Chapter Two
My phone buzzes and I nearly drop it in surprise. Marcus hasn’t just accepted my connection—he’s messaged me already.
No, “hey beautiful,” or winky faces. No generic pickup lines. Just straight to the point. After months of dating app small talk that went nowhere, this directness feels like a breath of fresh air.
I stare at my phone, a smile tugging at my lips. There’s something about his confidence that’s undeniably attractive. He’s not trying to impress me or put me at ease with fake charm. He’s just ... real.
For the rest of Sunday, I bounce between “what the hell am I doing?” and frantically Googling questions to ask a dominant. By evening, I’ve got a ridiculous list going in my Notes app:
- Do you actually wear leather all the time?
- How do you know what someone needs when they don’t even know?
- Is this all just elaborate roleplay?
- What if I laugh at the wrong moment?
- How did you get into this anyway?
I delete and rewrite the list four times. Nothing sounds right. How do you prepare for something you never thought you’d do?
Monday crawls by in an endless parade of meetings. By the time I race home at 7:30, I’m running on adrenaline and curiosity. I change out of my work clothes, briefly consider a glass of wine for courage, then decide against it. Whatever happens, I want to remember every detail.
At 7:55 exactly, a notification pops up: Marcus has sent you a secure video link.
I click it with shaking fingers, check my hair in the corner preview (why am I nervous about how I look?), and wait. At 8:00 on the dot, he connects.
Oh.
His profile photo didn’t do him justice.
On screen, he’s magnetic—dark eyes that seem to look right through me, strong features softened by the hint of a smile.
He’s in what looks like a home office, bookshelves behind him, wearing a simple white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle.
Nothing flashy or intimidating—just effortlessly masculine.
“Hello, Sarah,” he says, his voice a deep rumble that seems to vibrate through me. There’s a trace of an accent I can’t place—something European, maybe? “Thank you for being on time. How are you feeling right now?”
Not “how are you” or “nice to meet you,” but “how are you feeling right now?” The question cuts straight to what matters.
“Like I might throw up,” I blurt out, then immediately want to die of embarrassment. “I mean, I’m nervous. But also curious. Mostly nervous, though.”
To my surprise, he laughs, a warm, genuine sound that immediately puts me at ease. “Honesty. I appreciate that.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “The nervousness is natural. We’re exploring something new. But curiosity is more important—it’s what brings us to new experiences.”
I find myself smiling back at him. “I’ve never done anything like this.”
“I know,” he says simply. “That’s why we’re having this conversation first. To see if there’s potential here—for you to assess if I’m someone you can trust, and for me to determine if I can provide what you’re seeking.”
“That makes sense.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I tried to come up with smart questions, but everything I wrote down sounds ridiculous now.”
“Ask me whatever you want to know, Sarah.” The way he says my name makes it sound like something precious. “There are no ridiculous questions.”
“Okay. Why do you do this?” I surprise myself with the directness of my first question. “I mean, what do you get out of it?”
His eyebrows raise slightly, clearly not expecting this opener.
“An excellent place to start.” He considers for a moment.
“The simple answer is that I find profound satisfaction in creating spaces where people can experience parts of themselves they usually keep hidden. The more complex answer involves my own journey from corporate law to understanding power dynamics in a different context.”
“You were a lawyer?” Now I’m the surprised one.
He nods. “For seven years. Corporate contracts, primarily. I was very good at it.” There’s no arrogance in his statement, just calm certainty. “But I found myself increasingly drawn to understanding what people truly needed versus what they said they wanted.”
“And that led to ... this?” I gesture vaguely.
A smile plays at his lips. “Not directly. But yes, eventually. I discovered I had a talent for holding space for others, for seeing beneath the surface. And frankly, I found it far more fulfilling than corporate negotiations.”
There’s something about his self-awareness that’s deeply attractive. No defensiveness, no apologies, just comfort in his own skin.
“Do you wear leather pants?” The question pops out before I can stop it.
He laughs again, and the sound does something warm and liquid to my insides. “Occasionally. But not nearly as often as the clichés would suggest. My approach is more about psychological dominance than aesthetic trappings.”
“Psychological dominance?” I lean forward slightly. “What does that mean exactly?”
“It means I’m more interested in your mind than your body.” His gaze intensifies, and I feel suddenly exposed, as if he can already see all my hidden desires. “Understanding what you need to surrender, what holds you captive in everyday life, what freedom might look like for you specifically.”
My mouth goes dry. “That sounds ... intense.”
“It can be,” he acknowledges. “But it’s always controlled, always consensual, always with your well-being at the center.”
For the next forty-five minutes, we talk with a candor that would be impossible on a normal first date. He tells me about his approach, his boundaries (he doesn’t date clients—which disappoints me more than it should), and what a typical first session might entail.
When I ask about safety, his entire demeanor shifts into something even more serious.
“Your safety—physical, emotional, psychological—is nonnegotiable,” he states.
“We use safe words, check-ins, written agreements, and extensive aftercare. The app requires background checks, but I take additional precautions. This isn’t something I approach casually, Sarah. ”
The intensity of his commitment to safety, rather than scaring me, makes me feel incredibly secure. This man has thought of everything.
