Archive of Our Own

I was sitting in the food court finishing my lunch when I noticed the man sitting at the table next to mine. He had his back to me - suit jacket tossed over his chair, white shirt sleeves rolled up as he typed busily.

At first I assumed he was just another remote worker taking advantage of the free wi-fi. Without thinking, my eyes tracked over his screen and my breath hitched.

"The alpha’s hand fisted in the omega’s hair, yanking his head back just enough to expose the vulnerable line of his throat. ‘You think you get to decide when you come?’ The words were a growl, low and rough, and the omega whimpered, his body already trembling in submission."

That was definitely not the kind of work I'd expected.

I slipped my phone out of my pocket and surreptitiously snapped a quick photo. Not the guy's face, of course, and you couldn't actually read the screen in the photo - I just wanted to capture the public nature of the setting, and the juxtaposition of his corporate demeanor with what he was writing.

-Shoutout to the guy writing the banging werewolf AU porn in the mall food court-

I texted the photo and caption to my friend Krista, then turned back to my food. I looked up when I heard a voice at my shoulder.

"Excuse me, did you just take a photo of me?"

The writer stood over me, jacket tossed over one arm. He was probably about 10 years older than me, in his mid-forties, with the kind of confidence that carries the whole room. His dark blue tie was knotted neatly around his neck.

I swallowed. "No," I lied instinctively. "Why would I do that?"

"It looked like you did." His voice was calm but there was an edge to his tone that made my pulse race. He pulled out the chair across from me, sat down across from me. Then slowly and deliberately, he held out his hand. "Let me see your phone."

I clutched it. "No way."

"You're in a public place, taking photos of strangers. That's a bold move. I could ask Security to come over here and take a look."

My phone screen lit up, screen visible, as Krista responded to the text. The man smirked.

-OMG. You should ask him if you can read it.-

I tilted it quickly away. His voice dropped a little lower, gaze intent on mine. "Or you let me see it, and then…" His outstretched hand tapped on the table, "we talk about why you're so interested in what I'm writing."

I breathed out and unlocked the screen. "Fine," I said, as I slid it across to him.

His fingers were precise on the glass as he zoomed in on the photo, then read the words. "Cute. You have a thing for werewolves?"

I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. "I just thought—the contrast was funny."

"You don't seem to be laughing now." He leaned on the table, set down my phone but didn't slide it back across.

I swallowed.

"Tell me, do you make a habit of spying on people or was I just special?" He tapped on the screen again before it could go dark. Flipped to another photo in my gallery, but didn't look at it. "Will I find others?"

I managed to find my voice. "No. I was just…" I trailed off. I didn't have a good excuse and we both knew it.

He slid a business card across to me with my phone.

Daniel Voss

Private Consultations

By Appointment Only

I read it and flipped it over, to find an address. I looked at him, confused. "What kind of consultations?"

He leaned over the table so close I could smell his expensive cologne - something dark and spicy.

“The kind where you learn what happens to nosy little voyeurs who take pictures of things they don’t understand.” He stood, straightening his tie. “Think about it. And next time, ask before you snap a photo. Or better yet," he paused and his voice darkened, “Ask before you watch.”

I wasn't sure what had brought me to the door of Daniel Voss's offices. Curiosity? Boredom? I was between jobs, living on my unemployment and half-heartedly job-hunting.

The address turned out to be a modern building full of quasi- and faux-medical offices - a chiropractor, a physical therapist, a wellness coach, a vitamin salesperson. And Daniel Voss, on the 3rd floor. I took the elevator, my hands shaking as I pressed the button.

Maybe he'd have a job for me. I tried to convince myself that was why I'd come. And if he was trying to get me in trouble, he'd have done it at the mall.

He had the only office on the floor. When I walked in I was greeted by a receptionist behind a large silver desk. Her hair was pulled back tightly in a bun. Her demeanor was friendly but efficient.

"Can I help you?"

"Um…well, Mr. Voss gave me his card?" I said, my voice breaking on the last syllable. I showed it to her. "I thought he'd…want me to make an appointment."

The receptionist glanced at the card, nodded. "Of course. And your name?"

"Stephan Roberts."

"Thank you, Mr. Roberts. You can have a seat." She typed something on her computer. "I will let Mr. Voss know you're here." She pressed a button on her desk.

I was halfway into a chair when she finished, and leapt upright again. "Wait, now? I thought I'd have to come back. I didn't bring—I'm not dressed for—"

I was cut off by the appearance of Daniel Voss in the doorway. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Roberts. In here."

I found my feet obeying, even as my mind screamed at me to leave.

The door closed behind us. The office was nothing like I'd expected — but then, I'd had no idea what to expect. A large, expensive wooden desk stood on one side, and a large plush leather couch filled the other. Large bookshelves lined the walls, filled with expensive old-fashioned looking tomes.

Voss didn't sit, just stood leaning on the desk, and looked at me. "Stephan." My name rolled off his tongue. "So glad you came."

Something in his tone made me flush. "I wasn't sure what you meant by consultations. Why you gave me your card."

"But you came anyway. You were…curious."

I couldn't meet his eyes. "I thought maybe…you'd have a job I could do. Office work or something." I twisted my hands together nervously.

Voss pushed up off the desk suddenly and took a step toward me. I backed up, my calves colliding with the sofa. He kept coming until I had to look up to see his face. The spicy, dark cologne I remembered from the food court wrapped around me.

"I didn't ask you here because I need an assistant, Stephan." His tone was patient but there was power laced through it. "You didn't come here for a job. You came here because you couldn't stop thinking about what you saw. About me."

My legs sagged and I sat heavily on the sofa. I opened my mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. He was right. I hadn't come for a job. I hadn't even thought about it until I was already in the elevator, justifying my presence to myself.

"Don't lie to me, Stephan." Now his voice wasn't just edged, it was cold steel. I gulped. "Tell me, what did you think would happen when you walked in here?"

"I—I didn't know," I admitted, looking everywhere but his face. "I just…wanted to see you again."

His hand pressed into the armrest next to me as he leaned in. His sleeves were still rolled up, and the back of his arm had a fine coating of dark hair. He was so close that I could feel the heat of his skin through the sleeve of my shirt. "Look at me, Stephan."

I dragged my eyes upward to meet his piercing gaze. There was something in his expression —satisfaction or amusement—that made my stomach clench and heat pool in my core.

"Good."

I shifted in my seat, stared up at him.

"You came because you were intrigued. You saw something yesterday that caught your attention, and you've been thinking about it ever since." His hand dropped and grazed the outside of my knee. "So what was it?"

I struggled for breath. He was too close, stealing all the air from the room. "I like the stuff with omegas in it," I admitted in a whisper. Voss stroked my leg encouragingly.

"Good boy, for being honest." The praise made me blush. "Admitting it is hard." He ran the back of his hand down my leg, my skin tingling. "And? Tell me about that."

I took a deep breath. The words came out hesitantly at first, then faster and faster. "And…a trans guy…like me…is kinda like that, physically. The omega."

"Anything else?"

"The dynamic. I want to know what that's like, the wanting and the control. Giving it up, I mean."

Voss' hand came up and a finger landed on my lips, cutting off my nervous ramble. His touch was warm and I found myself relaxing into it.

"So you came because you want to know what it's like to surrender." His finger traced the shape of my lips. "To find out it feels like to trust someone enough to let go."

I shivered at his words. He took a step back, leaving me feeling cold at his sudden absence.

"But this isn't a fantasy. It's about real control. Real trust. Real consequences."

I swallowed hard, my mind racing. "That's—a lot." I admitted.

"Of course it is. We just met. We're here to explore. To figure out what you like." He took my chin, tilted my face up to look at him again, thumb brushing along my jaw. "To find out what you need." His touch was possessive but tender, sending a wave of sensation through me. "So you have to be honest with me. No more lies."

I nodded, throat tight. "I can do that."

"Good." His hand slid to my shoulder. "Now let's start with something simple. Close your eyes."

I hesitated for a moment, then obeyed. Without my vision, my world narrowed, filled with him. I could smell him, feel him, hear him. I expected him to touch me, but his hand didn't move from my shoulder.

"Tell me how you feel," he murmured.

"Nervous," I said, shakily. "But excited."

His fingers tightened on my shoulder. "Good. Honest again." His other hand brushed loose hair from my forehead. "Take a deep breath and when you're ready, open your eyes."

I drew in air, filled my lungs and blew it out slowly, gathering myself. Then I opened my eyes. Voss was looking at me like I'd done something special.

"You're doing so well, Stephan." His voice was warm. "And we're just getting started."

His grip shifted, not tightening, but focusing—like he was tuning an instrument. “Let’s begin with the basics.”

I wet my lips. “What do you want me to do?”

"I want you to kneel. Not as punishment. Not as worship.” He released my shoulder and stepped back, giving me room. “As practice. To see if you like the weight of it.”

My stomach twisted. The space on the carpet yawned, suddenly vast. I hesitated, faced with the choice, then slid off the couch. My knees sank into the thick rug. The position was unfamiliar, and the way Daniel's expression focused on me made my pulse spike.

His hand landed on my head, stroked my hair. "How does it feel?"

"Strange." I breathed. "But good strange."

He nodded. "Hands on your thighs. Back straight." I shifted. His hand landed on my neck, straighten my spine. "Very good. Stay like that a moment."

Voss walked away from me, returned to his desk. I felt oddly exposed, on my knees in the open while he sat behind his desk. He pulled out a sheet of paper, filled in some blanks. I breathed deeply and fought the urge to fidget. After what felt like ages, but was probably only a few minutes, he rose again and came back to me, carrying a bottle of water.

He took my arm and guided me to stand, holding the bottle to my mouth. "Drink this." I sipped obediently. "That was good for a first time. Next time we might try it with a paying client."

I jerked away from him. "A paying—you're trying to SELL me?" I took a step toward the door, but he didn't let go of my arm.

"Relax, Stephan. No one's going to hurt you. I'm trying to introduce you. To someone who will appreciate what you're learning here." He handed me the rest of the water bottle, suddenly clinical. "Drink."

I drank, not sure why I still hadn't bolted for the door. "What is it you do here?" I demanded, after emptying the bottle and wiping my lips on the back of my hand.

Voss showed me the paper he'd pulled from his desk. I took it, read it over quickly. The language was plainer and more direct than I expected.

DANIEL VOSS LIFESTYLE COACHING SERVICES

CONFIDENTIALITY & UNDERSTANDING OF SERVICES FORM

I acknowledge that Daniel Voss ("Coach") provides lifestyle coaching, compatibility consultations, and facilitated introductions between consenting adults for the purpose of exploring power-exchange dynamics, communication skills, and personal growth.

All personal information, discussions, and interactions during sessions are strictly confidential, except where required by law (e.g., risk of harm to self/others). I affirm that my participation is voluntary and may be withdrawn at any time. I understand that no sexual acts are offered, required, or implied as part of these services.

I understand that any/all fees paid to Coach are for time, expertise, and administrative costs only. No refunds will be issued for voluntary withdrawal or incompatibility with potential matches.

There was a place at the bottom for my name, already filled in, and a blank signature line.

"You aren't agreeing to anything by signing it." Voss explained. "You don't have to do anything with any potential match. The initial meetings are all supervised by me personally, or in public settings, or both."

I gaped. "I thought—but what if I don't want someone else?"

Daniel's smile was polite, practiced. "You don't know what you want, yet." He took the water bottle from me, set it aside. "You don't know what it's like to be with someone who understands what we're exploring here." He tapped a finger on the paper. "This is about giving you options. Safe ones."

I swallowed hard, my mind racing. “And what do you get out of it?”

“My fee.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. “I get paid for my time, my expertise, and for facilitating introductions. Nothing more.”

The words stung more than I expected. “So this is just… a business to you.”

Daniel’s eyes met mine, steady and unapologetic. “Yes. A business. One I take very seriously.” He gestured to the contract. “I don’t traffic in people, Stephan. I don’t sell favors. I provide a service—one that helps people like you find what they’re looking for without the risks of navigating this world alone.”

I wanted to argue. Say I didn't need his help. Say that I knew what I wanted, that I could find it on my own. But the truth was, he was right. I didn't know. And that terrified me more than anything.

"And what if I don't like it?" My voice came out smaller than I intended.

"Then you walk away." He shrugged. "No obligations. No hard feelings. But you won't know if you don't try."

