Don't Come Read online

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  TITLE PAGE 2

  Dedication

  - ONE

  - TWO

  - THREE

  - FOUR

  - FIVE

  - SIX

  - SEVEN

  - EIGHT

  - NINE

  - TEN

  - ELEVEN

  - TWELVE

  - EPILOGUE

  - DON'T FORGET

  - ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  - ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  - STALK HER!

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  TITLE PAGE 2

  Dedication

  - ONE

  - TWO

  - THREE

  - FOUR

  - FIVE

  - SIX

  - SEVEN

  - EIGHT

  - NINE

  - TEN

  - ELEVEN

  - TWELVE

  - EPILOGUE

  - DON'T FORGET

  - ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  - ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  - STALK HER!

  Don't

  Come

  Don't

  Come

  --

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2018 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Cover image credit: Shutterstock .com/ Family TV

  A note on the cover fonts: used with full commercial use rights: Montserrat, Hitchhiker, Over the Rainbow.

  Cover Design by: Chloé Sanossian

  heychloe.com

  DEDICATION

  For Chloe.

  Who believed in it.

  Maybe even more than I did.

  ONE

  Adley

  I had one foot firmly planted on the wall of my shower, foaming shaving cream from ankle to thigh, a conditioning treatment soaking into my hair, a deep African Black Soap mud mask on my face, in full-on spa-mode when I heard my phone bleep on my mirrored nightstand beside the bed, making my heart shoot into overdrive even as I lost my footing and slammed backward into the other side of the shower, the shower caddy stabbing into the back of my skull, sending a shooting pain across my scalp.

  My hand went up instinctively, rubbing at the ache, and managing to smear white shaving cream into my hair even as I was moving toward the shower door, pushing it open.

  Because, even stark naked, covered in various shower-only substances, and possibly suffering from a minor concussion was no excuse not to respond within his preferred timespan.

  Meaning immediately.

  Wiping my hand across the bedspread that most definitely was too nice to have deep conditioner and shaving cream smeared all over the beautiful beige material, I reached for my cell, unlocked the screen, and brought up the text.

  DOM: Plug.

  I didn't need to ask what he meant.

  This was because just last week he had texted me to tell me an address that I needed to go to - a blessedly upscale and understated toy shop located discreetly down a side street and not boasting a name that would make me blush - and a list of items I needed to pick up while I was there.

  Including the plug.

  Meaning, yes, a butt plug.

  He had even told me the exact one I was to get.

  Small, golden, tapered.

  And have it expensed to his account.

  Which I only had the number for, not his name.

  The plug was currently living in a decorative box beneath my bed along with the other items he had wanted me to get but never mentioned again.

  I looked down at my leg, the shaving cream starting to liquify and drop down onto the carpet, exhaled my breath, and lowered myself down onto my floor, reaching underneath the bed for the box, then pulling it out, and finding the plug.

  There was a distinct fluttering sensation in my belly even just looking at it. I was finding it impossible to tell if the feeling was because of excitement or nervousness.

  Or maybe both.

  All I could think as I looked at it, though, was This is not the kind of girl I am.

  Why, then, was there an undeniable wetness already forming between my thighs?

  I guess it was more accurate to say that I never used to be this kind of girl.

  The kind who got another text a second later telling her to lube it up and put it in.

  The kind of girl who actually followed those instructions.

  Yes, instructions.

  See, DOM wasn't actually his name.

  DOM was what he did, who he was.

  He dominated.

  He was a Dominant.

  I didn't actually even know his name.

  It went without saying that I also didn't exactly know what he looked like either.

  But with just a simple text, he had me taking an item I would never have bought on my own and inserting it somewhere I had always been convinced was a decidedly unsexy place, no matter what anyone else said about it.

  That was simply the power he had over me.

  For the past three months.

  I was at his beck and call.

  I stopped in the middle of cooking dinner, while scrubbing the floor, and, apparently, in the middle of grooming to pick up my cell and do whatever he demanded of me.

  DOM: Leave it in. All day.

  All day?

  My extensive personal hygiene extravaganza aside, I had a day ahead of me. A busy day ahead of me. Including meeting with clients, running a few errands, and going out for drinks and dancing with friends.

  I couldn't just be going about doing all that with a freaking butt plug in. That was insane.

  But even as I pretended to put up a fight about it in my head, I knew I would do just what he demanded.

  Because, apparently, I didn't have that same free will I used to.

  I know, I know.

