That was exactly what I did.
The orgasm tore through me—so sudden and unstoppable that, for a few moments, my vision whited out. And when I came back to the dark hotel room, his hand was pushing into my mouth.
“Good girl. Oh, you came so nice for me, sweetiebird.”
He pumped his fingers between my lips, forcing me to taste myself.
“That’s right. Suck your dirty girl juice off my fingers,” the distorted voice crooned. “Show your masked monster how you're going to get him ready for round two after you take his dick.”
He pushed them so deep, I had no choice but to swallow. Then he said, “Fuck, I can’t take this. You’ve got me so revved up.”
His fingers pulled free with a lewd, wet pop. Then came the unmistakable sound of a zipper, and I felt the thick pressure of him pressing against my folds.
Wait. No… He can’t… I shouldn’t…
“Orange light!” I gasped.
He froze immediately.
“I had my IUD taken out, so I’m not on birth control anymore,” I said, wincing. “I would’ve told you before, but I didn’t expect to wake up to a scene.”
He shifted above me.
I rushed to add, “I don’t care. I want you to keep going, but it would be unethical not to let you know.”
He remained still, and my heart pounded even harder, this time with hope. Maybe he’d just... take me raw anyway. Solve everything.
But then his body moved. I saw the shadow of his arm reaching into his back pocket. A soft rustle, then came the sound of foil tearing.
He worked fast, rolling the condom on without killing the mood. I had to give him that.
Still, a small pool of disappointment formed in my chest as he lined up and pushed into me.
I slid back into the victim role, whispering for him tostop, please stopas he took me with rough strokes. Just like we’d agreed. First of three climaxes. That was the scene.
And I came easily. I always did with him. That still shocked me, even three years into our well-structured playtime.
But this time, my afterglow abruptly cut off when he came with a few sloppy thrusts, groaning as he emptied into the condom.
“Aw, sweetiebird. That was amazing.” He nuzzled the mask against my cheek and began untying me. “I know I sprung that on you, so thanks for not red lighting me.”
I flipped through my short list of acceptable responses and chose, “You’re welcome.”
After he freed my limbs, I sat up, body shaky. “Do you mind if I turn on the light and put on my glasses?”
“No, of course not,” he said, walking toward the bathroom for our agreed-upon cleanup. “You don’t have to ask for stuff like that.”
Not for the first time, it felt like, outside of sex, I was a pretty terrible submissive who kept on messing up my role.
I still wasn’t sure why he’d picked me out of the probably hundreds of women who had swiped right on his Fetder profile, which featured a shirtless photo of him in a red-skeleton ski mask and the headline:Mr. Good Time looking for an NSA dark romance girlie to make some fantasies come true….
The grammarian in me had appreciated his use of“an”beforeNSA,even though, as my students sometimes complained, it doesn’t look like it should bean.
His profile pic had awakened my until-then mostly dormant libido, along with a brand-new love of dark romance novels. I didn’t swipe right at first, but after a couple of weeks of rabbit-holing through increasingly depraved book plots, I started towonder what it might feel like to live out the scenes I was reading.
The answer had been…awesome.
Mr. Good Time had texted me back just a couple of minutes after I finally swiped right. He was surprisingly patient as we messaged back and forth for weeks, figuring out a well-structured kink-based relationship that could meet both our needs, while I juggled a full course load and pursued a master’s in Educational Psychology. And he… did whatever he did.
