Chapter 24
Piper
T ilden’s glows with amber light and quiet conver sation, a sanctuary of polished wood and white tablecloths. The hostess greets me by name—a perk of coming here every Thanksgiving for the past three years.
Uncle Teddy is already at our usual table, rising when he sees me, his smile lines deepening. “There she is,” he says, opening his arms. “The future senator who’ll make sure I never have to pay taxes again.” The last part is added with a deep chuckle.
I step into his embrace, breathing in his familiar scent. “You know that will never happen,” I laugh.
“Semantics.” He holds me at arm’s length, studying my face. “You look good, Piper. Are you doing alright?”
We sit across from each other, the familiar setting wrapping around me like a memory while I explain I’ve had two exams, and just handed in a paper yesterday.
“Well, food fixes everything. Or so my mother always said.”
Our table is near the back, tucked against the wall where we can see the entire restaurant but aren’t immediately visible to those entering. Teddy always requests this particular table while joking that he wants to know who’s coming for him.
“Wine?” he asks, already reaching for the bottle the server has left. A rich cabernet, I’m guessing, something bold that will pair with the turkey and leave my lips stained darker than they should be.
“Please.” I slide my glass toward him.
He pours generously—too generously, as always—and raises his own glass. “To another year of outrunning our demons.”
I clink my glass against his. “Some demons run faster than others.”
“Don’t I know it.” He takes a long sip, then sets his glass down with deliberate care. “Speaking of demons, have you heard from your parents?”
The question doesn’t sting as much as it once did. Time has a way of cauterizing even the deepest wounds. “Yes, Mom called yesterday to tell me I’m the best daughter in the world,” I joke.
He snorts. “Now that would be something.” After taking a large sip of his wine, he continues. “I believe they’re in Aspen this year.” Uncle Teddy doesn’t bother hiding his disdain.
“God forbid they’d spend a holiday somewhere without a social ladder to climb,” I quip. Then I exhale audibly. “It’s fine, honestly. I like our tradition.”
“Me too.” His expression softens. “And speaking of traditions…”
He’s timed it perfectly, trailing off as the server arrives with our first course. Rolls that are still steaming from the oven, and a small pot of honey butter. There’s also a plate of roasted root vegetables arranged like a miniature autumn garden.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, though we both know it’s part of the ritual. I protest; he insists.
“I absolutely did.” He tears a piece of bread, butter knife poised. “It’s not every day I get to spoil my favorite niece.”
“I’m your only niece.”
“A technicality you never let me forget.” He grins, passing me the butter. “How’s school? Really?”
I spread butter on my bread, watching it melt into the warm dough. “It’s good. Challenging.” Between bites, I fill him in on everything worth mentioning.
“That’s my girl.” Pride colors his voice. “And the internship? Still learning the ropes?”
“It’s…” I search for words that aren’t lies, but don’t reveal too much. “Educational. I’m learning things they don’t teach in textbooks.”
“I bet you are. Politics is a blood sport dressed in Brooks Brothers.” He leans back as the server returns to clear our plates, making way for the main course. “Anyone giving you trouble?”
I think of Enzo’s hands on my throat, his voice in my ear. He’s not merely trouble; he’s temptation incarnate. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
The main course arrives; roasted turkey with chestnut stuffing, candied sweet potatoes topped with toasted marshmallows. There are also green beans, and, of course, the cranberry sauce I love. The scent of herbs and butter rises from the plates, familiar and comforting.
“This looks amazing,” I say, genuinely appreciative.
Food has never been a priority for me—too many years of my mother’s commentary on calories and dress sizes—but the more distant we become, and in huge parts, thanks to Teddy, I’ve learned to enjoy it.
“Only the best for our dinner.” He refills our wine glasses before I’ve made a dent in mine.
“So what are you up to these days? Anything new?” I ask as I spear a piece of turkey with my fork.
