Friday. At seven. Don’t be late.
DoriNYC:
If I am, will you punish me?
Me:
Don’t tempt me.
DoriNYC:
But mistress, tempting you is the whole point.
I snorted on a laugh.
Me:
Be good.
DoriNYC:
I’m incapable.
Me:
You’ll learn.
DoriNYC:
Yes, mistress.
I typed in the wordgoodnightand put a red heart emoji at the end. But my thumb hovered over thesendbutton.
Don’t. Don’t do this. Isn’t this the same thing you did with Shawn? You trust too easy. You fall too easy.
Don’t be easy.
I bit my lip. I deleted the drafted text, closed out of the app, and darkened my phone, ending the conversation. I put up my phone and rolled over in bed, closing my eyes and letting the thrill of the night wash through my body, lapping at me like gentle waves.
Friday came, and I was so nervous, I thought I might throw up on the subway. It was one thing to dominant him from behind the screen—but what if I couldn’t do it in person? What if I royally messed this up and shattered the fantasy for both of us?
I had to get it right. This was serious business. It felt somewhere between a first date and a job interview. It was summer in the city, and I had dressed in army green cargoshorts, boots, and I threw on a loose, light blouse. I felt like Dr. Ellie Sattler from Jurassic Park, which is to say: I felt powerful.
I liked Cure, but mostly, for the proximity to my work—Cheese Louise,a mom-and-pop fromagerie. The cheese shop was right across the street, so I could get off work and immediately unwind with a glass of wine. It was also mid-level, classy place, with dim lights and dark velvet walls.
A woman greeted me at the door and gave me a small table by the window. I was there before Dorian. Already, he was getting himself in trouble. But where his tardiness would’ve royally pissed me off if this was adate,date, instead, I found myself tingling at the possibility of punishing him.
Finally, the door opened. My breath caught in my throat.
Was that him? Dorian. In the flesh. Real. Breathing.Alive. The man in front of me wore dark, creaseless slacks. A patterned button up. He had dark eyes and a smooth, short beard that outlined the sharpness of his jaw. Thick black hair that rose to wild curls at the top of his head and tapered off around his ears.
He looked similar enough to the half-hidden man in the photos. But he didn’tcarry himselflike a submissive—nothing about him was shy. He strode in with confidence, his eyebrows furrowed, almost annoyed. As though he lived here, and was irritated to find that a swarm of people had suddenly invaded his space.
I knew for sure it was him when his eyes caught mine and that intense frown broke with the smallest hint of a smile.
It was the smile I recognized. That tight-lipped, contained smile. Slightly crooked, as though he were trying hard to keep himself from enjoying lifetoomuch.
There was my Dorian.
