Chapter Two #3
A groan escapes me before I can stop it. "Don't be ridiculous, he called me Margie eight times before lunch."
Tess's expression turns murderous on my behalf, and the conversation moves on to several creative suggestions for correcting him that would almost certainly get me fired.
She doesn't mention Dom Dot Com again.
By the time we leave, I've had enough wine that driving home isn't an option, so my car is staying exactly where it is. Tess gets me into a cab, ignores my insistence that I'm perfectly capable of taking the bus, and tells me she'll drive me back for the car tomorrow.
It's almost eleven when I get home. The apartment is cold and dark, but for once there's nothing waiting for me that absolutely has to be done tonight.
I kick off my shoes, change into an old T-shirt, and curl up on the couch with my phone, intending to find something mindless to watch until I'm tired enough to go to bed.
Ten minutes later, I've scrolled through three streaming services and chosen nothing.
I open my browser instead.
My recent searches are mostly pharmacies, restaurants Richard likes, and variations of how to remove coffee stain from silk tie. I tap the search bar and type Dom Dot Com before I can think too hard about what I'm doing.
The website appears at the top.
I open it and scroll through the homepage again, taking more time now that Tess isn't sitting across from me watching my face. The sections on consent and safety are more detailed than I remember, and I read through the explanation of the magical contracts before moving on to the profiles.
There are plenty to choose from.
But I go straight to Soren.
His photograph fills the top of the screen. Beneath his name are the same words I saw earlier.
Daddy Dom / Service Top.
This time, I read beyond the parts Tess showed me.
There's more about how Soren runs his sessions, what happens during the consultation, and how much gets discussed before anyone ever steps into a room with him.
By the time I reach the bottom of the page, I've been reading long enough that curiosity is starting to feel like a flimsy excuse.
None of it sounds like what I imagined when Tess first said professional dom.
That probably should make it easier to close the page.
It doesn't.
Near the bottom of the page, there’s a section titled Shifter Anatomy: What to Expect. I tap it and make it through ridges and elevated body temperature before reaching the part confirming that dragons can, in fact, knot.
I put my phone facedown on the couch.
Then I pick it back up.
For research purposes.
At the bottom is a button marked Begin Intake.
I stare at it for a while before tapping it.
The first few questions are straightforward. Age. Experience level. Previous BDSM experience. Hard limits. Interests. Curiosities. Anything I don't understand has an explanation beneath it, and most of the questions give me the option to leave things undecided until the consultation.
Then I reach a text box.
What do you need that you're not getting?
I read the question and start to overthink.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard before I type I don't know.
I delete it.
Then I type Nothing, which is obviously bullshit, so I delete that too.
The empty box sits there while I try to work out what kind of answer a stranger expects from someone who has no idea what she's doing. Sex? Attention? An orgasm good enough to justify filling out this much paperwork?
Eventually, I type the first thing that comes into my head.
Everything?
I stare at it, uncomfortable with how quickly the word appeared, then add I don't know in front of it because apparently uncertainty makes honesty less embarrassing.
I don't know. Everything?
Before I can delete that, I move on.
A few questions later, another one stops me.
What appeals to you about a Daddy Dom?
This time, nothing comes immediately.
I shift against the couch and read the question again. My screen dims while I'm still staring at it, and I have to tap it awake.
I could leave it blank.
Instead, I type:
The idea of someone wanting to take care of me.
My stomach tightens as soon as I see the words on the screen. They look needy in a way I don't like, as though I've admitted to something I should have grown out of years ago.
Before I can stop myself, I add:
I know that sounds pathetic.
I nearly delete the answer, then consider deleting the entire questionnaire, my browser history, and possibly my identity while I'm at it.
Instead, I put my big girl panties on and keep going.
By the time I reach the final page, I've tried to talk myself out of submitting it.
This is ridiculous. I have work on Monday, bills to pay, a mother who needs help navigating anything more complicated than an automated phone menu, and a sister who currently owes me thousands.
I do not have time to start filling out applications to spend an evening with a dragon because my best friend got me tipsy and showed me his photograph.
My thumb hovers over Submit.
Then I press it.
The confirmation page appears.
For several seconds, I just stare at it.
"Well. Fuck."