I looked down at the waiver again, the checkbox next to "Sub" already marked. It felt like a label that I wasn't quite ready for. But the way it had felt when I knelt, the way my body reacted when Voss praised me—I wanted more of that.

"And if I do like it?" I whispered.

Voss' smile was faint and almost sad. "Then maybe you'll find where you're meant to be."

I hesitated again, then took a pen from the desk and scrawled my name at the bottom of the form. Voss took it from me, fingertips brushing mine.

"Good. Now we can talk hard limits."

I watched as Voss —Daniel, he'd said to call him —filed my paperwork away. "You seem to have it all figured out." I commented.

Daniel didn't look up. "It's not about figuring it out, Stephan. It's about providing structure so you figure it out."

When I left, my head was spinning. Daniel had used a number of terms that were new to me, and I was still trying to take everything in. He asked me to come back for some more "coaching sessions" before I'd be introduced to anyone officially, but said those sessions might include other clients.

His receptionist had given me a journal, with daily planner spaces, and a cell phone. "Keep them both on you." She'd advised me, "in case Mr. Voss needs to reach you." The day planner was leather-bound, the front cover embossed with D. V. in heavy gold lettering. The phone was sleek and impersonal with the only contacts reading "Daniel Voss" and "Emergency."

"I thought this wasn't a job."

"It's not. It's a service." Her voice was crisp.

I hadn't even gotten home when the burner phone buzzed.

-Read the materials I sent to your email. Highlight anything you don't understand. We will discuss tomorrow.-

-And Stephan - leave the planner unmarked for now. I'll make notes after each session, and tell you when I want you to use it.-

The phone pinged several times: an email notice, then calendar invites.

-“Group Dynamics Session – 2:00 PM, Thursday” Location: Studio A

Attendees: Daniel Voss, Stephan Roberts, [Redacted], [Redacted]-

-“Protocol Practice – 9:00 AM, Friday” Location: Voss Consulting Office

Attendees: Daniel Voss, Stephan Roberts.

Wear comfortable clothing. No food 2 hrs prior.-

My thumb hovered over the decline button. But the memory of his voice—“You don’t know what you want, yet.”—made my hand still.

I accepted the invites.

Then I Googled “what is protocol practice kink” and immediately regretted it.

The door to Studio A was heavy oak, unmarked except for a small brass plaque. I knocked, my palm slick inside my fist.

“Come in.”

Daniel’s voice was calm, mirroring the space inside the room. A lounge, not a classroom. Plush couches, arranged in a loose circling, with low, soft lighting.

And two men I didn't know, poised in ways that made my shoulders hunch. One, a young tan-skinned, dark haired man, lounged on a couch like he owned it, smirking at me like he already knew what I had to say. The other, an older, bookish man, sat ramrod straight, hands neatly folded in his lap. Daniel stood by a sideboard, pouring amber liquid into three glasses.

I checked my watch. 1:58 pm. Daniel caught the motion.

“You’re barely on time.” He gestured to the empty seat between the other two men, handed me a glass. “Sit.”

The couch dipped as I perched on the edge. The dark-haired man didn't move to give me space, letting our legs touch. I pulled back.

"I don't really drink." I said, setting down the beverage. Daniel didn't acknowledge it, but didn't insist either.

“Today,” Daniel said, swirling his own glass, “we’re discussing hierarchy.” His gaze landed on me. “Stephan, you’ll observe. Ethan, you’ll demonstrate. Marcus, you’ll critique.”He looked first to the lounging man, then the neat one.

Ethan’s smirk deepened. “Lucky me.”

Daniel ignored him. “Ethan is a switch. Marcus is a service sub. Stephan—” His eyes cut to me. “You’re still deciding.”

Heat crawled up my neck. Deciding. Like it was a menu item.

Ethan leaned forward, his voice a purr. “So, new boy. What’s your safeword?”

I opened my mouth, but Daniel answered first. “Red. Same as yours.” His tone brooked no argument. “Stephan hasn’t chosen a secondary yet.”

Ethan’s grin turned shark-like. “How adorable.”

Daniel's voice cut through. "Enough." He set his glass down and turned to Ethan. “Kneel.”

Ethan moved like water, graceful and effortless, sinking to the floor between Daniel’s feet. My stomach twisted. That should be me.

Daniel’s hand landed on Ethan’s shoulder, possessive but impersonal. “Show him presentation.”

Ethan’s posture shifted—spine straight, hands clasped behind his back, chin lifted just so. Like a soldier reporting for duty. Like perfection.

Daniel’s fingers flexed. “Good.” Then, to me: “Watch his hands. His eyes. The way he breathes.”

I watched. And hated every second of it. Ethan moved through several positions at Daniel's command.

Daniel’s fingers flexed on Ethan’s shoulder, then released him with a pat. “Stand.”

Ethan rose fluidly. Daniel turned to me, his voice dropping into that measured tone that made my skin prickle. “Stephan, what did you notice?”

I swallowed. “He—he moved like it was natural.”

“Good.” Daniel’s gaze flicked to Ethan. “Because it is natural. For him.” He paused, letting the implication hang. Then: “But you’re not Ethan. You’re green. And green subs need structure.”

“Ethan’s strengths lie in resistance play, but he’s never worked with a true novice.” His gaze flicked to me, cool and assessing. “Stephan, you will be his subject for today.”

My breath hitched. “Wait—”

“You’ll follow three rules,” Daniel continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “No safewording unless you genuinely need to stop. No speaking unless spoken to. And you will obey Ethan as if he were me.”

Ethan grinned at me, shark-like. "Finally, something fun."

I looked to Daniel but his expression was unreadable. “Ethan,” he said, “demonstrate a basic posture check."

Ethan glanced down at me. "Stand up, Stephan." My legs felt wooden as I got to my feet and moved to the center of the space. Ethan circled like a predator, close enough that I could feel him, but not quite touching.

"Feet shoulder-width apart. Stand straight." he said, in a dark mimicry of Daniel's commanding tone. I didn't move fast enough, and his hand landed on my lower back, pushing me almost until I stumbled.

Marcus made a quiet note behind us. Critiquing.

Ethan’s fingers trailed up my spine, pressing between my shoulder blades until I straightened. “Better.” His breath was warm against my ear. “But your hands are fists. Relax.”

I swallowed hard, forced my fingers to unclench.

Ethan's grip tightened on the back of my neck, just enough to make my pulse jump. "When I tell you to kneel, you’ll do it slowly. Like you mean it.”

Daniel's voice cut through, releasing some of the tension. “Ethan—command, don’t cajole. And Stephan—breathe.”

Ethan’s fingers dug into my neck, his tone sharpening. “Kneel.”

I dropped too fast, my knees hitting the carpet with a dull thud. Ethan tsked. “Again. This time, like you’re choosing it.”

Daniel didn’t intervene. He just watched, bourbon untouched, as Ethan made me repeat the motion four more times. Each correction was a fresh humiliation, each praise from Ethan a knife twist.

Finally, Daniel set his glass down. “Analysis, Marcus.”

Marcus didn’t look up from his notes. “Stephan’s resisting the idea of submission, not the act. He’s performing for you, not Ethan.”

Daniel hummed. “Observant.” His eyes met mine. “And accurate.”

Ethan crouched in front of me, tilting my chin up with two fingers. “You’re thinking too much.” His thumb brushed my bottom lip. “The point is to feel.”

I flinched back—but Daniel’s voice stopped me. “Let him.” Ethan’s smile was triumphant.

My face burned. Daniel’s expression didn’t change. “Stephan, stand there. Ethan, critique.”

Ethan sauntered back to the couch, all lazy grace. “He’s got potential. But he’s clinging to his pride like it’ll save him.”

Daniel nodded. “And your performance?”

Ethan’s grin faltered for half a second. “I could’ve been clearer.”

“You were sloppy,” Daniel corrected. “With a new sub, every instruction should be unambiguous. Try again.”

My chest ached. Try again. Like this was just another drill. Like I was just another body in Daniel’s rotation.

The next morning I made sure to be standing in Daniel's reception area at 5 minutes to 9. My stomach grumbled - I wasn't really a morning person, and getting up at 6 am just to eat had seemed like too much hassle at the time.

Now I was regretting it.

The receptionist greeted me. "Mr. Voss is expecting you."

I knocked on the door. "Wait a moment, Stephan," Daniel called. I stood in front of the door as the minutes ticked by. At exactly 9 am, I heard, "You may enter."

I stepped through the door and closed it carefully behind me. Daniel indicated the chair in front of his desk. "Sit, please."

I perched on the edge of the chair, fidgeting as Daniel kept typing on his laptop. Finally he looked up at me.

"So, what did you think of yesterday's session?"

"It was…" I trailed off, trying to find the words. "New."

"Educational, then. It's meant to be. What did you think of working with Ethan?"

His matter-of-fact tone made me bristle. "It was humiliating."

He tilted his head, studying me. "Was it? You obeyed him."

"You told me to. I didn't have a choice."

Daniel stood, walked around the desk to lay a hand on my shoulder. "You always have a choice, Stephan. You could have safeworded. Left." His hand was heavy. "And your breathing steadied, when you knelt for him. This is about learning how your body responds, about learning what you want."

"I don't want him." I muttered.

Daniel's eyes cut into me. "Because you want me."

I looked away.

"That's normal, Stephan. You're dealing with a lot of new feelings and I was the catalyst."

"So, what, you're just going to keep tossing me at people until I get the idea?"

His fingers tightened. "Mind your tone. Which reminds me…moving forward, you should address any Dominant you work with as 'sir'. No more silent compliance. When given a command, you say 'yes, sir'. When given a correction, you say 'understood, sir.'" He paused, looked at me.

I swallowed. "Understood, sir."

"Good boy. So yesterday, when Ethan told you to stand, you should have said?"

"Yes, sir."

"And when he corrected your posture?"

"Understood, sir."

"Good. See that you don't forget again. You'll keep working with Marcus and Ethan for a while, I think."

He tapped something into his phone, and mine buzzed.

-“1:1 Dynamics Session – 1:00 PM, Friday” Location: Studio A

Attendees: Stephan Roberts, [Redacted]."

I looked up at Daniel. "Alone?" I said, a lump in my throat.

"You wanted to learn about trust. I trust Ethan. Do you trust me?"

I hesitated. "Yes, sir, I do." I said, finally.

"Good." He patted my shoulder. "Now. Let's go over yesterday's session in more detail, practice what you learned. Show me presentation."

"Yes, sir."

I slid out of my chair, got to my knees on the rug. Back straight, hands behind me, chin up. It still felt stiff.

Daniel nodded. "Getting better."

He ran me through other postures, had me rise and go back down until my knees were sore. After half an hour, he released me, told me to go home and practice.

How many times can one man practice kneeling on a floor? I thought, but I kept it to myself.

Instead, I asked about something else that had been on my mind. "What about…other things?"

"What other things?"

My face flamed. "You know. Like sex." I muttered, looking away.

Daniel shook his head firmly. "I don't have sex with my clients, paying or not. And I don't teach it, not directly. That you'll have to practice on your own."

Despite Daniel's instructions, I didn't head straight home after our session. I first went and got something to eat at a local diner, then wandered around a bit, thinking.

How did I feel about all this? What did I want?

I passed by the mall where I'd first met Daniel and smiled wryly to myself. It had only been two days since I'd been caught snooping on a stranger at the mall, and my life had changed completely.

I wondered who Daniel's paying clients were. Obviously some of his clients must pay quite well for his services. Would they be famous? Was that why all the secrecy?

And he'd completely shut me down when I asked about sex with him. I had to admit I was a little disappointed with that. The energy between us at the mall and during that first session in his office had been charged, electric. I had thought there might be something more between us.

But Daniel had made it clear - I was a client, he was the coach.

My phone beeped, reminding me of the time. I'd have to hurry if I was going to make it to the Studio on time to meet Ethan.

The door to the studio was ajar. I pushed it open just before 1 PM and stepped in. Ethan was lounging on the couch again, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the muscles of his chest. The room smelled of something citrusy - Ethan's cologne, not Daniel's.

"Took you long enough." He didn't look up from his phone. "Close the door. Then kneel."

"Yes, sir." My knees hit the carpet.

"Again."

"Sorry, sir?"

