3. Dean
DEAN
How did that bastard do it?
I scrub a hand down my face, feel stubble catch on my palm.
Our Thanksgiving staycation with the virgin starts tomorrow, but I need to take the edge off now.
There’s an ice-machine recall in Texas—for whatever reason, some genius put glass housing inside the ice machines, and after being too cold for too long, they’ve begun to shatter and show up in people’s drinks.
A marketing VP in our Tokyo satellite office decided cranberry-turkey bao is the holiday fusion the world has been waiting for.
One hitch after another. Control once fit me like a second skin.
Now it pinches. I send a few emails out and step away from the desk.
We have district managers for a reason, and they can handle the holiday bullshit.
Let them earn their paychecks. It’s time to clear my head, or it will spiral into spreadsheets shaped like her freckles.
Castleberry Hill after dark. Old brick warehouses, new lofts smelling of fresh drywall, graffiti that reads more like manifestos.
Slash hides in an alley where the streetlamps burn sodium-orange and the pavement never dries.
No sign, just a polished steel door that reflects distorted versions of yourself.
Tony, the doorman, recognizes me, and a green eye-scanner sweeps my face, granting entry.
I step into low light, and my senses hit instant overdrive.
Bass pounds like a skittering heartbeat.
Incense mixes with leather and something sweet—maybe burnt vanilla.
Patrons and employees parade about. It’s impossible to know who’s who if you don’t notice the bright red collars that indicate Slash employees.
A hostess in royal purple floor-length velvet escorts me past curtained alcoves, each alive with its own murmured negotiations and cries of pleasure.
The club calls itself traditional, and they’re right about that, to a degree.
Black walls, dungeon hardware arranged with museum precision, etiquette enforced like federal law.
That formality calms me. Predictable boundaries. Safe chaos.
I take a glass of sparkling water—no liquor right now.
I need clarity as I drift to the mezzanine rail.
Below, heat and intent weave through writhing and dancing bodies.
A scruffy dom ties intricate chest harnesses on a lanky sub.
A trio negotiates cane strokes in sign language.
I’m not sure if they’re hearing impaired or if they’re too close to a speaker.
Nearby, a rope-ridged suspension shimmers crimson under overhead spots. All elegant, all tightly controlled.
It’s that control that helps us relax. Rules set us free.
Usually, I watch to enjoy the art of it all. Knots, rhythm, trust. Tonight, every scene morphs unwillingly in my mind. Her body in place of theirs, my hands winding the rope. Thalassa kneeling, braid swung over one shoulder, hazel eyes dotted with starbursts of surrender.
Ridiculous. I haven’t met the girl. She might hate impact play, might flinch at bondage. But her profile reads looking for conversation as bright as fresh powder —who writes like that if she’s afraid of trying new things?
I sip water, inhale leather tang, exhale a slow eight-count. But the images refuse to fade.
I’ve spent more time than I’ll admit scrolling the screenshots Tic sent.
Her smile, the nervous tremble of enthusiasm between every line of her bio, her messages.
She wants the kind of novelty we can orchestrate blindfolded, yet I catch myself wanting to fold her into a blanket, spoon her hot cocoa, kiss the tip of her nose when it chills. Domestic foolishness.
Ridiculous. But as I’ve gotten older, the ridiculous has become a goal in the back of my mind, and it’s growing ever more impossible not to project those thoughts onto possibly interested parties. The truth is, there’s a longing I’ve ignored for too long. Something simple, something real.
I want the white picket fence, the two-point-five kids, the wife. But I’m standing in a kink club, watching all manner of perversion instead.
The domestic life isn’t for people like me.
It’s for…well, I’m not entirely sure who it’s for.
Some of our board members have it, but they make every excuse to fill the C-suite instead of going home.
My employees? The DMs travel nonstop. Our chefs aren’t interested in home life—they want to create their next culinary masterpiece.
Maybe domestic bliss is a myth.