As we talk, I find myself relaxing, leaning closer to the screen, laughing more. There’s something freeing about such direct communication—no games, no pretense, just two adults discussing what they actually want.
“Can I ask you something now?” he says after I’ve worked through most of my questions.
“Shoot.” I’m curled comfortably on my couch now, much of my earlier nervousness faded.
“What made you reach out to me specifically? There are many professionals on the platform.”
I consider deflecting, but something about those eyes makes me want to be honest. “Your profile said you create spaces where accomplished women can experience surrender. That spoke to something in me.” I swallow hard.
“I’m so tired of being in control all the time—at work, in relationships, even with friends.
I’m always the one making decisions, taking responsibility .
.. sometimes I just want to not be in charge, you know? ”
Something flashes in his eyes—recognition, interest, and maybe something hungrier. “I know exactly,” he says softly. “That desire isn’t weakness, Sarah. It’s deeply human.”
His understanding feels like a balm on a wound I didn’t know I had. “So how would this work? If we decided to proceed?”
“First, I’d ask you to complete a detailed questionnaire about your boundaries and interests.
” His tone turns practical, but his eyes remain warm.
“Then we’d meet in person, in public, to discuss further.
Only after that—and only if you’re completely comfortable—would we schedule an actual session. ”
“That sounds thorough.”
His lips quirk up. “I’m a thorough man.”
The way he says it sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.
“There would also be a verification process—” he begins.
“Like a background check?” I interrupt.
“Yes. It protects us both.” His expression is unapologetic. “I need to know you’re who you claim to be, just as you need the same assurance about me.”
Rather than feeling offended, I find his caution reassuring. “That makes sense. This is all so ... new territory for me.”
“Which is precisely why these safeguards matter.” His expression softens. “At any point, Sarah, you can decide this isn’t for you. There’s no obligation, no pressure.”
I nod, strangely moved by his consideration. “Thank you for that.”
He glances at his watch. “We’ve been talking for nearly an hour. Do you have other questions tonight, or would you like me to send the questionnaire for you to consider?”
“I think I’m good for now,” I say, surprised to realize I’m disappointed our call is ending.
“Then I’ll send the materials shortly.” He pauses, then adds, “I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Sarah. Your honesty is refreshing.”
“So is yours,” I reply, meaning it. “This is nothing like I expected.”
“The most worthwhile experiences rarely are.” He smiles—a full smile this time that transforms his serious face into something almost boyish. “Good night, Sarah.”
“Good night, Marcus.”
After we disconnect, I sit in the quiet of my apartment, heart racing as if I’ve just run a mile. I expected to feel embarrassed or ashamed. Instead, I feel ... alive. Seen. Like I’ve just had the most honest conversation of my adult life.
My phone pings with a notification. Marcus has sent the questionnaire and verification details, exactly when he said he would. The precision of his follow-through does something to my stomach that I haven’t felt since high school.
The questionnaire makes me blush in places, raising possibilities I’ve never consciously considered. Some items make me instantly click No, others I hesitate over before selecting Curious. I work through it methodically, surprising myself with each revelation about my own desires.
The verification process requires my ID and professional information—more thorough than applying for my apartment lease. I hesitate briefly, then think about Marcus’s unwavering gaze, his clear boundaries, his commitment to safety. Before I can overthink it, I submit everything.
All done, I message him. That was ... educational.
His response comes within minutes: Thank you for your trust, Sarah. I’ll review everything and be in touch tomorrow. Sleep well.
Such a simple phrase—“sleep well”—but it carries more genuine care than I’ve felt from most of my actual relationships. As I slide into bed that night, I realize I’m smiling at the ceiling like an idiot.
What am I doing? This is crazy. I should cancel before things go any further.
But when I wake to a notification that my verification is complete, excitement flutters in my chest. By lunch, Marcus has messaged again: I’ve reviewed your responses.
I believe we could work well together. Would you be available to meet at Meridian Café this Thursday at 7 PM?
It’s quiet, discreet, and has excellent espresso.
I check my calendar. I’d need to move a team dinner, but suddenly that seems completely unimportant. Thursday at 7 works. Meridian Café it is.
Marcus: Perfect. Wear whatever makes you comfortable. I look forward to meeting you in person, Sarah.
For the next two days, I’m a mess of anticipation and second thoughts. Twice I draft cancellation messages, convinced I’ve lost my mind. But each time, I remember how it felt to be truly seen during our conversation—the relief, the honesty, the strange sense of coming home to myself.
Thursday evening, I try on four outfits before settling on dark jeans and a blue blouse that makes my eyes look greener. I’m not dressing for him, I tell myself. I’m dressing for how I want to feel—confident but real.
As I grab my keys and head for the door, my phone chimes with a message from Marcus: I’ve arrived early and found us a quiet corner. Take your time. I’ll be waiting.
My heart does that ridiculous flutter again. Eight first dates this month, and not one made me feel this mixture of excitement and terror. Whatever happens next, I’m already more alive than I’ve felt in years.
Game on.