"Act like you mean it. Say it like you mean it." He set his phone aside, rose. "This isn't just Daniel's classroom anymore. If you're here, it's because you want to be. Act like it."

I swallowed. "Yes, sir." I said again, emphasizing the final syllable.

"Better." He circled, leaned in. "Hands."

I offered them out to him, palms up. He took one, ran his fingers over my skin. "Soft hands."

"Thank you, sir."

"Mmm. Tell me something, Stephan. When you kneel for Daniel, do you get hard?"

My face heated. "That's—I don't—I—"

He rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"That's none of your business."

His grip tightened on my wrist, just shy of painful. I looked away.

"No, sir," I muttered.

"Technically correct, I suppose." He released my hand and stood back. "But that's not why you're here. You're here because you're curious about what it's like when it's not all rules and posture drills."

My breath caught. He wasn't wrong. My body betrayed me with a long shiver. Ethan smirked. "That's what I thought." He walked to the sideboard, retrieved a long length of black silk.

"We're going to work on sensation. Not pleasure. Not pain. Just awareness."

He blindfolded me and my world went dark. I drew in a sharp breath.

"Relax. Just stay."

I held my posture, listening to him move around the room. I tried to calm my breathing, but my pulse hammered in my ears.

The position felt vulnerable. Exposed, though I was still fully dressed.

I jumped when his fingers combed through my hair, nails scratching my scalp. "Count for me. Every touch." Something trailed feather-light across my shoulder blade.

"One."

"Sir." Ethan reminded me firmly. Something cool and metal dragged down my spine. I shivered.

"Two, sir."

The metal thing — a spoon? — rubbed across my bare arm. "Three, sir."

His fingers were in my hair again. I lost count at six.

Ethan's voice was low, just above a whisper. "Don't think so much. Just feel it."

The spoon rested on my lips. "Open."

I obeyed. The cold metal rested on my tongue, the weight strange and somehow intimate. "Good boy." The spoon slid out again.

"So tell me what you're not feeling. Why isn't it working?"

I hesitated. "I—I don't know." He stroked my hair again, waiting. "I—don't trust you like I trust him." I didn't need to say who he was. "I don't know you."

Silence. Then, quietly. "No, you don't." I heard the spoon clatter to the floor. Ethan's hands cupped my face. "Let's fix that."

For the next hour, his hands mapped me. Not sexually, clinically. The spot where my collarbone dipped under my shirt. The pulse points of my wrists, my neck. The sensitive spots at the back of my knees. The ticklish spot along my ribs that made me jerk and laugh aloud despite my best efforts to ignore it.

He named each reactive spot as he touched it, like a teacher showing off a specimen.

When he finally removed the blindfold, my vision swam.

Ethan offered a hand to help me up. "You've got potential, Stephan. You respond to touch like a damn instrument. But you're so busy comparing everything to him that you can't hear the music."

The criticism stung. "Sir, I—"

"Prove me wrong." He tossed me a bottle of water. "Next session, I want you to come with three things you like that aren't about Daniel. Three sensations. Three sounds. Three anything." He smirked. "Or don't. See if I care."

The dismissal hit hard. I turned to leave.

"Stephan?" Ethan called after me. "Take the blindfold with you. Try it later. Practice how it feels to let go of your senses."

I clutched the silk in my fist, my mind racing. This wasn't about sex. It wasn't even about kneeling. It was about learning who I was. Who I wanted to be.

The next "Group Dynamic" session wasn't until Tuesday of the following week. I had too much time to myself, too much time to think. I had almost decided I wasn't going to show up.

But at ten minutes to 2 on Tuesday, there I was, outside the heavy oak door of Studio A. Marcus arrived as I was staring at it, followed shortly by Daniel, who gave me an approving glance.

"You're early."

"Yes, sir."

Marcus glanced at me, but said nothing as we all headed inside. Ethan arrived a few minutes later, and sat down next to me on the sofa. Too close. He held out a hand to me. "Did you bring it back?"

I flushed, dug the black silk blindfold from my pocket and handed it over. Daniel glanced between us, eyebrow raised. Ethan shrugged. "Homework."

Marcus sniffed, apparently disapproving. Daniel didn't comment further, just started the session.

To my surprise, he was lecturing us on, of all things, party etiquette.

He tapped a button on a remote and a projector screen lowered from the ceiling.

"Today we're discussing how not to make asses of ourselves in public spaces." His gaze swept over us, lingering on me. "Because believe me, I've seen it all. The Dom who tried to negotiate a scene in the middle of a buffet line. The sub who wore her collar to a PTA meeting. The switch who got so drunk they tried to flog the bartender."

Ethan barked a laugh. "Please tell me that last one was you." My eyes flicked between them. Daniel was a switch?

Daniel ignored it, advanced to the first slide. It was a blurry photo of a man in a leather vest, trying to demonstrate rope tying on a uncomfortable-looking woman. From the background, it looked like they were in an Applebee's.

"Rule one. Know your environment." He pointed at the screen. "A munch at a restaurant is not the place for demonstrations."

Daniel advanced the slide again. PUBLIC PLAY - DO'S AND DON'TS appeared in bold red letters. "This is where most people run into problems. Stephan, what's the first rule that comes to mind?"

I straightened, the question catching me off guard. "Um…don't actually play? In public?"

"Correct." Daniel nodded. "Munches and vanilla parties are for socializing only, even if you attend with a partner. Play parties are for playing. Never confuse the two." He clicked to the next slide, a list of bullet points. "No scenes. No negotiations. And for god's sake no safewording in public just because someone said 'spank' a little too loud."

Ethan raised his hand. "What about more subtle power dynamics? Like if I made the sub serve me coffee." His foot nudged mine.

Daniel's look froze him in his seat. "If you have to ask, you're pushing it."

Marcus cleared his throat. "If I may…the idea is plausible deniability. Nothing that would make the other patrons uncomfortable or could get the establishment in trouble."

I raised my hand hesitantly. "What if someone asks directly? What we do?"

Daniel's voice was firm. "Deflect. 'It's a private club.' 'It's a hobby group.' You don't owe anyone details."

Ethan leaned forward, his tone conspiratorial and suggestive. "But if they're really hot and they ask the right questions…"

Daniel cut him off. "Then you exchange contact information and discuss it. Privately. Which brings us to our exercise."

He gestured to the rearranged studio. "We're simulating a munch. Stephan, you're the newcomer. Ethan, you're the experienced guide. Marcus, you're the event host. Your job is to navigate the space appropriately while I observe."

Ethan stood, offering me his hand. "Come on, newboy. Let's show them how it's done."

As we moved through the mock event, Ethan played his role with exaggerated charm, introducing me to imaginary people with increasing levels of absurdity. "Stephan, this is Mistress Vera. She specializes in... oh, what was it again? Oh yes, electro-play with household appliances."

I bit back a laugh. Daniel's eye twitched. Marcus appeared at my elbow. "Remember, if anyone makes you uncomfortable, you can always say that you need to check in with your mentor and extract yourself from the conversation."

Mentor. The word seemed so formal for what we were doing. The concept was both comforting and constricting.

Ethan steered me toward the "bar", which was just the sideboard, arranged with juice boxes. "Now, if someone offers you a drink…"

"I accept graciously but watch it being poured and never leave it unattended." I said promptly, remembering an earlier lesson with Daniel.

Ethan gave me an approving smile. "Good boy. You're a quick learner." The praise sent heat rushing through me. Daniel watched us from across the room, expression unchanged.

As the exercise continued, I found myself relaxing into the role. When Ethan introduced me to Daniel, role-playing as a Dom who asked overly intrusive questions, I smoothly replied, "I'm here with my mentor," just as we'd practiced.

Daniel's slight nod of approval was more satisfying than it should have been.

"And if someone asks who your mentor is?" Ethan added. I hesitated. Marcus cut in, from his "organizer" post. "You say 'I'm not discussing that here.' Privacy is paramount. Always."

By the end of the session, my head was spinning with rules and scenarios. But one thing was clear: this wasn't just about party etiquette. It was about learning how to exist in this world without losing myself in it.

And maybe, just maybe, I was starting to figure out how to do that.

Daniel passed me a juice box. "Remember, you don't owe anyone your story. You do owe them basic respect. " My hand shook slightly as I sipped. "Relax. Exercise is over. Just remember to practice your small talk."

I nodded, but my mind was elsewhere. Ethan was laughing with Marcus about something, his posture easy, his smile genuine. For the first time, I wondered what he was like outside these walls. What he was like when he wasn't performing.

Daniel followed my gaze. "He's good at this," he said quietly. "Better than he lets on."

I looked up at him. "Sir?"

"Ethan has a reputation for being... frivolous. But he takes mentoring seriously. That's why I paired you with him."

The admission settled in my chest like a stone. "Oh."

Daniel's hand squeezed my shoulder. "Go home. Rest. And Stephan?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Think about what you want from these connections. Not just what you want from me."

The words hit their mark. I excused myself quickly, needing air.

In the hallway, Ethan caught up to me. "Hey. You okay?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Ethan rested a hand on my arm. "If you ever wanted to…practice. With more…intimate play. We could use my place."

I glanced back over at Daniel, still inside the studio. "Is that…allowed?"

Ethan shrugged. "Sure. Daniel doesn't care who we fuck, as long as it doesn't interfere with training." He trailed his fingers down my arm. He leaned in, breath warm on my ear. "I've never been someone's first time. Could be a lot of fun."

I blushed. "I'm not a virgin."

"I know." He ran his hand across my arm again. "First time like this. With a Dom." The idea sent shocks through me. I wanted to protest, say I wasn't interested, but my body betrayed me, leaning into his touch.

Ethan must have seen it in my expression. "Think about it. No strings. Just practice." He pressed a slip of paper into my hand - a phone number. "If you're curious."

I stared at the paper, my fingers curling around it. "What about Marcus?"

Ethan's expression darkened briefly. "What about him? He's not your friend, Stephan. He's just another client." He tilted my chin up with two fingers. "Unlike me. I actually give a shit whether you enjoy yourself."

Daniel stepped through the door to the studio, his eyes taking in our proximity. Ethan dropped his hand from my face but didn't step back. "Everything all right here?" Daniel's voice was calm but there was an edge to it.

"Just discussing protocol," Ethan said smoothly.

"Good." Daniel's eyes dropped to the paper in my hand. "Stephan? A word." His tone was knowing but not accusatory.

I followed him back inside, heart beating too fast. Daniel closed the door behind us. "It's up to you, Stephan, if you want to accept Ethan's offer or not. Just remember that anything that happens outside these walls is between two consenting adults. Not part of your training." His eyes bore into mine. "Do you understand the difference?"

I nodded, my throat feeling tight. "Yes, sir."

"Good." He crossed his arms. "If you do decide to go, though, you will report on the experience in your journal. What worked. What didn't. What you learned." His tone sounded clinical, all business.

The cold professionalism stung more than I expected. "What if I don't want to write about it?"

"Then don't go." Daniel studied my face. "And Stephan? Decide for yourself what you're going to do. Not what you think will impress me."

The words hit harder than a command. "Understood, sir." I managed, as I left.

I spent two hours pacing in my apartment, clutching my phone like it might run away. The slip of paper with Ethan's number on it burned a hole in my pocket.

"This is stupid," I muttered to myself for the tenth time. "You don't even like him." But that wasn't entirely true.

I didn't like the way he'd made me feel, that first session. Off-balance, exposed. He made me feel vulnerable in ways that had nothing to do with Daniel.

But maybe that was exactly why I needed to go.

Before I could second-guess myself again, I pulled out the slip of paper and texted Ethan.

-I'll be there. But we talk first.-

The reply came in seconds.

-Good boy.-

-8 PM. I'll bring the blindfold.-

He sent an address, not far from mine.

When I arrived, I realized I actually knew the building. The familiarity of it eased my nerves, and I was almost calm as I rang the buzzer on Ethan's door.

However, as soon as he opened it, my pulse rate shot back up. He leaned on the doorframe with the same easy grace as in the studio, the familiar citrus scent wafting around him.

He was wearing just a low-slung black jeans, his chest bare. A tattoo of a bird in flight was just below his left collarbone, over his heart. "Come on in." He stepped back to let me through.

"Safeword is still red. Say 'yellow' if you need to pause. We stop if either of us says. No questions."

I nodded. "Understood."