A willowy redhead in latex approaches. “Haven’t seen you in months, Sir Dean.” Her hand skims my sleeve—an invitation. Any other night I’d test my palm against her throat, see if her pupils dilate. Tonight, the gesture irritates me, like static cling.
“Taking the evening off.” I smile—polite, but cold enough to discourage her inquiries.
“As you wish.” She drifts away. I feel her glance back, disappointment cutting through the pheromone haze. That used to please me, the evidence of effect.
Right now it feels like wearing someone else’s suit, tailored but wrong.
I check the time. Just after eleven. Early, by Slash standards. I could stay, accept the next invitation, remind myself I’m not tethered to a fantasy girl from the internet. Instead, I set the empty glass on a tray and thread toward the exit.
City lights smear past the windows of my Bentley, my driver taking me smoothly through the turns.
I google her name for the fourth time, for reasons I don’t quite understand.
The search yields a sparse LinkedIn, a dormant Instagram with exactly nine photos (sunsets, coffee mugs, one nerdy meme), and a public-access article quoting her in a student research showcase.
In the article’s photo, she’s standing between two older figures—parents, clearly.
The father’s left shirtsleeve is pinned shut.
He needs a prosthetic. Good myoelectric models run mid five figures.
I wonder whether that’s the real reason Thalassa is doing this.
Maybe she made up the snow vacation as a cover—didn’t want to seem like a poor girl in the world of sugar babies.
It tends to attract the wrong kind of sugar daddy—men who prey on the vulnerable.
Smart of her.
I email the best prosthetist in the Southeast, the one who custom-built a glove for the Paralympic fencer we sponsored last year. After our long weekend, I’ll handle introductions discreetly.
It’s absurd. Filthy, even. Pay the daughter, rescue the father. But it isn’t about purchase. It’s about justice. If a problem has a fix and I’m capable, then withholding my help is negligence.
My phone buzzes.
Colin: Sales rep taking me to Chacha’s. Wanna come?
To a strip club? Rain check. Long night.
Suit yourself.
The truth? I don’t want to talk. Not right now. Colin would sniff out the budding preoccupation I refuse to name.
I do not imprint. My fixation is only due to our impending holiday weekend.
Yet I already know her finals schedule, her favorite café (discovered via geotag scroll), and that she once liked a tweet about alpine pika conservation. My chest tightens in an unfamiliar squeeze—anticipation mixed with something softer, dangerous. A mystery to unravel.
Once home, I undress and tumble into bed. My emergency laptop glows red, connected to my work computers. But not now. The red can wait. It’s been a long day that became a long night. A yawn ambushes me. Tomorrow I have to look like a man who sleeps.
I shut the lid. That decision alone feels decadent.
I need a drink.
Soft lights dim as motion sensors register stillness. The skyline beyond glass seems softer than Slash’s dark glamor—fog diffuses neon, blurs edges. I stand at the kitchen island, fingers drumming. It’s too silent.
In a parallel universe—the one I discarded—someone might hum while wiping counters, ask about my day, set out grapes for a bedtime snack.
I fetch a bottle of water, twist the cap. Fantasy is useless, but I indulge a single frame. Thalassa curled on my couch, knees up, explaining something marine biology adjacent with enthusiastic hand gestures while I pretend not to memorize the shape of her mouth.
Another ridiculous fantasy. She’s a weekend arrangement. We’ll give her luxury and pleasure, she’ll give us bright conversation and maybe her first taste of kink if she consents, then everyone returns to separate orbits.
Clean and efficient. The perfect arrangement. Anything else leads to attachments, and attachments never work out for anyone.
Still, when I climb into bed, the second pillow looks naked. I grab my phone, skim her profile one last time.
Light off. Ceiling fan hum low. My laptop’s fan whirs. Responsibility hovers outside the bedroom door, piled in my mind like mail no one wants to open.
I fall asleep counting not numbers, but the expressions I hope to map on her face.
Surprise, curiosity, trust. The truth is, I didn’t take the girl at the club up on her offer because I want Thalassa to be the next girl in my bed.
I’m being ridiculous again, and I know it, but maybe I need something ridiculous.