“You’re okay,” he said. “You’re doing great.”
My voice returned. “Sorry,” I croaked out. “Sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
“I think you had a panic attack.”
“Oh.”
Those eyes met mine. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
I swallowed. “I tricked you. I’m…I’m not a domme. I mean, I know what kink is, I used to be a submissive but…I don’t know what I’m doing. I just…I thought I’d try it out. You know? I went through…a really fucked up break up. I wanted to reclaim my power or whatever. But now I’m just…naked on your floor, trembling. So.” Self-pitying tears stung the back of my eyes. I sniffed, trying to hold them back. “Now I just feel stupid.”
His lips pressed into a tight line. “Do you know what top drop is?”
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“What about sub drop?”
“Sort of.”
“Okay. So think of it like…the moment when, inexplicably, there’s a switch. The submissive asks for pain. The dominant provides the pain. But then, against logic, against knowing that the submissive has consented to this, the dominant still feels...guilt. Like they’ve done something wrong. They might hate themselves for it. Feel ashamed.” He paused for a moment. “You’re not a bad domme. Or a bad person. You’re just human. It’s your brain, lying to you.”
I looked at him. “I was so mean to you.”
“Yes.”
“I slapped you.”
“I requested it. Remember?”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want me to hurt you?”
He hesitated at that. “Because I like it. It feels good for me. And I know you don’t mean it. You’re not a cruel person, Dove. You’re a good girl.”
I snorted out a laugh. How ironic—I finally got a guy to call me agood girl, but he was a masochistic submissive.
“You really are into this, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said plainly. “I really am into this.” He paused, and then seemed to come to a decision: “I’ll get you some clothes. Let’s sit down. Decompress for a minute. When you’re ready, I’ll get you a cab home.”
I thought about it. He was giving me an out. I could walk away and forget all about this humiliating evening.
But then I looked at him. I had this handsome, well-spoken, confident man on his knees. There was something disarmingly open about him—the clarity of his want, his frank honesty with me, and the complete lack of judgement from him—that drew me in.
I sucked in my bottom lip. I made my decision. “Show me.”
“Sorry?” he asked.
“I want to try again. Show me what you’re into.”
I left the skinsuit carcass dead on Dorian’s living room floor. He gave me a t-shirt with the book cover ofDraculaon the front and a pair of sweatpants. Both were far too big on meand I had to make big, bunny ear loops out of the drawstring to keep it on my hips.
I went to the bathroom. I rinsed off my face. I pulled myself together. When I came back to the living room, feeling much more like myself, Dorian was waiting for me. He gave me a soft smile.
“You know,” he said, “I like this look much better.”
