Don't Come Read online

  I rolled my neck, pretending to ignore the strange swirling disappointment in my stomach as I moved my cursor back up to the top to click on my settings where I figured I would find the button for deactivation.

  But my attention went to the little white envelope beside the gear icon that meant settings. An envelope always meant the same thing across all platforms. And the little white number one flashing on it was pretty obvious as well.

  I had a message.

  Already.

  And, well, there was no way I wasn't going to at least look at this person's profile. Just out of pure curiosity. Nothing else.

  Or so I told myself as I clicked the envelope to find the man's name.

  DOM.

  Just... DOM.

  He must have been a member for a long time to get such a coveted name without having a dozen letters and a haiku after it.

  Unable to stop myself - not really even wanting to - I clicked his name to take me to his profile.

  His badge was different from mine, claiming that subs Do Not Contact Doms.

  Which, well, that made sense, I guess.

  He was thirty-eight, six-foot-two, black-haired, brown-eyed, with a fit body type. He lived in the city, but his profession was not listed. DOM was actively seeking a submissive, without further qualifying it. His interests section simply said All/Most.

  And that was it.

  I was suddenly seeing the downside in such anonymity.

  I mean, not that it mattered.

  Since I was deleting my account, right?

  I clicked back, seeing a big box next to DOM's name that told me that he was looking to make a connection. Do I accept?

  And, no, of course not.

  I was going to click on the gear icon and delete my account. That was the plan.

  Except I sat there for a long moment, eyes glued to the connection request, letting my mind run away with fantasies that had my very hungover and sluggish body suddenly coming to life, getting turned-on just by the idea of finding someone who had the same sexual interests as I did.

  Then I did it.

  I accepted.

  And I almost hyperventilated whilst simultaneously having a heart-attack, waiting for something truly weird or twisted to happen.

  But nothing did.

  Meaning... nothing.

  After an hour of sitting there, I shook my head, trying to brush off the weird surge of disappointment as I forced myself to go through the motions of the day. Shower, laundry, clean up the pile of shoes in my closet from trying to find the perfect pair the night before.

  I was feeling mostly myself again when I grabbed my laptop to take it over to the desk in my living room.

  I loved my apartment. I loved what it said about how hard I worked, how much hustle I had needed to do all through my twenties to get a place in NYC that wasn't a shoebox in a hellhole neighborhood.

  I mean, sure, it was only a step or two up from a shoebox, and I was in Brooklyn, just barely - maybe not even technically - in the trendier part near Williamsburg. Sure, maybe I needed to double-lock my doors because I had a set of neighbors who I was pretty sure sold drugs out of their apartment, but the place was spacious, and I only paid an arm and half a leg in rent.

  It was a somewhat industrial-looking space because, at one time, it had been some sort of handmade tile factory. But that meant it had super high ceilings with the cool ductwork showing, exposed brick walls, and those giant, wall-to-wall windows with the little black separators. Sure, they had absolutely no weatherproofing which meant that when it was cold out, it was cold inside as well, and my heating bill skyrocketed. But it also meant the place was always full of light.

  That was where I chose to set up my desk, right in front of one of the windows, looking down on an indie coffeeshop that just last month was an indie diner, and in another month would likely be some trendy ice cream store or something. You learned not to get too attached to any food places in this neighborhood since they never lasted.

  There was currently a line out front that wrapped an entire block, no doubt in anticipation of some super trendy coffee concoction that would cause social media hype and cute hashtags for a month, and then everything would die down again, all the hip early-twenty-somethings moving on to the next cool trend.

  Though, I was hoping this one lasted a little longer than all its predecessors. It was rather convenient to have a coffee place across the street when I wanted something my coffeemaker couldn't deliver on.

  I put the laptop down next to my fourth cup of plain coffee for the day, the cup I was hoping would fuel me up so I could tackle one of the three website overhauls I had lined up for my week, each one more complicated than the last.

  But I couldn't complain.

  Designing logos or book covers or convention-ready swag items might be more fun, but websites were what paid the bills. Especially because each of them came with a reasonable, but indefinite, website maintenance fee each month just to handle updates and page changes. That somewhat passive income really adds up when you build up a large enough portfolio of websites.

  I was ready to open up my email to bring up the screenshots for the mildly cheesy color palate this new client wanted for her soap making business.

  But then I saw it.

  A flashing number one on the envelope again.

  I knew I wasn't supposed to.

  I knew I had work to do, money to make, bills to pay.

  I knew the last thing I needed was a distraction of the fantasy kind.

  But even knowing all of this, I clicked the envelope.