We walked to the living room. A bottle of water and a first aid kid sat on the coffee table, alongside a bar of chocolate. A pile of folded blankets rested on the floor.

The careful preparations eased the tense feeling in my chest. He gestured to the couch. "We talk first. Just like you said."

I perched on the edge, twisting my hands. Ethan sat next to me but didn't touch.

"What did you want to know?"

"Everything." I blurted out. "What you're going to do. What I'm supposed to do. How this works."

Ethan's expression softened. "Right. You're new. OK. Let's start with hard limits. What don't you want to do."

I swallowed. "No blood. No breath play." I took a deep breath. "And I don't like my chest touched. At all."

Ethan just nodded. "Noted. No chest play. Anything else?"

"Um. I'm trans. It seemed like you already knew, but—"

"Yeah, I know." His voice was gentle. "It was in Daniel's notes. But I'm glad you told me yourself."

The words sent a jolt through me. "He told you that?"

Ethan shrugged. "Standard compatibility matching. Any medical or psych stuff we need to be aware of, to be a mentor."

I wanted to be angry at Daniel, but the rational part of me understood. And I was relieved, too. "So this isn't…new for you?"

"Not even a little. I've played with trans guys before." He leaned in now, laying a hand on my knee. "But everyone is different. What do you need me to know about you?"

The question caught me off guard. "Just…don't assume, I guess. About what I like."

"Never do. What about terminology?"

That was a hard question. "Can you not…call it anything? I don't mind being touched down there but there's no good words."

Ethan made a note on his phone, then set it aside. "For the record, I'm on PrEP, and I last tested three months ago. And I don't top, so that's off the table."

The clinical conversation helped to ground me. "What is on the table?" I asked curiously.

Ethan's grin turned wicked. "Sensation play. Maybe some light bondage if you're into it. Impact, but with hands only. And I want to hear you come, but no reciprocation required."

I colored. "That's…direct."

"Clear communication prevents misunderstandings." He stood up, offering me a hand to help me to my feet. "You good with that?"

I thought for a moment. "Yes, sir."

The first hour was perfect. Ethan started slow, mapping my body with his hands, then his mouth, always checking in. "Like this?" "Still with me?" "Too much?" His touch was confident but careful, the commands firm without being cruel.

I relaxed into the sensations, finding the rhythm of his control.

Then his tone shifted. "Such a good little slut," he murmured into my neck, his hand sliding across my stomach. "Look at you. You're desperate for it, aren't you?"

The words hit like ice water and I froze, my stomach twisting. "Yellow."

Ethan pulled back immediately, his face concerned. "Too much?"

I nodded. "Yeah. The name calling…that's not for me."

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't know."

I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest. "It's fine. I didn't know either."

"You want to stop?"

I considered it for a moment. The energy had definitely shifted, but I wasn't ready to end it. "No. Just…no name calling. No insults."

Ethan exhaled sharply. "Got it. No degradation." But the exchange seemed to drain him of his confidence. His next touch was hesitant, his voice lacking the previous tone of command. "Is this…okay?"

I sighed. "Ethan, I need you to be in charge. Just not like that."

He blinked. "You really want me to keep going?"

"Yeah. But like before. Firmer."

"I don't want to—"

I grabbed his hand. "You won't. I trust you."

My words seemed to steady him. He took a deep breath, straightened. "Kneel, then. Hands behind your back."

The command sent a thrill through me. I obeyed and watched as he circled me, confidence returning.

"Better?" His voice was still soft, but the authority was back.

"Yes, sir."

His hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back. "Good boy." His praise settled warmly on me, and I felt the air shift as he took control. "Tell me if anything else doesn't work for you."

I did. When he gripped too tight, I said "easier." When he hesitated before giving me a command, I reminded him "I need to hear it." We found the rhythm again - different than before, but no less intense.

When I finally came, it was with Ethan's hand gripping the back of my neck, voice in my ear. "That's it. Good boy. Let me hear you."

Afterward, we lay amongst the blankets. Ethan traced patterns on my arm. "I feel like I fucked that up."

I shook my head. "No. You fixed it." I turned to look at him. "That's what matters."

He studied me for a long moment. "You're gonna make me a better Dom."

"Then I guess we're both making each other better."

His smile was slow but genuine. "Yeah. Guess so."

I watched the play of light across his face. "Can I…kiss you?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

Ethan froze, and for a moment I thought I'd misread everything. Then his expression softened, something warm growing behind his eyes.

"Yeah," he breathed. "You can."

I reached for him, my hand tracing the stubble on his jaw as I leaned in. I waited for him to pull away, but instead he leaned in, meeting me halfway.

His lips were warm and sure against mine, but it wasn't the rough or possessive kiss I might have expected from him. Instead it was slow, careful, like we were both afraid of breaking something.

His hand cupped the back of my neck. Not pulling me in, just anchoring us together as we explored this new territory.

When we finally broke apart, Ethan let his hand linger. "That was…" he trailed off, expression looking as surprised as I felt. "Really fucking good."

"Yeah." I smiled.

Ethan's trademark smirk reappeared. "Didn't know you had it in you, new boy."

I laughed, breaking the tension. "Shut up."

He grinned and pulled me close. "Make me."

The challenge hung in the air between us for a moment before I shook my head. "Not for me. Sorry."

"No worries." We stayed there tangled in the blankets for a long time before I stirred.

"I should get home."

"You could stay," he offered. "Just to sleep."

I considered it, then said "Rain check. I've got a lot to process." I grimaced. "And homework to do, for Daniel."

"That's fair." He helped me to sit up, hands lingering on my skin. " And Stephan?" Now the serious Dom was back, all traces of the playfulness gone. "This...changes things. Between us."

I knew what he meant. The dynamic had shifted -- not away from the power exchange we'd established under Daniel's supervision, but deeper, into something more personal. Something we'd created, that belonged to us.

"Yeah," I agreed, my voice quiet. "It does."

Ethan slid me the black silk blindfold. "For next time. If you want. When you're ready."

I took it, folded it carefully before tucking it in a pocket. "Next time." I promised firmly. "Soon."

I left his apartment with my lips still tingling from our kiss. I was going to have a lot to write about in my journal, and Daniel was going to have questions I wasn't sure how to answer.

Daniel's office felt colder than usual when I arrived the next morning. The familiar spicy scent of his cologne that usually calmed me instead made my stomach twist. I sat in the chair across from his desk, drumming my fingers on the surface.

"So?" Daniel didn't look up from his notes.

"I…went to Ethan's last night."

He stopped typing mid-word. "I see. And?"

I took a deep breath. "It was good. Really good." I shifted in my seat. "We talked first. Negotiated everything. He made a mistake once, with the language, but we worked through it. And after —"

Daniel cut me off. "What kind of mistake?"

I hesitated. "He called me…a name I didn't like. But we fixed it. He adjusted."

Daniel made a quick note. "Good recovery. So you learned something about your limits?"

My jaw tightened. "Yeah. I don't like degradation. But that's not—"

Daniel typed something else. "What else did you learn?"

"That wasn't the point!" The words burst out before I could stop them. "It wasn't just about techniques and limits and practicing. It was…more than that."

Daniel's gaze snapped to me, holding my eyes. "Explain." His voice was sharp.

I swallowed. "We…connected. It wasn't just a scene. We talked. After. And we kissed. He was…softer. Different."

Daniel's hand stilled. "I see."

"No, you don't!" I leaned in. "You're treating this like it was just another training exercise. But it wasn't. It mattered."

Daniel's expression didn't change, but his voice softened. "All experiences matter in the context of growth, Stephan. But you need to understand something." Daniel laid a hand on the desk, sighed. "Ethan is a 'scene Dom'. He's good at the play, the dynamic, the physical parts. But he's not looking for attachment or commitment to that role. That's not what this is about, for him."

The dismissal stung. "You don't know that."

"I know what he's told me about his goals. I know what you've told me about yours." Daniel's voice was calm, had that clinical tone again. "That's why we have these debriefs - to help you separate the high of the scene from the reality of long-term compatibility."
I wanted to argue, tell him he was wrong, but the words died in my throat.

Daniel continued. "You're experiencing sub drop combined with new relationship energy. It's normal, but it's not good for decision-making."

My fists clenched. "So, what, my feelings don't mean anything?"

"They matter," Daniel said carefully. "But they're not the only factor. Remember what you came here for, Stephan. To find what you truly need, not just what feels good."

I stood abruptly, sending the chair sliding backwards slightly. "You're acting like I don't know my own mind!"

Daniel didn't react to my outburst. "Sit down." I stayed standing, heart pounding.

Daniel's voice was firm, commanding. "Stephan. Sit. Down." His tone had my legs moving before my brain could react, dropping to the edge of my chair even as my mind rebelled.

Daniel's tone softened again. "I'm not discounting your feelings. Ethan is your friend, your scene partner. But he can't be your Dom in the way you need. He's not built for that kind of responsibility."

"And you are?" I snapped.

For the first time, Daniel's composure flickered. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what?" I demanded. "What am I doing here if every time I feel something you tell me it's not real, just infatuation or brain chemistry or whatever?"

Daniel exhaled slowly. "You're here so we can find what you truly want and need. Not just what feels good in the moment." He was repeating himself. Because I wasn't listening. "There's a difference."

I wanted to scream, to tell him that I just wanted to feel without it being analyzed, dissected. But his training kicked in, and I held my tongue. He had made his point.

"Understood, sir," I muttered, instead.

I couldn't believe how quickly the weeks had gone by. I'd lost count of the times I'd knelt in Daniel's office, how many protocol drills Ethan and I had run together. How many journal entries I'd written about scenes that usually left me more confused than enlightened.

In between those intense sessions, real life intruded. I'd finally found another job - data entry for a payroll firm. Not exciting but it kept the lights on. Ethan and I spent a few more evenings together when we could find the time.

The text from Daniel came on my lunch break.

-Tonight, 8PM at The Den. Wear black.-

The Den was a private club, one of the places that Daniel used for introductions.

-With you?-

-And a potential match. Be on time.-

Not a training session, then. My lunch sat in front of me, uneaten, as I read the message several times.

The Den wasn't quite what I expected - more like Daniel's office than a sex club. No dark dungeons or obvious kink paraphernalia. Just a tastefully decorated lounge: low lighting, plush seating, a bar.

Daniel was already there when I arrived, talking to a man about my age, mid-thirties. Tall, broad-shouldered, he reminded me of Daniel with his commanding air and confident presence. Daniel beckoned for me to join them.

"Alexander, this is Stephan, the sub I was telling you about. Stephan, this is Alexander."

The man extended a hand. "Please, call me Alex." His handshake was firm and steady but not overwhelming.

"It's nice to meet you, sir." I said, holding my shoulders back the way Daniel had taught me.

"Alex. Come sit with me."

I slid into the booth across from him.

Daniel excused himself, murmuring "I'll just be over at the bar," to me as he moved away. That left me and Alex together in the secluded booth. Not quite alone -- uniformed waitstaff moved between the tables —but definitely private.

Alex studied me intently before speaking. "Daniel speaks quite highly of you. He says you're new but eager to learn."

I swallowed, mouth dry. "Yes, sir. Alex."

He chuckled warmly. "You can relax, Stephan. This isn't an interview."

But that was exactly what it felt like. For the next hour, he asked me about questions - about myself, my experiences, my limits, my goals in life and in relationships.

The waiter refilled our drinks silently and unobtrusively. I stuck to water, wanting to keep my head clear.

Finally Alex sat back. "You're well trained, especially for a beginner. Daniel's done good work with you."

"Thank you, sir." This time, Alex didn't correct the honorific.

"I'm looking for someone I can build with, in the long term. Someone who can handle the dynamic, both in and out of the bedroom. A submissive first, but also a partner."

I nodded. That sounded…nice. Not exciting, but nice. Steady. Knowing where I stood in someone's life. Where I belonged.

That was what I wanted, right? A real Dom, for more than just scenes.

Alex placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward slightly. "I'd like to see how we connect, what the dynamic between us is like. Not sexually," he added quickly. "Would you be comfortable with a few protocol exercises?"

I nodded again. "Yes, sir."

The "exercises" were simple - we walked around the room a few times while Alex gave commands. "Follow me." "Wait." "Stand there."

Once, he had me kneel. I would never have Ethan's fluid grace, but I moved smoothly. But kneeling here, for him, felt strange and exposed, and not in a fun way.