  That sounds insane.

  That makes me sound like a weak, pathetic, helpless girl.

  Which is not the case.

  I was never that woman, the one who let men tell her what to do. I once got up from the table on a date to leave because some guy who knew me for point-two minutes thought he knew me well enough to try to order for me. I left my high school boyfriend when he demanded I uproot my life to attend the same college as him as if his dreams were more important than my own.

  By all accounts, I have always had complete control over my own life. I worked; I paid my bills; I decided what to do with my free time, and with whom.

  Why then, might you be wondering, am I acting like a puppet on a string for a man whose real name I don't even know?

  That, well, that is a very good question. One I wish I had a satisfactory answer to.

  All I can really say is, as far back as I could remember in my sexual life and fantasies, I have had this overwhelming urge for men to 'take charge.' Each time a boyfriend would pull me by the hair or close his hand around my throat or smack my ass, all I could think was more.

  But I had never found the confidence to tell anyone this, to admit that I, an independent, in control of her own life woman... wanted to be dominated by
her partner.

  So I just banked that down.

  I told myself over and over again that someday. Someday, I would find my voice and tell a man. Someday, I would feel confident demanding what I truly wanted from someone. Someday, I would get what I had been craving for years.

  But someday, as it often happens when you put your faith to rest in such a silly concept, never came.

  Fast forward to my thirtieth birthday.

  The Big 3-0.

  I spent the whole year of twenty-nine telling myself I would never see that age as some warning sign that my youth was over, that it was just a number, that it meant nothing special, that I would celebrate it with friends like I had every other birthday, not hiding under my covers.

  So I pulled on my big girl panties, got into a new little black dress and heels, and I went out for tapas, followed by drinking at a club.

  Maybe a little too much drinking.

  Okay, way too much drinking.

  So much so that after three shots and four martinis, I lost track. I actually only vaguely remembered the cab ride home and tossing my blasted heels across my living room.

  In fact, after that, everything went blank until I woke up the next morning with my laptop open on the bed beside me, making me scramble to brush my long hair out of my face so I could make sure I didn't make a complete idiot of myself on social media. No one likes a long, rambling, drunk post. Least of all people with a solid reputation to protect online because of their business.

  But as I fired my laptop up, it wasn't Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram that was open in my browser.

  Oh, no.

  It was a site I had never heard of before.

  Discreet DS Encounters.

  Weird name.

  It had an even stranger homepage that had nothing but a login option on top, and a picture of a man's back, a pair of handcuffs held in his hand.

  Brows drawn together, I scanned my brain for any memories of looking for this site. Finding nothing but black holes, I moved the cursor up to the edge, clicking the login button, figuring if I had been on this site, it must have been for a reason.

  Lo and behold, my email address and password were already saved.

  I had no idea that by hitting the enter button, everything had just changed.

  But it had.

  Because what loaded was a personal profile.

  Where I had bared it all.

  Not my body - thank God - but everything else, every fantasy, every interest.

  In fact, there were sections just dedicated to fantasies.

  And then it suddenly hit me.

  Discreet DS Encounters.

  DS.

  As in D/s.

  Dominance and submission.

  Drunk enough that my inhibitions were decimated, I had joined a D/s dating site?

  That was what it had to be, right? Otherwise, why would I have a profile on it? With interests listed?

  My eyes scanned the information I had entered, finding I listed myself as a graphic designer and web developer in the city - both being true - and that I was new to all of this.

  At least I hadn't gone into too much personal detail. It could have been a lot worse.

  I had listed myself as a submissive, looking for a dominant. Where it had a subsection asking what kind of dominant, I had clicked off what seemed to be most of them. Top, Weekend Dom, Trainer, and Daddy Dom. I did not click Sadist, Master, or Owner.

  So, at least drunk-me had been accurate as well.

  I wanted to be dominated; I didn't want to have someone telling me how to live my life.

  I scrolled the page lower, finding another section. Likes/Interests. And this is where I had gotten a little carried away in my box-checking. D/s. Sensory play. Whips. Flogs. Paddles. Handcuffs. Ropes. Ball gags. Anal play. Bare-handed spanking. Auto-erotic asphyxiation. Then last, but certainly not least, Edging (orgasm control).

  Heart hammering in my chest, I scrolled back up to the top, glad to find that in place of a profile picture, there was a badge that said To Unlock Pictures, Make A Connection.

  I did, however, provide details.

