I didn’t understand.
Not really.
But the way he said it—low and aching, like confession and grief tangled together—made me want to.
“Did you love any of them?”
“No,” he whispered. “Not like—”
He stopped, closing his eyes. “I gave them what they needed. But it was never love.” The confession scraped from his throat. “I don’t think I was capable of it then.”
“And what did they need?”
“Some of them came to learn—to experience. Others already knew, but sought something deeper, something no one else could give them.” His voice gentled. “But they all had one thing in common: the need to get out of their own heads.” He sighed. “I gave them that.”
A beat of silence stretched between us, heavy and strange.
“And what did you get in return?” The question barely left my lips.
“Control. In different forms, different capacities. Every partner had their own requests, their own boundaries. But at the center of it all—it always came back to control.”
I nodded slowly, the pieces Ava had scattered yesterday morning clicking into place, one after another.
“Ava,” I murmured, more to myself than to him. My gaze lifted to his. “Why does she know? About any of this?”
His head angled.
“Ava’s been with me a long time,” he said. “She’s seen more of my life than most people ever will.”
I waited.
“She knew I had… arrangements. Dynamics,” he amended. “Not details. Never names. But she handled logistics. Travel. Discretion. Things that touched my schedule.” His mouth tipped in a humorless almost-smile. “If my life was going to bleed into my calendar, she needed enough context not to be blindsided.”
He laughed lightly. “Turns out she has her own story and experiences. It made the revelation easier.”
I blinked. “She’s a—”
“That’s her story to tell.” His tone was gentle but firm. “But yes. She understands the lifestyle. And she’s been with me long enough that pretending otherwise felt insulting to us both.”
I sat with that for a moment, recalibrating everything I thought I knew about the woman.
“Why do you need control?” The question finally came.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders dipping. “I’m not really sure,” he admitted. “It’s always been something I needed to feel… whole. My fascination started when I was a teenager—one too many suspicious clicks of a mouse, I guess—and it tumbled from there. I found a local community group.” He hesitated, eyes distant. “It was there I met my first partner.”
I waited. Watched. Catalogued every word choice, every shift in expression, every pause between breaths.
“I was twenty,” he went on. “She was maybe in her early thirties. I’d expressed interest, and she offered to take me under her wing.”
My brows drew together. “So… you were the submissive?” The word felt strange on my tongue, almost forbidden.
He gave me a small, understanding smile. “I can see how you’d think that. But no. She was the submissive.”
I frowned. “But if the dominant is the one in control, why would she offer to teach you?”
“Well, you’ve got to learn somewhere.” His shoulders lifted in a weary shrug.
“Learn?”