“I’m thinking of getting a cat.” Teddy laughs, a rich sound that fills the space between us.
I gasp. “A cat? No, Teddy, you can’t be serious. You can’t keep anythi ng alive.”
He looks affronted. “Of course I can. Who do you think keeps me alive? I’m doing a damn fine job if I do say so myself.” A sly smile pulls at his lips and his eyes twinkle mischievously. “Besides, I’ve had Mr. Purrgatory for two months now, and he’s very much alive.”
I almost choke on my food. “Mr. Purrgatory?”
Teddy nods proudly. “That’s his name.”
The conversation flows easily from there—cats to his latest real estate acquisition, to a funny story about his housekeeper finding his secret stash of Pop-Tarts.
It’s comfortable, warm, the kind of interaction that requires no performance. With Teddy, I don’t have to be the perfect student or the ambitious intern. I can just be Piper.
“You know,” he says after a lull, a forkful of sweet potato halfway to his mouth, “I’m proud of you. Not just for the school stuff or the career path. But for standing your ground.”
I know what he means. My choice to pursue politics instead of following my parents’ preferred path as trophy wife to someone socially acceptable, then a life of carefully managed appearances.
“It wasn’t really a choice,” I say softly. “I couldn’t do what they wanted and still be me.”
“That’s exactly why I’m proud.” He reaches across the table, squeezes my hand briefly. “Standing up for yourself is never easy. Especially not against Nathaniel and Evelyn Harrington, Social Terrorists Extraordinaire.”
I laugh despite myself. “They mean well.” Another half-truth. They mean well for themselves, for their image. For me? Never.
“Only if it benefits them.” Teddy’s voice turns serious. “Never forget that, Piper. People will always act in their own self-interest. The trick is finding the ones whose interests align with yours.”
His words hit closer to home than he could know. What is Enzo’s interest in me? Not just sex—he could have that from anyone. Definitely not power, since he already has that in abundance. Something else, something I can’t quite name.
“You’ve always been sharp, kiddo,” Teddy continues, unaware of my internal struggle. “Don’t let anyone dull that.”
“I won’t,” I promise, but even as the words leave my mouth, I feel the lie in them. I’m already letting Enzo reshape parts of me, sand down edges I once thought essential. The worst part is, I like it. I crave it.
We finish our meal with pumpkin cheesecake. The restaurant has emptied somewhat, the early dinner crowd replaced by those who dine fashionably late.
“Any plans for the rest of the break?” Teddy asks, swiping his card without looking at the total.
“Just recharging. Maybe get ahead on some reading.” And waiting to see if Enzo will summon me during the holiday, if he’ll demand my time when I should be resting.
“Good. You work too hard.” He stands, helping me with my coat before donning his own. “Promise me you’ll actually relax? Not just say you will and then spend the whole time with your nose in a textbook?”
“I promise.”
Outside, the night air is crisp, carrying the scent of wood-smoke and approaching winter. Teddy hugs me again, tighter this time.
“Call me if you need anything,” he says, the same words he always says, words that have been a lifeline more than once. “Anything at all.”
“I will.” I kiss his cheek, rough with a five o’clock shadow. “Thank you for dinner. For everything.”
He waves down a taxi for me, and as it pulls away, I watch him standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, making sure I’m safely on my way. I wave one last time as the taxi turns the corner, taking me back to my empty apartment.
My apartment feels too quiet after the gentle chaos of the day. I leave the lights off, navigating by memory and the soft glow filtering through my curtains from the streetlamp outside.
The wine sits heavy and warm in my veins, not drunk but not entirely sober either—that perfect middle ground where truth feels less dangerous.
Before settling on the couch, I change out of the green dress I always wear for Thanksgiving, and into an oversized long-sleeved sweater and a pair of yoga pants with a more forgiving waist.
I stretch out on the couch, my sweater riding up slightly, exposing a strip of skin to the cool air. The contrast makes me shiver.