When we returned to the table, Alex didn't sit again right away. "You're very responsive but I can tell something isn't working for you. You're holding back."

I glanced nervously at Daniel, in his seat at the bar. "I'm sorry, sir."

Alex shook his head slightly. "I'm not angry, Stephan. Just trying to figure you out."

"Understood, sir." I took a breath. "I'm just…not sure what you want from me. Other than just obedience."

Alex nodded. "That's fair. You're new to this." He laid a business card on the table. "Let me know if you want to explore further."

Daniel materialized at my elbow as Alex stepped away, guided me to sit back in the booth with him.

"Well?"

I chewed my lip. "He seemed nice."

Daniel quirked an eyebrow. "But?"

"I didn't…feel it. No sparks. No…emotional connection."

"He's a good man. Safe. Reliable." Daniel didn't say not like Ethan. Didn't have to. He tapped the business card. "Give it time. Sometimes connections grow."

As we left, I realized that this introduction had been a training exercise, of sorts. I had learned some things about myself tonight. Not just what I wanted, but what I didn't want. And meekly following someone around while I called them 'sir', kneeling in the middle of a restaurant - those seemed to fall into the second category.

But I did want a Dom.

My journal entry that night was full of re-writes and cross outs.

I arrived early to a training session in Studio A to find the door ajar. Assuming it had been left open for me, I pushed inside. Daniel was writing something busily on his laptop and didn't look up as I came in.

I crossed the room and stood next to him, silently waiting for him to acknowledge me. Like the first time I'd seen him at the mall, I found my eyes drawn to his laptop screen.

I couldn't hold back my laughter as I read the words as he typed them. "His throbbing lupine member?" I choked out. Daniel looked up, startled.

I tried to control my amusement and failed, bent almost double as I cackled. "You're still writing that werewolf story?"

Daniel looked embarrassed for a split second, then recovered. "It's a hobby." He closed the laptop. "Didn't we already have a chat about reading where you're not invited?"

I managed to stop laughing but couldn't quite flatten my expression. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Just…lupine member?" I was overcome with giggles again.

A smile played over Daniel's lips. "Brat." He jerked his chin at a spot in front of the sofa. "Kneel."

"Yes, alpha."

Daniel set up another introduction for me. This time it was in a coffee shop.

"Just a conversation," he assured me. "No protocol drills in public."

The man's name was Charlie. He looked a few years younger than me, with tattooed forearms and an attitude that came off more like arrogance than confidence.

I sipped my coffee as he talked, trying to ignore the way his eyes kept flicking to my chest. Unlike Alex, Charlie didn't ask me about my goals, just told me what he was looking for.

When he finally asked me a question, it wasn't a welcome one. "So…where are you in your transition?"

I paused, coffee cup halfway to my lips. "That's a very personal question," I said levelly.

"Right. But I'm just curious. Never done the whole "trans thing" before." He made air quotes with his fingers. I stiffened. Charlie leaned in. "It's intriguing, you know? The in-between-ness of it."

My tone was cool. "I don't consider myself in-between. I'm a guy."

Charlie waved his hand dismissively. "Right, right." His eyes slid over me again. "But…have you had surgery?"

I stood up. "I think we're done here."

The man's hand shot out and seized my wrist. "Don't be like that. You're interesting. It's a compliment."

"Red," I said, louder than I meant. "Let go of me." My voice cut through the busy chatter of the coffeehouse. The barista glanced over with a concerned expression.

But Daniel was already there, fingers closing around Charlie's upper arm. "You're done."

Charlie's voice rose. "I paid good money for this introduction."

Daniel's voice was flat, cold, and dangerous. "And you've been introduced." His fingers tightened on the other man's arm, and Charlie released my wrist. "You'll recall the discussion we had about there being no guarantees." His voice dropped. "And about discretion."

Daniel guided me by the shoulder out of the cafe without looking back.

In his car, I tried to catch my breath. I felt sick to my stomach. This was supposed to be the safe way. Controlled. But that had still happened.

Daniel drummed his fingers on the steering wheel without starting the car. "This is why I do first introductions in controlled settings, with an escort." Daniel said, as if reading my thoughts. "You handled that well. Tell me exactly what happened."

I took a deep breath. "He didn't want me. Just…my body. The fact that I'm trans. And then when I said I wanted to leave, he grabbed me."

Daniel nodded. "I'm sorry that happened. It won't happen again; he's no longer a client, effective immediately."

"Wait, just because of me?"

"Because of you. Because of how he acted. Because you safeworded and he didn't stop."

Daniel pulled a pad of paper and a pen out of the glove box. "Write down everything you remember about the conversation. Then make two lists - one of anything he said or did that was a warning sign, and one of things you could have done or said about it."

I stared at him. "You want me to do homework now?"

Daniel started the car. "The best way to fight someone trying to take your power away is to reclaim it."

I rolled my eyes, making sure Daniel couldn't see. Then I started writing.

Because as infuriating as it was to admit, he was right. Again.

"You'd make a pretty good therapist," I commented as he drove.

Daniel didn't take his eyes off the road. "What do you think I consider my work to be?"

"Oh."

Marcus, Ethan, and I were working in a group session one evening when Daniel had to step away to take a phone call. He left Marcus to finish the instruction.

Ethan was seated next to me and started running his hand up my leg. I didn't say anything, but shifted a little closer to him on the couch.

"Look, everyone knows you're sleeping together but could you two be professional for five minutes?" Marcus snapped.

I'd never heard him use a tone like that. Ethan yanked his hand away like it had been burned.

"Sorry, Marcus," I muttered, staring at my lap. But Marcus didn't stop.

"Some of us pay good money for these sessions, you know."

I hadn't realized that. "Wait, you pay? I thought that was just the Doms."

"Doms aren't the only ones looking to be introduced. Or the only ones who can afford Daniel's services."

"Oh." I glanced at Ethan, who for once actually looked contrite. "I'm really sorry, Marcus," I said again. "I'll pay attention." I nudged Ethan and raised my brow at him meaningfully.

"Sorry," Ethan muttered, not looking at either of us.

Marcus had just begun teaching again when Daniel re-entered the room. He could tell the energy was off, but Marcus kept going like nothing was wrong. Daniel didn't ask. After the session ended, I pulled Ethan aside in the hallway.

"Hey, Ethan…" I started. Ethan sighed.

"Yeah. I know." He put a hand on my arm. "I'll cool it during class."

"Thanks." I echoed his sigh. "I like you, Ethan. A lot. But we both know this…us…isn't permanent. I need to take this seriously."

Ethan looked uncharacteristically thoughtful as he walked away. I hoped I hadn't hurt his feelings too badly. I really did care about him, but I'd realized Daniel had been right. Ethan was my friend, and I liked scening with him, but he wasn't what I needed in a partner.

My phone buzzed. Daniel.

-Come to the office. I want to talk to you about an introduction.-

That was unusual, Daniel asking me to discuss, rather than just telling me where to go.

The receptionist was gone for the evening when I arrived. Daniel sat behind the desk in his office, door open, sleeves rolled up.

"Good. You came quickly." He slid a photo across the polished wood. "This is Thomas."

The man in the picture was older than anyone I'd been introduced to before, mid to late fifties. Dark skin, close-cropped hair.

I looked curiously at Daniel. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Thomas is different than my usual clients but I think you might want to meet him."

"Different how?"

"He's still a Dom, but he's…softer. Not interested in high protocol. He's looking for a partner who shares his interests, more than he wants a submissive." Daniel steepled his fingers. "After how you reacted to Alexander, I thought that might suit you. But it's not what I've been coaching you for."

I nodded slowly. "Okay." I thought for a moment. That actually sounded…perfect. "When can I meet him?"

"Tomorrow night. 10 PM." Daniel slid me a business card. Black, with glossy white lettering, white speckles down one side. "It's a bit late, but he's the chef-owner at Salt. He'll meet with you after the kitchen closes. But he'd like you there a bit earlier, for dinner beforehand. His treat."

"Will you be there?"

"Only if you want me to be."

"I do, sir. Please."

So the next evening, I found myself wearing my nicest clothes, sitting in an expensive restaurant, having dinner with Daniel. Funny how things change - a few months ago, I would have given anything to go on a date with him. Now I just wanted the time to pass so I could meet Thomas.

I found myself craning my neck when the door to the kitchen opened, trying to catch a glimpse. Daniel gave me an amused look and I blushed. "Just curious," I muttered.

Thomas had set our menu in advance, it seemed. Daniel and I had only just settled in our seats when the waiter appeared with a plate of appetizers and two glasses of wine. I waited for Daniel to select his share before I reached for the food.

I left the wine untouched. The last thing I wanted was to drink too much and make a fool of myself here.

When we'd finished the appetizers, the waiter appeared again to take our plates. He whisked away my glass of wine without a word. When he returned with our entrees, he set a tall glass of something clear and bubbly in front of me. "House ginger beer." He explained.

I sipped. It was sharp, citrusy. "Delicious. Thank you."

I expected to be too nervous to eat much, but when the plates landed in front of us, it was too mouth-watering to resist. The salad was crisp and fresh, dark greens mixed with walnuts and strawberries. It was served alongside what I thought was chicken, but the waiter informed me was a pan-seared duck breast.

The dessert course was a rich, dark chocolate torte with more strawberries on top. I ate it slowly, enjoying the way the bitter chocolate melted in my mouth, mixing with the subtle sweetness of the strawberries.

I was savoring the last bite, eyes closed, letting the flavors linger, when someone cleared their throat next to my elbow. I jumped and opened my eyes to find Thomas smiling down at me. He had on a dark shirt and pants, and a white apron on top, a streak of sauce down it.

"Looks like you enjoyed that." His voice was rich and deep, almost musical. It was the kind of voice I wanted to wrap myself up in.

Daniel nodded at the pair of us. "Thomas, this is Stephan." Thomas was still looking warmly at me. Daniel slid out of the booth. "Stephan, I'll be just over there if you need me." He indicated a table close enough that he'd hear any raised voices, but not close enough to eavesdrop.

"It's nice to meet you, Stephan. I trust you had a good meal?"

"Yes, sir." I answered. Thomas chuckled softly.

"Let's just talk as equals for now, hmm?"

I found myself relaxing a little at his words. His presence didn't send sparks through me the way Ethan's did, but was instead solid, comforting. I smoothed my napkin in my lap as Thomas continued. "I'm glad to hear you enjoyed my food. That's important, to a chef."

I smiled. "It was delicious. Thank you. I've never had duck before."

We chatted about the food and the restaurant for a few minutes as the last of the other diners finished their meals and left. Once the dining room was empty, Thomas signaled our waiter. "Tell the staff to finish cleanup in the kitchen and head out. I'll handle the dining room and locking up."

The man nodded. "Yes, Chef."

Now we were alone, except for Daniel a few yards away, typing busily. My lips quirked as I wondered what he was writing this time.

Thomas leaned forward across the table. "Now we can really talk." I took a nervous sip of my drink. I liked Thomas so far. I hoped his personality wouldn't change, now that we didn't have an audience.

"Tell me what you're here for. What you hope I'll bring to the table. What you're hoping I don't do."

Oh. That was a hard question. I thought about my list from my disastrous meeting with Charlie. Thought about drinks with Alex.

"I want someone who wants me for more than just sex." I hesitated for a moment, then blurted "And I don't want to kneel in restaurants."

Thomas looked startled for a moment, then burst out laughing. The way the lines around his eyes crinkled told me he laughed like this often. After a moment he controlled himself, wiping his eyes on the edge of his apron. "Sorry. I was just picturing how my staff would react if I had you kneeling in the dining room. Or the customers."

His laugh was infectious and I couldn't help but giggle a little at the image his words evoked. "Yeah. Probably not a good idea, huh?"

Thomas laid his hand on the table, open. "But…tell me what you do want. From me."

I let my fingers rest on his palm. "I want…someone who makes me feel grounded. Someone who listens to what I want and helps me figure out what I need. Someone who thinks my opinion matters, but helps me make the important decisions."

Thomas nodded. "A partner."

"Exactly." I squeezed his hand gently. "I'm still looking for a Dom, but…when I call them 'sir', it matters." His hand was calloused and rough - the hand of a man who worked hard. Thomas smiled again.