  Female. Age 30. Five-foot-six. Black hair (long). Blue eyes. Thin/Average build.

  I had even, oh God, given my cup, clothing, and shoe size.

  34C, medium, and 9.

  Hell, I don't think I ever told someone I was dating what my size was. But here it was, for any stranger to see.

  Kinky stranger, I amended in my head.

  Feeling my brain spinning, I fumbled out of bed, going into my bathroom to scrub last night's makeup off my face, brush the lingering taste of gin out of my mouth, and wrap my bed-messy hair in a loose bun as I found some ibuprofen to stop the hammering in my head. After all that, I went to grab a coffee and large bottle of water, hoping to feel a little more human, and a little less hungover.

  I made my way back to my bed an hour later, changed into huge gray sweats since I didn't plan on anyone seeing me all day, picked up my laptop, and did some more investigating, wanting to understand why drunk-me had signed up for this before I went ahead and deactivated the account.

  I clicked around until I found the website's explanation.

  Discreet DS Encounters is a site dedicated to helping you explore your desires with the understanding that for many of our users, anonymity is of the utmost importance.

  Well, yes, that all rang true. I sure as heck didn't want anyone to know about my interest in this kind of thing. Especially if that information somehow leaked into my professional life.

  Our website - and corresponding app - operate on an exclusive basis, connecting interested users with one match at a time to prevent profile-surfing. Our monthly fee is in place to ensure that all users are serious about wanting to find and make connections with Doms or subs of their choosing, not for casual online flirtation.

  So... I paid for this.

  Great.

  That was wonderful.

  I clicked open another tab, signing into my online banking account, finding that this fee was not a simple five or ten dollars a month either.

  Oh, no.

  I shelled out fifty-bucks of my hard-earned money on something I was absolutely going to delete.

  You know, after I finished reading about it.

  Because I might as well see what was going on with the site before they removed my access to it, right?

  At least that was what I was telling myself.

  Doms may contact subs, who may then look at their profiles to see if they wish to make a connection. If both parties agree, they are only allowed to talk to each other - exclusively - until one or both parties end the agreement.

  That was... restrictive.

  I wasn't too proud to admit that I had signed myself up for various dating sites on and off through my twenties when I switched from office work to opening my own business which meant I worked from home, and it severely cut down on my opportunities to meet eligible men.

  Every site I had ever been on allowed you contact with hundreds - hell, thousands - of interested members.

  But, that being said, all the messages were of the very basic, clearly lazy Hey how are you? You're cute sort. I would log on most days just to delete a dozen or so of those messages that clearly implied the guys weren't even interested enough to read my profile and come up with a talking point from it.

  Profile surfing.

  Casual online flirtation.

  Okay.

  I was starting to understand the exclusivity thing, I guess.

  Once a connection is made, there is a tiered system for gaining more information about your chosen Dom or sub. Every two weeks, there will be an option to allow further information to be shared via our private messaging system which disables downloads or screenshots from being saved to your phone or computer.

  Well, that was a safety feature a girl could get behind.

  Even if you weren't sharing racy pictures or your home address, it was good to know that no one could save that f
or later and that it could come back to bite you in the ass.

  Unless, of course, you were the kind of crazy who found a camera to take a picture of the screen and save it.

  But, again, that was pretty nuts.

  Tier One will allow you to chat in our private messenger, but will not allow phone numbers or email addresses to be shared.

  This was true of a couple of the paid dating sites I had been on. If you tried to do a succession of numbers or said the words Gmail, Yahoo, etc. it blocked the information from being seen.

  This tier allows you to get to know your potential Dom or sub, to see if you are compatible beyond the information shared on your profiles. If all goes well, at the end of the two weeks, you move on to Tier Two where each party will be given the chance to choose to share one picture. After another two weeks of talking, Tier Three can be activated, allowing you to share phone numbers. From there, the ball is in your court.

  From our team here at Discreet DS Encounters, we encourage you always to be vigilant, only ever meet up with someone if you feel safe, and always, always report back to us if you have uncomfortable interactions with any of our members.

  Welcome to a place where you can finally explore your fantasies unapologetically with like-minded individuals.

  Best of luck on your search.

  Well, alright.

  I could see why drunk-me who clearly wasn't thinking straight had thought it would be a good idea to sign up.

  It was new, interesting. It allowed me to look around without committing, to set some boundaries. You could opt out of moving to the next tier. It gave you a bit of control still, even though you were actively looking for a way to lose some of it.