  DOM: Did you join on a whim, or are you seriously looking?

  Right to the chase then. Also, somewhat intuitive. I guess maybe that was common with this kind of website, people who chickened out right after joining, not actually serious about wanting to be dominated, just liking the idea in their heads, maybe after reading one too many romances that glorified the situation.

  I knew better than to expect hearts and flowers.

  That wasn't how this worked.

  This was sex, plain and simple.

  And I had never been a sex, plain and simple kind of woman. Aside from maybe two really poorly thought-out flings in college. Hell, even then... I had wanted more.

  I wasn't going to answer.

  How could I when I had no idea what to say? Was this a whim? Yes, yes it was. But also, a part of me had always been very serious about this desire.

  I guess needing to voice this, needing to get it out of me finally, my hands went to my keys.

  WBSUB: To be perfectly honest, I was drunk from birthday celebrations when I joined last night. So, I guess you could say this was a whim of an inebriated mind.

  DOM: Or the alcohol was letting you finally do something you have wanted to for a long time.

  Well, damn.

  He was seeing it that way as well.

  WBSUB: I have been curious for a long time.

  DOM: But have never experimented.

  WBSUB: Unless fumbling from past relationships count...

  DOM: They don't.

  He was very clipped. I guess maybe that made sense coming from a dominant.

  WBSUB: Then I am new to all of this.

  DOM: If you're serious, we can talk.

  Talk.

  Just talk.

  He wasn't demanding anything more.

  I mean... he couldn't yet, right?

  I had two weeks of a grace period where all that could happen was talk. On a screen. Without him being able to see me.

  If I was going to pay for this month - and I had checked the billing information, I was paying for this month, even if I canceled right now - I might as well test it out, right? Get a feel? Or just have a small fantasy with a real-life Dom.

  WBSUB: I am serious about exploring this.

  There.

  It wasn't a lie.

  DOM: I won't call you WBSUB. What is your name?

  Real names were a very bad idea.

  E
specially names like mine that were unique.

  And an Adley in Williamsburg who was a graphic designer and web developer was even more rare, likely locatable with just a simple Google search.

  So he couldn't have my real name.

  WBSUB: You can call me whatever you want to call me.

  That was a submissive thing to say, right? Or was it too snarky? I was awful at this already, and I had just started.

  DOM: I won't ask again for a name.

  Alrighty.

  Yeah, I should have anticipated that one, right?

  I don't know why, but my fingers found the letters to my actual name.

  It was odd, those first few interactions over the first three or four days, just feeling like we were on a blind date, and trying to cover the basics of conversation, both of us feeling the other out.

  Even with the awkwardness, the guarded way we were both approaching conversation, I still couldn't seem to stop myself from almost frantically checking back on the site to see if he had responded yet.

  Then, on the fifth day, DOM became, well, a Dom.

  DOM: Are you on right now?

  It was almost midnight. I shouldn't have been. I should have been trying to sleep because the next day, I had a meeting with a local pizzeria to design their new menus. Not a glamorous job - or even one that paid well - but I had been eating pizza there every Friday since I moved to Williamsburg. And since they knew what I did for a living, I felt like I couldn't say no. Besides, it was an easy job. And they were throwing in a few free slices while we discussed color palates and fonts.

  But I wasn't sleeping.

  I wasn't even attempting to sleep.

  I was acting like I was catching up on TV while, in reality, I was refreshing the website every five minutes because he hadn't contacted me all day. I was starting to worry that he was sick of the forced conversation, and was ending our connection. I had no idea if I got notified if or when that kind of thing happened.

  WBSUB: Yes.

  DOM: Are you home?

  It was almost midnight on a Tuesday. Where else would I be?

  WBSUB: Yes.

  DOM: Alone?

  WBSUB: Yes.

  There was a pregnant pause, a part of me maybe just possibly worried he might suddenly start knocking on my door or something.

  DOM: Take off your pants and panties.

  The second my brain registered what the words said, it happened. Desire uncurled through my system like a sleeping cat, stretching out until it was in every limb, until every inch of my body was humming with need.

  It was in the thrumming of my heart, the way my pulse was beating wildly in my wrists, throat, and temples, in the way my breathing felt too fast and shallow, and my skin felt feverish and overly sensitive.

  Was I really going to do this?

  Was there even any way I wouldn't?

  My hands slid down to push off my covers, then slide down my pants and panties.

  I took the laptop to move it into a better position, so I could read it without having it on my lap.

  WBSUB: Yes, sir.

  DOM: Good girl. You don't need to respond once we get started. I plan to keep your hands busy. Just do what you're told, understand?