We talked for a long time after that. Neither of us seemed to want the night to end. Eventually, though, I yawned widely, then quickly covered my mouth in embarrassment. "Sorry. I work in an office. Early mornings," I apologized quickly.

Thomas hand lingered on my arm as he called Daniel over to tell him we were done. Daniel insisted on driving me home afterward, even though I said I could make it on my own.

"The bus runs right to my place."

"Thomas would never forgive me if I let you take a bus home this late."

I realized to my surprise that it was well after midnight. For once, Daniel didn't try to make me discuss the experience with him, instead letting me ride in silence, deep in thought. My head buzzed with everything Thomas and I had talked about. I could still feel his fingers on my skin.

The next morning, I should have gone to work. But I couldn't concentrate on anything but Thomas. I called out sick. Then I texted Ethan.

-Can we meet up? Not sex. I just need to talk to someone.-

Several long minutes went by with no response. I wondered if he was angry with me. Then finally, a return text.

-Sure. My place?-

I hesitated. I'd only ever been to Ethan's apartment for scenes. But then, I couldn't very well discuss Thomas' potential as my Dom in a public place.

-Ok. Be there in 30.-

Ethan was wearing loose sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, hair still messy from sleep. "Sorry about the pajamas. I'm not really a morning person."

I shrugged. "It's fine." Really, I was glad he was letting me see past his usual masks, show me the person behind the confident and suave Dom, under the graceful and silent submissive.

"I had an introduction last night," I said, as soon as we were inside.

Ethan paused. "Good or bad?"

"Good. Really good." I flopped onto the couch. "But I don't know what to do next."

Ethan joined me on the couch and put his bare feet up on the coffee table. "What do you want to have happen next?"

I made a face. "Now you sound like Daniel."

Ethan chuckled. "Well, Daniel is pretty smart about this kind of stuff. He gives good advice."

I leaned back into the cushions and sighed. "Yeah. But that's part of the problem. I don't know what I want. And if I get Daniel to help me, I'll never know if it's what I wanted or what Daniel told me I want."

"I can see how that's a problem." Ethan said sympathetically. He pulled me into him until my back rested against his chest. "But answer this — do you want to talk to him again?"

"I'm not—" Ethan cut me off.

"Don't think too hard. Just answer. First impulse."

I nodded. "Yeah. I do. He was really nice."

"So start there. Go on another date." Ethan wrapped an arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. "One without Daniel chaperoning. See what happens from there."

I settled back against him, relaxing into his wiry strength. "You're a good friend, Ethan."

"You make me a better one."

I left Ethan's apartment and realized I hadn't gotten Thomas' number. I could have asked Daniel for it, but then he'd probably make me debrief, explain why I wanted it, talk about what I'd gotten out of the introduction date.

So instead I went Salt, Thomas' restaurant. They weren't open yet. I stood outside, feeling awkward and foolish. I paced the sidewalk for a few minutes, and my phone went off.

I thought it would be Ethan, but instead it was Daniel.

-Thomas asked for your phone number. Is that okay with you?-

I stared at my phone, then at the windows of the closed restaurant.

-Go ahead. -

God bless texting. That response was so much more composed than I felt.

After a few minutes, my phone went off again, this time with a text from a new number.

-Hi Stephan. This is Thomas.-

-Hi Thomas-

I felt silly just leaving it there, but I didn't know what else to say. "What's up" felt far too informal for a new Dom. "What do you want" seemed aggressive. My thumbs hovered over the screen. Another message popped up.

-I had a good time last night.-

A pause, then another.

-I know it's forward but I would like to see you again soon.-

I smiled as I responded.

-I had a good time too. Would definitely like to get together again.-

I caught a glimpse of movement inside the closed restaurant and peered through the window, squinting against the glare of the sun. Thomas was inside, pacing in front of the bar, phone in hand. A stack of papers sat on the wooden counter.

He looked as muddled as I felt. Taking pity on both of us, I knocked on the glass. Thomas jumped, then looked over at me. His brows shot up and he quickly crossed over to unlock the door.

"Stephan? But I just—"

I grinned sheepishly. "I was, uh, already here. I didn't have your number and…" I trailed off, gesturing helplessly.

"Well, come inside." He held the door for me, then closed it behind me. The sound of the lock clicking reminded me that we were completely alone, and nobody even knew I was here. Suddenly nervous, I fidgeted with my phone.

I should've told Ethan I was coming.

Thomas sat down at a table and gestured for me to join him. "I don't have to start opening for dinner service for a little while yet. I can talk for a few minutes."

I perched on the edge of a chair, earlier boldness now swamped with trepidation. Thomas could tell something had changed.

"Is everything okay?"

I nodded. "Just…I've never done this without Daniel supervising." Ethan didn't count.

He took my hand gently. "You don't have to be afraid of me, Stephan. I don't want you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable."

I forced myself to breathe out slowly. I had come to him, after all. And Thomas didn't scare me, not really. I was just nervous. I gave Thomas a shy smile. He squeezed my hand.

"So…is it a good thing that you're here?"

"I just…really wanted to see you again." I confessed, blushing. "Last night was…really special."

Thomas' answering smile was warm and genuine, his voice pleased. "I'm really glad to hear that."

"I don't know how to do…this." I waved my hand, indicating the pair of us. "I haven't dated a lot, and I've never…" I trailed off. Thomas tilted his head and just waited for me to continue. Finally, I found my words again. "Never had a Dom. Not for real. Not for more than just a scene."

Thomas nodded. "Daniel mentioned that. He did say you have…a friend? Among the other clients you trained with."

My face flamed and I looked away. "Yeah. Ethan. He really is just a friend, though. With, um, benefits."

"Don't worry, Stephan. Your private life is none of my business, unless we decide to take this further. We're still getting to know each other." He squeezed my hand again and glanced at the door to the kitchen. "Do you mind if I work while we talk? I have a lot of prep to do today."

I nodded and Thomas rose from the table. "Come with me, then."

"Yes, sir." The words slipped out, instinctive after months of training with Daniel and Ethan. But it doesn't feel rote, like with Daniel, or forced, like with Alex. Thomas, to his credit, didn't call me on it, just led the way through the swinging doors.

I'd never been in a restaurant kitchen before. It was bigger than I expected, roughly the size of my entire apartment, crowded with stainless steel appliances. Countertops gleamed metallic under the bright white lighting.

Thomas moved confidently, efficiently, as he gathered his tools. "Do you cook, Stephan?" He reached down and flicked on a gas oven with a whoosh.

"Not like this." I said with a shake of my head. Thomas handed me an apron and a bandana.

"For your hair," he explained, when I glanced at the bandana. I tied it around my head. "And wash your hands." He was already soaping up his own.

Now I could see the Dom. I smiled as I washed my hands thoroughly.

Thomas disappeared into the cooler, returning with a tray of whole, fresh fish. He laid a damp towel on the counter before setting a cutting board on it.

"Doing a trout special tonight," he said offhandedly, placing a single fish on the board. I watched his hands as he ran a sharp knife behind the gills and along the spine. He made it look effortless, but I could see the care and control in the way he handled the knife.

"You're good at that," I commented, not sure what else to say.

"Forty years of practice." His tone was matter-of-fact, not bragging.

"You've done this your whole career?"

"Mm-hmm." He picked scales off the fish with tweezers.

"How long have you owned your own restaurant?"

"I've owned Salt for five years. Before that, I had a French place, but I got bored with it. Too many rules in French cooking; I prefer to set my own menu. Plus New York City was too much for me. It's quieter here. Suits me better." He slid some prepped slices of fish into a plastic container, pulled down a frying pan.

He heated the pan on the stove, dropped in shallots and a splash of white wine, making it sizzle. The room began to fill with a delicious aroma.

Thomas told me more about his past endeavors as he added ingredients to a large pot, making a sauce. He pointed to the pan with the shallots. "Dump those in for me." I did as he said, very aware of how close our bodies were as we both stood over the large saucepan. He slid me a large wooden spoon. "Stir that. Don't let it burn." He moved off, back to the cutting board with the fish.

"Yes, sir." This time I added the title on purpose. He didn't correct me that time, either, just kept working.

After a few minutes, he took a smaller spoon and came back to where I stood stirring carefully. He dipped the spoon into the pot and held it to my lips. "Taste." I obediently opened and Thomas fed me the sauce, then took his own bite. "Tell me what you think."

"It's…smooth." Thomas waited for a beat as I moved my tongue in my mouth. The sauce was rich and velvety, but flat. "Missing something, though."

"Good palate. Needs more acid." His praise was genuine. I smiled again. Thomas added some lemon to the sauce, arm pressed against mine. "Try it again."

This time, the flavors came together, citrus meshing with the butter. "Delicious."

"It's called a beurre blanc sauce." Our eyes locked over the spoon.

The moment was interrupted by the arrival of a younger woman. She looked curiously at me as she washed her hands and tied on an apron.

"Afternoon, Chef. Who's this?"

Thomas dropped the spoon into a nearby dish sink. "Hey, Mira. This is Stephan. He's a friend."

I gave an awkward wave and stirred the sauce again. "Hi."

"Mira's my sous chef." He turned to her. "I started on the trout fillets but we should do a few more. And we'll need some more rolls heated." He and Mira chatted about food and restaurant business for a few minutes.

I kept stirring the sauce. Absentmindedly, I pushed a loose hair off my ear and back into the bandana.

"Hands!" Thomas snapped. I froze, my hand still hovering next to my face.

"You touched your hair." Thomas' tone softened but he didn't apologize. "Go wash your hands again. No hair in my food."

I did as he said. Mira checked the sauce, tasted it herself. "Looks about ready, Chef."

"Good. Stephan, come chop these vegetables for me."

"But—"

"Not afraid of knives, are you?"

I shook my head.

"Good. Come over here." I followed him.

"It's simple. Like this." Thomas guided my hands, his touch warm against my damp skin. His grip was firm, not too tight. Neat slices fell from the slide of the blade.

I tried to follow his motions, but I was slow, clumsy with the knife. He watched me cut for a moment. "Keep the sizes even." I adjusted the knife.

"Yes, Chef," I responded, copying Mira's address.

Thomas smiled a little. "Better." He moved off to work on something else.

The pile of cut carrots, onions, potatoes, grew larger as other staff started to arrive. They all seemed to know what to do, where they fit in this intricate dance. Thomas was at the center of it all, running the kitchen like an extension of himself.

It's powerfully attractive, seeing him in his element.

I finished chopping and moved back, trying to find somewhere to stand where I wouldn't get stepped on. Thomas didn't give me another instruction. He wasn't distracted, he was focused.

I couldn't help but wonder what that focus would feel like aimed solely at me, during a scene together.

Someone picked up the knife, took the vegetables. An oven door clanged shut. A voice shouted "Behind!" and a body squeezed past me.

I'm in the way. I couldn't catch Thomas' eye - he was engrossed in conversation with Mira, bent over a menu.

I quietly slipped off my apron and exited the room. The dining room was quiet, deserted; a stark contrast to the busyness of the crowded kitchen.

I didn't want to just leave, so instead I took a seat at the empty bar and pulled out my phone.

-Saw Thomas again.-

I sent the text to Daniel before I lost my nerve but didn't get a response. He must be leading a session with a client.

In response to the command I know he'll give me when he did respond, I pulled my journal out of my bag. But I wasn't doing it for him - I was doing it for me.

I was still writing when the bartender showed up. "Can I help you?" The curt question cut through the silence and I looked up, startled.

"Oh, sorry. I can move if I'm in the way. I'm a friend of Thomas. I was just waiting for him."

The man —his name tag said "Mark"— settled a little. "Oh. No, you're fine to sit the rise. I thought maybe a customer snuck in early. Just don't touch the glassware."

I finished writing and closed the journal, fingers drumming on the counter. Mark disappeared into the kitchen.

I checked my phone again. Still nothing.

Mark returned but didn't say anything else to me, just started stacking glassware. Just when I was thinking it was time for me to leave, Thomas came out from the kitchen. He checked the reservation book on the host stand, then came over to stand next to me.

"You left." His tone wasn't angry but it was a little pointed. I fidgeted on my stool.

"I didn't want to be in the way."

Thomas laid a hand on my shoulder. "I liked having you there. But I understand." I leaned a little into his touch. "I'll be busy once service starts. You'll stay for the first course, at least. For the fish."