My phone buzzes in my hand. For one heart-stopping moment, I think it’s him—Enzo. Which would make no sense since he’s never texted me before.
The message is from my bestie. A string of turkey emojis followed by a simple text.
Lee: Hope dinner with Uncle T was good. Love you, and can’t wait to see you tomorrow!! Remember what I said about the list ;)
After texting her back and ordering her to call me the second she’s back tomorrow, I open the Notes app on my phone, and stare at the blank screen. The cursor blinks, patient and accusatory all at once. What would I even write? Where would I start?
With the easy things, maybe. The things I already know I like. The things he’s already done to me that have left me begging for more.
I type, delete, type again. Settle finally on a simple header .
Kink List
Beneath it, I write the first word that comes to mind.
Blindfold
I laugh softly in the dark. It sounds so clinical, so inadequate.
It doesn’t capture the feeling of having my sight stripped away, relying completely on my other senses.
It doesn’t explain how my mind goes quiet, how the constant chatter of ambition and expectation fades when I can’t see, when all decisions are taken from me.
I add another.
Hair pulling
Again, too simple to capture the reality. But there’s no other way to really describe the slight pain that sends signals racing along my nerves. Or the way it makes me arch into him like a cat seeking more contact. How sometimes he uses it to guide me, to position me exactly where he wants me.
The list grows, each entry bringing memories that heat my skin despite the cool apartment air.
Spanking Choking
My free hand drifts absently to my throat, fingers tracing the delicate skin where his grip has left phantom pressure.
Being called Toy Being told I’m a good girl
I’m more aware of my body tonight than usual—the way my sweater brushes against my nipples, the slight ache between my thighs that never fully subsides anymore. A constant, low-level hunger that spikes whenever I think of him.
Needing more ideas, stuff I haven’t tried, I open the internet browser, feeling suddenly bold.
I search for uncommon kinks, and the results are a mix of clinical terminology and explicit descriptions.
I click through, scanning, dismissing some immediately, lingering on others.
Some I already have on my list. Others are new to me, terms I’ve never encountered.
There’s one that catches my interest right away. I click the link, read t he definition. Somnophilia refers to a sexual interest in engaging in sexual activity with a sleeping person.
I immediately picture Enzo entering my apartment like he did when he spanked me. My heart thunders in my chest as I imagine him stalking through the darkness, finding me asleep and vulnerable.
Slickness pools between my legs, and my pussy clenches around nothing as I let out a small whimper. The fantasy is so real. I can practically see him touching me without waking me. Using me while I’m unconscious.
The thought makes me press my hand against myself through my yoga pants, a reflexive action I’m barely aware of until it’s happening. I’m soaked, shamefully aroused by the idea of being so completely at his mercy.
My finger hovers over the delete button again. This is too much, too honest. Too revealing of the dark, twisted parts of myself I’ve only begun to acknowledge. If anyone saw this list… what would they think?
What the hell am I working myself into a panic attack for? No one’s going to see. Besides, it’s healthy to have fantasies. It doesn’t mean I’ll act on it. For now, I’m content just imagining how it would work out.
I save the note, then lock my phone and let it fall to the couch beside me. The room feels different now, charged with something beyond just the lingering effects of wine and food. My whole body hums with awareness, with the weight of what I’ve just admitted to myself.
There’s a kind of surrender in naming your desires. In acknowledging the parts of yourself that society says should remain hidden.
Deciding to leave the list on my phone, I get up from the couch and pad into the bathroom.
Even though it’s still early, I’m too tired to keep my eyes open.
So I quickly get ready for bed. Then I stride into my bedroom where I strip out of my clothes and slide under the sheets.
Just before I fall asleep, I read over my kink list one last time, and make a few changes.
Kink List! Do I have any? Do the below count as kinks? Hair pulling Spanking Choking Degrading names (Toy!!!) Praise (good toy!!) Exhibitionism (like Halloween & my interview!!) Somnophilia