He's gone. So far gone. His eyes have that dumb, sub-space haze to them. “I’m a good boy.”
I flick the wax with my thumb nail. It’s dried and gone hard. It’s turned white and looks pretty suggestive, frozen into pearly drips down his arm.
I put the tea candle down. I then lift his arm, guiding his hand to the side of my face.
My eyes meet Dorian’s. His eyes suddenly widen, when my plan seems to register.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice tight.
Holding eye contact, I kiss his wrist. I slide my tongue over the wax over his arm. It tastes like a crayon, but I don’t care. I’m addicted to the heat in his eyes, and I press my tongue flat against it, like I’m sucking it off.
“Fuck,” Dorian hisses. He jolts—a small shudder, his body jerking forward—and by the sudden look of shame that crosses his face, I wouldn’t be surprised if he just ruined his pants.
He glances down in his lap. “Fuck,” he whispers.
Yep, definitely ruined his pants.
Cure is never going to let us back in here.
I grin. “Have a good night, champ.”
I get up, pull on my coat, steal one last olive, and go to the exit. I pause to wrap my scarf around my neck against the bitter cold.
Just as I’m exiting, I nearly run into a woman who is entering. Dark-haired. Cute. I open the door for her and hold it.
“Oh! Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
By which I mean:you’re so fucking welcome for the night you’re about to have.
I watch as she takes my seat, all bubbly smiles. Dorian rakes his hand through his thick curls, pulling himself together, and smiles politely back.
Before I leave, his eyes connect with mine through the window. Just a second more.
I give him a grin and a thumbs up.Be a good boy.
He’s fighting on a smile. He turns back to his date. I tighten my scarf and head to the train.
7
OKAY. MY TURN
Dorian.Now.
I am, above all, a fucking degenerate.
I’m starkly reminded of this fact as I sit uncomfortably in a puddle of my own cum, in the middle of a nice restaurant, as my dominatrix exits and my dinner guest enters.
Lo and behold: Dorian, a man who should have never been let off his leash. Should not be allowed outside. Is not safe for public consumption.
(Put a muzzle on me. I’m begging you.)
Dove and her orange beanie vanish from my line of vision. She’s replaced with a slender, tall, raven-haired woman who spots me and marches over.
Maggie hooks her purse on the chair and drops herself into the seat across from me. She keeps looking over her shoulder, her dark hair swishing back and forth.
“Who was that?” she asks.
