I startedcrying.
No, no, no. I had to stop, but I couldn’t. It was an automatic response from somewhere deep inside me.
Wes moved immediately, readjusting my dress and scooping me back into his arms as he sat with me on the couch. “Hey, it’s okay,” he soothed. “Talk to me, baby.”
“I’m sorry,” I gasped, balling his soft shirt in my first. “Fuck, this is humiliating.”
“It’s not, Nova. I want all of you.”
Those words seemed impossible. Too good to be true.
“I’m so used to feeling shame after I come,” I admitted. “It’s kind of my whole thing. I reach a breaking point where I act on my kinky desires, and for a brief period of time, I’m free from all guilt. But right after I climax, I crash, and I remember where I came from. The men from my hometown who don’t care about safe words or consent or negotiation. It’snotthe same, I know it’s not the same, but I feel so fuckingguilty.”
“That makes complete sense to me,” Wes said gently. “Is that what you’re feeling now? Shame?”
I shook my head, surprised. “No. It’s different this time, and maybe that’s why I’m crying. Because I’m realizing how long I’ve lived hating this huge part of myself. How long I’ve lived not trulyliving.I used to think by repressing my kinks, I waswinning an invisible battle against abusers and misogynists. But I think—” I took a deep breath, wiping my eyes. “I think that was a form of self-harm. And I don’t want to hurt myself anymore.”
Wes kissed my forehead. “I have a couple friends with religious trauma. If you’re up for it, I can connect you. You’re not alone in this, and you’re in good company. I’m honored you felt safe enough to let go with me.”
I remembered the two people who’d said something similar after my sermon. We were everywhere. Shame had hidden this truth from me.
“I do feel safe with you. I’m s?—”
Wes stopped me with a gentle but commanding look. I immediately closed my mouth. He was right. It wasn’t my fault. No one was asking me to atone. I was the only one forcing myself to comply with a set of rules and ideas that no longer made sense to me.
“I still have Doritos, if that would help,” Wes said.
My tears dried, leaving me feeling strangely light and free. I managed a small smile. “Do Doritos qualify as aftercare?”
Wes scoffed. “Baby, Doritos are a pillar of aftercare.”
“That cannot be true.”
“I have ice cream too. Chocolate.” He watched my face and grinned. “The way your eyes grew brighter with every word I spoke was incredible.”
“You really do pay attention, don’t you?” I murmured.
He kissed my temple. “Paying attentionis seventy percent of good domming.”
He carried me to the kitchen and placed me on his enviable marble counter.
“What’s the other thirty?” I asked.
Wes retrieved a magical pint of chocolate ice cream with fudge and brownie swirl. He laughed when he caught the delighted look on my face.
“Storytelling,” he said. “If you want to practice good kink, you have to know how to tell a story.”
He handed me the pint and a spoon and positioned himself between my legs.
“Say more,” I said, gleefully plunging the spoon into the decadent chocolate. “Please,” I added.
Wes’s smile widened as he watched me. “Every good scene is about pacing. The buildup. The tension. The breaking point followed by the cooldown. Bad tops don’t get this. They’ll start at full speed and end at full speed, which is deeply psychologically unsatisfying. We allthinkwe want the climax. We want the sex, the crown achievement, the ending. But that’s an illusion; what we all really want is the liminal spacebeforewe get what we want. We want the yearning. We want the ride to the top. And we want to be taken care of once we finally tip over, so we know the ending isn’t final, and more is to come.”
The gooey, fudgy chocolate overwhelmed my tastebuds as Wes spoke. All I could do was stare at him in awe.
“That was beautiful,” I said. “You’re like a kinky Socrates.” I marveled at the parallels between kink and storytelling in a way I’d never considered before.
Wes shrugged like he had when I’d asked him why Lola said he was a saint. It would seem I was not the only one who struggled with compliments.