  WBSUB: Yes, sir.

  DOM: I bet you're already wet for me, aren't you?

  There was no denying it.

  WBSUB: Yes, sir.

  DOM: I am going to let you touch your pussy, but not yet. I want you writhing and crying out first. Slide your hands up your shirt. Rub your hand across your soft tits; I want your nipples hard and straining before I let you play with them.

  ...

  DOM: Roll your nipples between your thumb and forefinger. Increasing pressure until they feel hot with pain.

  ...

  DOM: Slide your hand down your stomach, and slip it between your thighs, stroking up the crease where your pussy meets your inner thigh. Up and down. Over and over. Until your hips are jerking upward. Until your hands are clawing at the sheets with the need to touch your swollen clit. Then and only then can you slide your finger up your slick slit, but don't touch your clit. Get as close as you can without running your finger over it.

  ...

  This was what I had been craving all my life. Confident instruction. I had never read a dirty text from a man that didn't make me feel cringy at either the tentativeness of it or the complete lack of finesse.

  DOM's messages didn't even have a hint of self-consciousness. The only pauses were when he was giving me time to have the need build up. And he somehow intuitively knew exactly when to send me another message, to drive me further upward.

  It wasn't until almost forty-five minutes later, until my fingers were inside me, thrusting at the pace that he set, that he gave me something else, something he read about me wanting to explore. Maybe something he was into as well.

  DOM: Don't come.

  Those two words made a loud whimpering objection break free from me as my writhing hips dropped down on the sheets, my skin feeling like it was sparking, my core in a tight, painful knot of unfulfilled desire.

  DOM: Adley.

  That was my cue to respond. With my free hand, I did.

  WBSUB: Yeah?

  DOM: You don't ever come unless I tell you that you can. Not when I am talking to you, not on your own. Do you understand?

  WBSUB: Yes.

  DOM: Good girl. Get some sleep.

  How the hell was I supposed to sleep?

  My body felt like it was a live wire.

  I could have just reached back down and finished the job. No one would ever know, least of all him. But I couldn't make myself do it.

  Disobey him.

  The first real Dom I had ever known.

  So I didn't.

  And the next time he messaged me, taunting me until I was beyond crazy with need, then told me I couldn't come then either, yeah, I still didn't relieve the need.

  I suffered.

  As per orders.

  Before I even realized it, Tier One was over.

  And DOM had put forward the chance to exchange pictures.

  I had been thinking I could toy around and get a cool masquerade mask, seeing as this site was so dedicated to anonymity.

  That was until I saw DOM's note attached to the request.

  DOM: Instructions for your picture - Sitting in your bed. Shot from the neck up. Hair down. Minimal makeup. Red shirt. Only one earring in.

  It was just specific enough to ensure that I couldn't fake it. Well, I mean, I could. I could manipulate any picture I wanted to a desired result.

  But that thought was hardly even across my mind before I was going to my closet to dig through piles of blacks, grays, whites, and navy blues, to see if I had a single thing that was red.

  In the end, all I found was a simple red tank top I got that matched these super tight workout leggings I had bought during a spell when I thought I ought to take up yoga. You know, to ease the stress of my workaholic lifestyle.

  I believe I made it through two-thirds of a class before I decided the human body was simply not meant to bend that way. And I couldn't focus on my breathing because I had about two dozen things on my to-do list that were not getting done while I tried to be a pretzel around strangers.

  It was almost obscenely tight with a built-in bra that actually did a nice job of jacking up your boobs and keeping them in place.

  I would have preferred a higher neckline. And sleeves. But this was what he demanded, and I was pretty sure I wasn't supposed to keep him waiting.

  I threw it on, mussed up my hair, tucked one side behind the ear where I clipped on a simple white gold hoop earring my aunt had given me for my college graduation, then climbed into bed.

  I hit the accept button, watching a second window pop up, telling me that the camera feed was private until I sent the picture. Which was a relief. No woman ever just took one selfie. You took fifteen-hundred in almost the exact same position with just your head or shoulders tilted ever so sli
ghtly in different directions. That was what any self-respecting woman did to get the right picture. Then cursed herself as she went back and had to delete fourteen-hundred and ninety-nine pictures.

  The camera showed black for an embarrassingly long moment before I remembered I kept a sticker over it, ripped it off, and watched myself as I tried for the perfect shot.

  After eleven, I decided that was as good as it was going to get, selected the image, and with my heart jackhammering in my chest, sent it off to DOM.

  It felt like an eternity that his name had the dreaded dot-dot-dot letting me know he was typing.