It wasn't a question but I nodded anyway. Thomas walked back to the kitchen. Mark paused in the act of drying a glass and looked at me. "So how do you know Thomas?"

It was clear why he was asking —Thomas was much older than me, and we didn't have anything obvious in common. "Oh, um…we have a mutual friend."

Luckily, my phone went off, and Mark didn't ask any more questions I didn't want to answer. It was Daniel, finally returning my text.

-And? How did it go?-

I hesitated, fingers tapping on the edge of my phone.

-I helped him cook-

That wasn't really an answer.

-You can tell me more when we meet tomorrow.-

I groaned internally. Of course Daniel wouldn't let this go. I put my phone away.

Mark was prepping something, down at one end of the bar. I'd seen the plates on the table last night when I was eating: tiny bowls of salt in a wooden tray, different colors and textures, with a miniature ceramic spoon to serve it. I watched him portion out the bowls for a minute.

"Can I help?"

Mark glanced at me. "You're not staff." Then he thought for a moment. "But…Chef did let you in the kitchen. So…fine."

He pushed a plastic container toward me, along with a stack of small bowls. The grains were brown, of varying shapes and sizes. It reminded me of rocky beach sand.

The container was labeled "mesquite."

I carefully measured the crystals into the bowls, using the measuring spoon Mark gave me. The work was repetitive, dull but soothing.

Thomas walked past once. He didn't stop but nodded approvingly at my work.

The restaurant opened for real and a few early diners arrived for the first seating. Mark took my completed bowls, added them to the flight trays along others, and dispersed them amongst the tables. I sat quietly, watching the serving staff flow around me.

Daniel had called Thomas a "soft Dom" but it was obvious to me how much he liked order and control. The staff was impeccable, uniformed and polite. Every table was neatly prepared before the customers approached. Drinks were offered, poured, refilled, without the patrons even having to ask.

Thomas stepped out from the kitchen again, carrying a plate. He drew curious glances as he headed straight for me — some of the diners clearly knew him, and just as clearly wondered who I was to him. Thomas ignored them, taking me by the elbow and guiding me to a secluded corner booth.

He set the plate in front of me, then slid into the booth next to me. It was a wide, shallow white bowl, slightly warm where I touched it. The fish in the center still had the skin on one side, golden-brown and crispy. The white sauce —beurre blanc, I remembered—was drizzled on top, a sprinkling of green herbs providing an accent.

Scattered around and under the fish were the carrots I'd chopped, glossy with a coating of honey. Their bright orange color stood out vividly against the plate. A few slivers of almond peeked out.

A tiny dish of pearly white salt flakes was placed carefully on one corner of the platter. Thomas sprinkled a pinch of it over the fish. Against the ivory whiteness of the beurre blanc, I could see the pink undertone of the irregular grains.

"It's beautiful," I breathed, staring at the dish. I couldn't believe my fumbling attempts to help had been involved in the creation of something so exquisite.

"Wait until you taste it." Thomas was already holding a fork. He cut into the fish with the side of it, the white flesh easily flaking away. Thomas lifted the bite to my lips. I opened and allowed him to feed it to me. The fish almost melted in my mouth, the buttery sauce coating my tongue. He speared a bit of carrot next, slipping it into my mouth before I finished swallowing.

I chewed slowly, the flavors mingling. The sweet, crunchy carrot provided a nice contrast to the richness of the sauce and the softness of the fish.

Thomas watched my expression with obvious enjoyment.

"That's…amazing," I said, finally.

"And you helped me make it." There was an obvious note of pride in his tone—not just for the food, but for his role in teaching me.

Thomas signaled a waiter. "A nori lemonade cocktail, please, for my friend." He caught my eye. "It's non-alcoholic," he assured me.

He fed me a few more bites of the fish before regretfully getting to his feet. "Enjoy the meal. I need to get back to the kitchen. But if you stay a bit longer, we can have dessert together."

I smiled warmly. "I'd like that."

As Thomas walked away, my drink arrived, a sparkling pale liquid over crushed ice with crushed seaweed decorating the rim of the glass. I took a cautious sip.

It was like no other drink I'd tried. A little salty, a little sweet. The acid cut through the fattiness from the trout well, but I would have to drink it slowly.

I took my time with the rest of my trout. Other diners came and went, the restaurant running around me.

There was a small menu card folded in the center of the table, next to the tray of salt bowls. Looking for something to do, I read it. It was "tasting instructions" for the salt flight. I had no idea there were so many different types of something as simple as salt. The instructions said that I would be able to taste a variety of flavors in the different salts.

An idea struck me. I pulled out my journal and quickly wrote down my impressions of the fish and the lemonade. Then I stopped a passing waiter.

"How does the…salt tasting…work?" I asked. He gave me a knowing smile.

"Most people are confused by that. Wait just a second."

He returned with a plate of crisp cucumber slices and a glass of sparkling water. "May I?" He asked, reaching for the wooden tray of salt bowls. I slid it toward him.

The waiter demonstrated taking a small spoonful of the first salt option and shaking the grains onto a piece of cucumber. "You try the salt with the cucumber, then cleanse your palate with the sparkling water," he explained.

I tasted the vegetable, chewed for a moment, then sipped the water. I nodded slowly. "That's…different," I said. "Not bad." I added hurriedly. "Just different."

The waiter left me to it. I sampled the various crystals, taking notes in my journal as I went. It felt a little rebellious, using Daniel's journal for this, and I enjoyed the secret thrill of it.

I wasn't just doing it to annoy Daniel, though. I was actually looking forward to sharing my observations with Daniel over dessert.

A little nervous, too - what if my thoughts were amateurish? I wasn't any kind of cook and Thomas was a highly-trained professional. What if he thought I was silly?

But no. I could already tell Thomas wasn't like that. He valued my opinions and was genuinely pleased to show me his world. I only wished I had something as interesting to share with him.

I was jotting down my impressions on the last choice, a Hawaiian Black Salt — earthy, coarse, mild — when Thomas returned to the table.

"You tried the salt tasting!" he exclaimed, setting down a bowl on the table.

"Yeah, I was curious. I hope that's okay."

"More than okay! I'm thrilled. Did you enjoy it?"

"It was really interesting. I had no idea there was more than just…salt." I showed him the page in my journal. "I wrote down what I thought about each one."

"You made tasting notes! How wonderful." Thomas quickly skimmed over what I'd written, finger tapping thoughtfully on his chin. "You're a good writer. And you definitely know more about flavors than you let on."

I flushed with the praise. "Thank you, sir."

Thomas closed the book and handed it back to me. "Maybe I will start suggesting that the patrons write down their experiences with the salt tasting. I could use the ideas and the reviews in my marketing materials."

He moved to sit down next to me in the booth. For the first time since we'd met, he acted a bit more like a typical Dom: crowding my space, touching my arm. Unlike with others, though, with Thomas there was no undercurrent of fear or anxiety. Only trust —and if I was being entirely honest with myself—desire.

He slid the bowl in front of us. Two spoons emerged from the chilled surface of a scoop of sorbet, steaming in the warm room. The bowl itself was made of shiny hammered copper, heavy and solid.

The sorbet was a pale yellow color with dark swirls. A curled citrus peel, a little paler and bumpier than a lemon, sat on the bowl's rim, with a slight dusting of matcha powder on top of the whole bowl.

"Drink your water. I want you to be able to taste this."

I obediently finished my glass, bubbles fizzing on my tongue. Thomas dipped a metal spoon into the sorbet, holding it out to me. I leaned forward to take it in my mouth. My eyes widened.

"That's…" I swallowed, "really good."

Thomas smirked, just a little. "I know." He took a spoonful for himself. I watched his lips as he ate. "Yuzu, honey, and black sesame."

"I don't know what a yuzu is," I confessed, a little embarrassed. Thomas didn't tease, didn't condescend.

"It's a bit like a lemon and a mandarin orange mixed together. They're grown in Japan, where it's a little colder than most citrus grows. Taste it again."

He fed me another spoonful. I savored it, picturing the fruit trees where it was grown. Now that he's named the flavors, I can find them. They're distinct, layered, complementing each other.

"It's complicated. Bitter, but sweet." I reached for the salt flight. "It seems like maybe…a pinch of…this one?" I picked up a tiny dish tagged "Fleur de Sel."

Thomas gave an approving nod. "You were paying attention. That's the same one I used on the trout. And it does go with the sorbet." He sprinkled just a few grains on my next spoonful. "Taste how it brings out the sweetness, brightens the lemon notes from the yuzu."

I let the sorbet melt on my tongue.

Thomas selects a different salt from the tray — smoked alderwood sea salt. "Now try it with this one."

The salt is dark and smoky. At first it seems to clash with the citrus flavor. But when I get to the sesame swirls, there's a burnt sugar sweetness.

"Tastes like…caramel," I said, closing my eyes again briefly to focus on the flavors. "And burnt lemon peel."

The rest of the sorbet disappeared slowly, with Thomas demonstrating various flavors of the salt on it. I licked a last flake from my lips and caught Thomas watching my mouth closely. The air between us felt charged, thick and sweet like the sorbet.

Thomas glanced at his watch, wiped a hand on his apron. "I need to close the kitchen." He stood, not rushing away but clearly aware of the passage of time. After a beat, I stood as well, grabbing the spoons.

"Can I…help?" It's more of a question than an offer. I wasn't ready to leave yet. Thomas paused, and for a moment I thought he would say no. Then he gave me a single nod.

"If you want."

We walked together into the bustling kitchen. Thomas showed me the sink, and another worker explained how to wash the dishes. I dove in, grateful for a straightforward task I could complete.

There was a rhythm to it —wash, rinse, sanitize—and I let my mind wander as I worked. I watched Thomas with Mira and the rest of the kitchen staff. The atmosphere was less tense now, Thomas still running things but the urgency from earlier had dissipated.

The last of the staff left. One called "Good night, Chef," over his shoulder, and Thomas gave a distracted wave, not looking up from his inventory sheet.

I finished the dishes and stepped away from the sink, drying my hands on my apron and lingering nearby. Thomas finished his counting and turned out most of the lights. The kitchen was dim and intimate, like our secret world.

Thomas reached into a cooler under the counter and removed a small container. The last of the sorbet from earlier.

"For later," he said, as he handed me the cold box and a tiny sachet of salt. Our fingers touched as I took it. "I'll walk you out." His voice was rough, a bit tired. I could see the lines in his face more clearly now.

When we stepped from the building, the cool night air was brisk after the warmth of the kitchen. Thomas locked the door behind us. The container of sorbet was cold in my hands.

Then he moved to close the space between us, taking hold of my waist. I didn't pull away, just looked up at him, lips slightly parted.

I could still taste salt and sesame on my tongue.

I couldn't help it — I leaned in, our mouths touching. I was slow and a little hesitant, not used to taking the lead. Thomas' hand slid downward, finding my hipbone with a firm grip. He deepened the kiss, applying pressure, but not roughness. I melted into him, pressing close for what felt like a long time.

Thomas finally pulled back but didn't remove his hand. "You taste like my kitchen."

I laughed, breathless. Thomas stole one more quick kiss before stepping back. "Go home, Stephan."

I didn't move. Didn't want to go. Thomas sighed, affectionately, sounding amused. "Now, Stephan."

I walked away, clutching the sorbet like a trophy.

I ate it for breakfast the next morning. Then I texted Thomas.

-Ate the sorbet. Tasted like you.-

I was at work an hour later when I got his response.

-Good. I'll make more.-

-You're spoiling me-

I sent it quickly, before I could second-guess myself.

-That's the idea-

I smiled as I put my phone away.

That afternoon I met with Daniel.

He greeted me at the door of his office and ushered me to a seat on the sofa, instead of my usual spot in front of his desk. He sat down next to me, didn't smile. His eyes were sharp on my face, assessing me.

"Well?"

I traced a seam in the fabric of the couch. "He kissed me. Or, well…I kissed him, I guess."

Daniel's expression didn't change. He just waited while I fidgeted. Finally, I blurted out everything —the cooking, the fish, the sorbet, the way his hand had felt on my hip. Daniel didn't interrupt, letting me talk until I ran out of words. I lapsed into silence and then he spoke.

"And? How do you feel about it?"

I breathed out. "I don't know. Good. But terrified."

Daniel nodded. "Tell me why."

"It felt…real." I shifted my weight. "And I'm afraid I'll fuck it up."

