Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 137135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Is desire.
I’ve never wanted something more in my entire life than for this to actually happen.
For this to be real.
For him to be real.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t give, nothing in the world I crave more, than for this man to live up to the fantasy I’ve built him up to be in my head.
My gym crush.
The guy I was insanely attracted to without knowing a damn thing about him.
My attention just being pulled toward him as if his soul was calling out to mine.
And then boom, there he was on a dating app specifically for people like me, people who have an alternative perspective, desires and needs that aren’t “the norm”. How was it possible the one man I had been drawn to “out in the wild” also craved a D/s relationship like I did?
Or is that why I was drawn to him so strongly in the first place?
Is there something about him that screams Dominant, even without any obvious identifiers? Hell, even without any discreet identifiers?
I’d never noticed him wearing a triskelion—the symbol of the BDSM community—either on a piece of clothing or jewelry. Nothing about the way he dressed at the gym marked him as a Dom. I don’t really know what could, off the top of my head, but surely a funny graphic tee or something would give a slight hint. Hell, even I have shirts that say things like BDSM: Bees Do So Much (for the environment). My favorite though is a smiling potted plant with a watering can tilted above it, and it reads Oh yes, all over my face, Daddy.
If I wasn’t known at our gym as that author who writes her dirty books in the locker room, I’d be easily pegged as freaky-deaky by my decidedly immature but hilarious sense of style… or lack thereof.
A submissive would be much easier to pick out in a crowd than a Dom, and that’s by design. A collar, maybe a bracelet or anklet with a lock, whether it be a fake one just for show, like a charm, or an actual locking clasp that couldn’t be opened without their Master’s key. We wear these different little tokens—or big, super-loud ones—to make it known to people who know what to look for and would recognize what we are, to say “Here I am! You’re not alone! I get you! I’m one of you!” but also, “I’m taken. I’m under my Dominant’s protection. Yes, we are part of this amazing small community, in this together, and get each other on another level, but one wrong move, one step in a disrespectful direction, out of your proper place, and you will face the wrath of the one who owns me.”
I crave that more than anything else, I think. Being owned, feeling powerful myself because I have a powerful Dom to protect me, even when he’s not there. The collar is a symbol of him, his ownership, his strength. It lives inside the leather or metal or whatever material it’s made of. And as long as it’s around his sub’s neck, or wrist, or ankle, or finger, or wherever the two of them have deemed the most meaningful between them, then the submissive harnesses all their Dominant’s strength that they lack on their own.
God, I wish I had even an ounce of that.
Because God knows I have very little strength of my own.
I’m the weakest person I know.
Physically and mentally.
I don’t know how much time passes. I either sit there for a tremendous amount of time stewing in my anxiety and in my ever-growing anticipation, wondering just how long it’ll take for him to come open my door like he said he would. Or, I sit there for mere seconds—too quickly, it seems—by the time I hear the handle clicking, the door opening simultaneously with my car’s lights turning on, my eyes closing against the sudden brightness.
But they startle back open as a zap of electricity wraps itself around my bicep. It takes me a moment to realize it’s his hand, and then he’s helping me out of the car. His softly spoken words are there in my ear just like they were when he came to speak to me in the café this morning. “There you go, little one. I’ve got you. Just watch your feet. I won’t let you fall.”
I feel like I’m floating, a balloon on a string tied to his finger. I can’t explain it, but it’s like his voice makes me weightless. I give myself over to it, and everything that’s dragged me down for who knows how long poofs into inexistence, and I’m above every single bit of it with him as my safety line.
Yet even as I feel damn near high and deliciously thoughtless, blissfully unaware of almost everything but this man’s dominating presence, I still sense the longing inside me. The desire growing by the millisecond the more I breathe the same air as him.