively toned body underneath. Not built the way a gym-rat was built, butfit, svelte. His arms were toned, with a lovely, masculine dusting of dark hair. His head was bowed so you could only see his dark, curly hair, once again hiding his face. His arms were straight out in front of him, hands planted on either side of the sink.
Normally, this wouldn’t be my type.At all. I was a submissive, after all. I liked my men tall, strong, and alpha. The Phantoms. The Carvers. The Poes. I liked them with a belt around their fists, a swagger in their stance, thatdon’t make me come over there and teach you a lessonlook in their eyes.
But even I had to admit—there was something about his last picture that drew me in. Something about the way his hands were splayed wide and fixed on the surface, giving the impression that he wouldn’t move them, wouldn’t budge, without direct permission.
Submissive, not in the roll over, belly up, wave the white flag in surrender way. Butsubmissivethe way the early humans must have felt when the first vicious wolf laid down at their feet—oh. The beast has chosen me.
Not gonna lie, it was kind of a turn on.
At that moment, his little green dot blinked on. He was online.
Looked like I wasn’t the only lonely night owl on this app,actively seeking.
Spud engaged in such a good stretch, it made his whole-body shudder. I scratched his belly and, as he melted into my pets with a rattling grunt of affirmation, I considered my next move.
I reminded myself: I had the control here. The next steps were all up to me.
I messaged him back:
Me:
Tell me more.
Almost immediately, he responded.
DoriNYC:
What do you want to know?
Me:
Do you mean it? Or are you being dramatic?
DoriNYC:
I mean it.
I thought aboutDamaged Hearts. I didn’t want to be Quinn—confused, lost, hungry for love.
I wanted to be Poe.
So I sent back:
Me:
Tell me what you want. Don’t leave anything out.
We talked allnight. And then the next day. And on and on for weeks.
I found my mood would skyrocket any time my phone vibrated in my pocket. Dorian was incredibly vocal about what he wanted. We spent weeks messaging back and forth. We went over likes. Dislikes. What was his pain tolerance? He could take it. Slapping and hitting was good. I could hit him anywhere—his body, between the legs, on his face.
Choking, yes.
Scratching, yes.