"It felt real because it was real." He tapped my journal. "You wrote this. You know what it says." Daniel stood, offered me a hand to pull me to my feet. "You have to decide if you're ready for what happens next. Because you have to do it on your own. I can't train you for this part."

We stood face-to-face, more equal than we'd been since that day at the mall. Impulsively, I hugged him. "Thank you, Daniel. For everything."

Daniel, startled, stiffened for a moment before gently returning my embrace. Then he disentangled himself.

"You're welcome, Stephan."

Daniel wasn't the only one I needed to thank. As I left his office, I pulled out my phone and started texting.

When I arrived at Ethan's apartment, it was to find both Thomas and Ethan waiting for me. Thomas sat at Ethan's kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses of ice in front of him. Ethan kicked out a chair for me.

"Sit. We've been talking."

I sat. Ethan slid me a can of ginger ale. I looked between the two men a little nervously. Thomas didn't smile, just looked me over as I opened my soda. Studying me.

"Guess he's yours now," Ethan said to Thomas. I blushed a little.

"Maybe." Thomas sipped his whiskey. "If that's what he wants." His voice was even. "He was never yours to give away."

"Fair." Ethan's voice lacked bite. He nudged my foot under the table, a familiar gesture. "He's his own."

Then Ethan looked at me. "So this is what you want, newboy?"

I nodded, shook my head, nodded again. Laughed. "I don't know. I think so."

Thomas took my hand where my fingers curled around the cold can. "You don't have to know right now."

Ethan slid a small notebook across the table to Thomas. When he opens it I recognize what it is —our scene notes. "I think I don't need these anymore."

Thomas closed the book and slipped it into a pocket. "Thank you."

They both looked at me. Then Ethan stood and stepped over to stand behind my chair. He rested his hands on my shoulders for a moment, then slipped to the buttons on the front of my shirt. He unwrapped my torso like a present, lingering on each button. When the shirt was fully open, he paused, one hand resting on my waistband.

"Not the chest," he said, to Thomas. Thomas looked at me.

"Not ever?"

"Not…yet." Ethan trailed a hand across my stomach, then stood back while I slipped out of the shirt. "Too many bad memories."

Thomas pulled me to my feet. Ethan jerked his head toward the living room, which he'd already prepped with his usual thoroughness. "Condoms on the table, if you need them. I'll just get out of your way." He didn't seem upset or hesitant about it.

My breath caught. "Ethan, you don't have to…this is your apartment. We can go to my place."

Ethan stroked my bare back while Thomas started to open the button of my pants.

"You wanted me to meet Thomas. We've met. I approve." To Thomas, he said "You see what you're getting?"

He supported my back while Thomas helped me to step out of my pants. Ethan leaned in to nibble at my ear, just a little, and said quietly "And this way, I get to listen to you when he makes you come."

I flushed. Ethan stepped away again and shot Thomas a look. "You take care of him."

Then he walked into his bedroom and shut the door. Thomas moved in, brushed my hair away from my face. I stood there in Ethan's kitchen in just my boxers, goosebumps rising on my skin.

"You're ready for this?"

I took a deep breath and smiled up at Thomas. "Yeah." Thomas looked into my eyes, grabbed my jaw, and raised an eyebrow. I gulped. "I mean, yes, sir." My voice almost broke, and my eyes flicked to Ethan's door. I trusted Thomas but it was nice to know Ethan was nearby.

Thomas caught the glance and knew what it meant. He didn't say anything but his fingers tightened just enough to remind me that he was my focus now.

Thomas's hands moved over me, mapping my sensitive spots and noting my reactions. His hands were warm and dry against my skin. I reached for him in return, then pulled back.

"You can touch," he said, taking my hand and placing it on his hip. I let my hands drift up his body, flattening against the planes of his chest as he leaned in to kiss me.

It lasted a long time, Thomas nipping lightly on my bottom lip. When he finally moved to nuzzle into my neck I was breathless and gasping, moaning softly. I grabbed for his shoulders, anchoring myself. Thomas chuckled against my skin. "Good?"

"Yes," I breathed. "Very good." Then I hesitated before I asked, "Can you…bite? A little?"

Thomas obliged, closing his teeth on the spot where my neck met my shoulder. I moaned again, arching into him. By the time he guided me to the couch, pinning my arms over my head, I was aching for him.

He paused with one hand on the waistband of my underwear. "Still ready for this?"

I lifted my hips toward his hand. "Please," I whined.

He captured my mouth with his again, quick, then stripped off my boxers. He released me for a moment to step back and remove his own clothes. I didn't move my arms, just watched as bared himself.

Naked now, he came back to press his solid weight against me. He picked up his belt, took my wrists again. He glanced at my face, an unspoken question. I stretched out, pressing my arms more closely together. "Please…" I said again, almost begging.

When he tightened the leather around my arms, I tested the restraint. Not to escape, just to feel it. Then I relaxed into the sensation of being bound for him.

Thomas unrolled a condom over himself and re-joined me on the couch. It'd been a long time since I'd let someone do this, but I was more than ready. His fingers played over the space between my thighs, teasing until I'm ready to beg again. Finally he slid into me, shallow at first.

My hands fisted, wanting to hold him, as we moved together. I pulled my knees up, dropping open to give him better access. His thrusts deepened. An orgasm built and crashed over me, and I cried out wordlessly, nails digging into my palms.

Thomas didn't stop. Didn't even slow. The aftershocks built quickly into a second crescendo and then a third before he finally groaned. He kissed me hard as his hips ground into mine. He released the belt and I grabbed for him, not letting him pull away yet.

His weight crushed me to the cushions and I had to turn my head and struggle to catch my breath. But I don't want him to move.

Thomas let us stay like that for a few minutes before rising up on his elbows to slide out of me. He changed position so he could hold me to his chest, his back against the sofa. I grabbed a blanket from the floor and awkwardly toss it over us. Thomas smooths out the fabric until we are both somewhat covered.

I'm still floating, Thomas' grip the only thing holding me in place.

Finally I shift and Thomas loosened his grip enough to allow me to sit up.

"Wow." I looked up at his face. Thomas smiled, stroking my damp hair.

"Better than Ethan?" he teased, quietly.

"Ethan doesn't top," I pointed out, my voice still husky. "But yes."

I glanced at Ethan's closed door and gave Thomas a mischievous smirk. "I bet he enjoyed listening, though," I whispered.

Thomas tucked the blanket around my shoulders, then rose and walked into the bathroom. When he returned, he was half-dressed, buttoning his pants. "When you're ready," he said, noticing my reluctance to let go of the warm blanket.

I sighed, snuggled deeper for a moment, then let it drop. "No. It's time to go." Thomas carried my clothes from the kitchen. I handed him back his belt.

I went into the bathroom myself, to freshen up and dress. Despite everything, walking back out into the apartment naked felt strange.

Ethan still hadn't emerged, so I grabbed my phone and texted him instead. I didn't want to interrupt if he was doing anything personal in there.

-We're taking off. Thank you again.-

Thomas paused in the doorway, holding his car keys. "Come back to my place? There's something I'd like to show you."

I smiled at him. "I'd like that."

I sat on the couch in Thomas' modest home at the edge of the city, surrounded by his things. A photograph of Thomas at a family gathering sat on the mantle, next to a decorative urn labeled "Mom".

Thomas was in the kitchen, mixing a drink that had started as a gin and tonic but had grown to include some other syrups and garnishes. Always the chef.

He brought me a glass. "No gin in yours," he assured me. I sipped. Lemon, cardamom, bitters.

"Really good," I said. "And I'm not an alcoholic or anything. I just…don't drink."

Thomas settled in next to me, put one socked foot on the coffee table. "You don't have to defend it to me."

He used a remote to turn on the stereo. Saxophone notes filled the air. I didn't know the artist but I liked it. We sat in there in companionable silence, enjoying the drinks and the music. Thomas' body pressed against mine as we sat together, his arm a comfortable weight around my shoulders.

Thomas finished his drink and leaned forward to set the glass on a coaster. Then he reached under the table to retrieve a small leather case. Piano jazz played from the stereo speakers as a new song started.

The click of the latches was sharp against the smooth notes of the music.

My breath caught. Inside the box was a row of knives. Some wooden blades, some metal. A surgical scalpel in a thin plastic case. One or two with wooden handles that looked like they might be historical artifacts.

Thomas' fingers traced the edge of the box. He didn't look at me.

I set my own glass down on the table, next to his.

"What is this?" I asked carefully, though I was sure I already knew.

"I've waited a long time to share this with someone I cared about," he said, still not meeting my eyes.

He picked up a wooden-handled dagger with a smooth metal blade. Thomas turned it over a few times, letting the blade catch the light, then extended it to me, handle first. I took it, feeling the weight of it, as the song on the stereo changed again, something vocal, the lyrics smooth and brown.

Now he looked at me. "I'd be careful. You'd hold very still. It's not about cutting deep." He took the knife back from me, pressed his thumb against the blade. Not hard enough to cut, just hard enough to indent the skin. "It's about knowing…you can you trust me with this."

My voice was hoarse. "And if I can't?"

He laid the knife back into its slot in the case. "Then we don't fit." His voice is flat, emotionless. Not a threat. Just a simple statement of fact.

I studied the case again, touching the velvet between the items. They look well-used; I can see on the handles where they have worn down from handing. The knives are clean, sharp; bright even in the dim lighting.

"You've done this before." It's not a question. Thomas' fingers rest on the back of my hand.

"Yes. But always…as a scene. Never with a…partner." He hesitated. "I would never hurt you."

"I know." A long pause. I traced the wooden handle of the dagger again. Thomas picked it up, pressed the flat against the back of my hand. I shivered just a little, in fear, excitement, and anticipation, as he dragged the dull metal up the back of my arm, along the bare skin.

I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. I met Thomas' gaze and nodded, finding that I couldn't speak.

He turned the knife over so the spine of it was flush against my skin, then pressed down just a little, letting the tip dig in. Made a tiny scrape. My breathing quickened. Thomas lightened the pressure, moved the blade in a curved motion, tracing the shape of the muscle under the skin.

Then he stopped, lifted the knife away. "So?"

I nodded, swallowed. "It's intense."

"It is."

He reached under the table again to pull out another box. This one was a small first aid kit: bandages, gauze, a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He poured a small amount of rubbing alcohol onto a gauze pad and carefully wiped the blade of the knife. I watched intently, unable to tear my eyes away from the way his hands worked with it.

Then Thomas took my arm again, rubbed the alcohol-soaked gauze across it. He turned the knife over against the light, then traced the tip of it down my arm. Just hard enough to leave a faint white line in the skin. I held perfectly still, watching his face, rather than the knife. His focus was intoxicating and I wanted more of it.

"Wait." I said. Thomas stopped immediately, lifting the blade from my skin.

"No?" He sat back, releasing my arm.

I yanked my shirt over my head. Then I took his free hand and laid it against my chest, over my heart. "Here."

Thomas studied my face. "You're sure?"

"Yes, sir, I'm sure." Saying the title grounded me, made me feel safer again. I leaned back into the cushions, hands resting lightly on either side of my thighs. Thomas took the bottle of alcohol and trickled a stream of the cold liquid over my skin, then wiped it away with more gauze.

He pressed a hand to my sternum, holding me in place, then brought the knife up. He traced the tip in slow, vertical stripes across the skin, starting just below the collarbone. I gasped at the sensation, careful not to move. Pinkish-white lines bloomed on my chest. I sighed, relaxing into the feeling of his control, and let my eyes drift closed as the sensations overwhelmed me.

Thomas' voice broke through. "I'm going to cut now. Not deep."

He didn't remind me I could safeword. Didn't need to need. I knew he'd stop if I asked.

I didn't want him to stop.

The blade bit into my skin, a line of heat just above my nipple. I couldn't hold back a moan. It wasn't the pain, it was the total control, the total surrender of the moment. The way I could let go completely and know that he'd catch me.

The knife moved away and I felt the softness of the gauze again. "That's enough for a first time."

I didn't open my eyes. Thomas pulled me against him where we sat, tucked a blanket around us. "Still doing good?"

I snuggled deeper into his arms, not wanting to give up the warm, floaty feeling. "Better than good," I murmured. "Thank you for that."

Thomas' arm tightened around me as he gently kissed the top of my head. "Thank you, Stephan."