That wasn't just running from an awkward conversation; that was breaking protocol. Something fundamental to how these scenes were supposed to work. Aftercare wasn't a nicety. It was essential. A responsibility we both shared.
Had I pushed too hard? Missed a signal? She hadn't used her safe word, hadn't even used yellow. During the scene, she'd been perfect. Responsive, engaged, and surrendering exactly the way someone who truly wanted this would surrender.
But leaving during aftercare meant something had gone wrong. Either I'd fucked up somehow, and she'd been too shaken to tell me, or she'd panicked when reality set in.
Either way, she'd left me here wondering. Second-guessing every choice I'd made. That uncertainty, that not knowing if I'd hurt someone, was worse than any criticism she could have given me.
And that's what aftercare was supposed to prevent.
Maybe that was the point of anonymity. No messy aftermath. No complicated feelings. Just the scene, then nothing.
Except I couldn't shake the feeling that I knew her somehow. Something about the way she moved. The sound of her voice, even disguised by breathlessness and moans. The scent of her skin.
I poured myself a glass of the champagne she'd never touched and stared at the empty room.
Ava.
Whoever she was, I wouldn't see her again. That was the rule. That was the point.
But some irrational part of me wished I could.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Palisade
Iwoke to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, and the memory of last night crashed over me like a tidal wave.
Master E.
I'd surrendered to a complete stranger.
My body still hummed with the aftershocks. The ghost of silk restraints on my wrists, the commanding edge in his voice that had made me sayYes, Sir,without hesitation, the way he'd somehow known exactly what I needed before I did.
And then I'd run. Left him in that room while he was in the bathroom, fled like a coward before he could see the mess I'd become.
What I'd done at Sassy's wasn't just running from an awkward conversation. I'd violated basic protocol. Every article I'd read, every resource I'd consulted about D/s dynamics had emphasized one thing.
Aftercare wasn't optional.
A Dom provides it, a sub receives it, and both parties are responsible for completing the scene safely.
I'd bailed. Left him to wonder if he'd hurt me, if he'd pushed too hard, if something had gone wrong during the scene. That wasn't just rude; it was dangerous. For me, because I hadn't processed what we'd done. For him, because I'd left him to second-guess everything without any closure.
The guilt sat heavy in my chest, mixing with the lingering heat of the memory.
My phone showed three missed calls from Holly and a text.
Holly:
Coffee? ASAP?
She knew something had happened. Holly's radar for my disasters was finely tuned.
I dragged myself out of bed, showered away the physical evidence of last night.
His hands on my skin, his breath against my neck, the weight of his command settling over me like safety.
Which was insane. He was a stranger. I didn't even know his real name.
