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I might like to ride the edge, but Daniel has never seen a cliff he doesn’t want to jump off of, and has pushed things so far in bad situations that he’s ended up in the hospital a couple times. But that’s part of it for him. Trying to push his Dommes past their limits. Which means, really, it’s him that’s not the true sub, not me.
Or maybe it just means we’re both really fucked up in our own delightful ways.
I put a hand on Daniel’s arm. “I’m sorry, babe.”
“Eh, it’ll be fine.” He shrugs it off but I can see he’s still bothered. Daniel’s the kind of guy who bottles things up and if he doesn’t get release regularly, shit can get scary.
We met during one of his brief stints with therapy. It was after everything with Bryce and yeah, I wanted to die.
Daniel and I met in a group for people recovering from domestic abuse. It didn’t feel like exactly the right word for what Bryce had done to me. What I’d let him do to me.
I never spoke up in group.
The stories the others told… they’d been married or in relationships with men who beat and raped them on a regular basis. Some of their partners apologized or bought flowers and were kind to them for a time, but always the violence came back. Most had been to the hospital more than once. One woman’s arm was broken and she couldn’t speak because her jaw had to be wired shut after her husband had broken it.
Their cases seemed so much more… I don’t know, clean cut than mine? With Bryce it was more like—like I’d participated in the abuse, if that makes any sense.
I hated it but I still got off on it. By the end, I started craving it as my world narrowed down to a single focus—pleasing Bryce.
Even though pleasing him was impossible. Bryce was never pleased. Not by me, anyway. Not even by my suffering. I understood in the end that that was what he’d gotten off on all along. He wasn’t capable of caring about anyone besides himself.
The only person in the group who spoke about anything close to what I’d experienced was Daniel.
He was only nineteen and had nothing like the physique he does today. He was rail-thin back then, a recovering addict, and only there because it was part of his court-ordered therapy after he stabbed his uncle in the thigh. He’d been aiming for the groin but his uncle had jumped away at the last second. An uncle who had brutally abused him for years after his mom died.
Daniel fluctuated between a sarcastic fuck-off attitude in therapy and rage-filled outbursts. I liked him immediately.
I approached him and asked him if he wanted to get coffee one night after he’d gone on a ten-minute rant about how he wished he’d killed his uncle instead of just stabbing him in the stupid leg.
Daniel looked me up and down. “What, is this like a sex thing? You want to fuck me cause you get off on sad, fucked up guys? Cause I’m down but only if you know how to swing a paddle.”
“No, I don’t want to—! God, I know you’re an asshole, but maybe turn it off for like five minutes? Or half an hour to come have some damn coffee with me. As a friend,” I emphasized. “No sex. No,” I shuddered, “Paddles.”
He started laughing. Hard. Then pointing at me. “Jesus, you should see the look on your face.”
I grabbed his finger he was pointing at me with and jammed it backwards until he jumped away. “Ow, ow, shit.” Then he grinned at me. “You sure about the paddles? Cause that was a pretty good start.”
I rolled my eyes and called over my shoulder that my invitation would be revoked if he didn’t hurry his ass up.
And that was the start of our beautiful friendship.
“Do you want to dance?” Daniel asks suddenly and stands up. “Cause I don’t want to sit here like two sad shits whining about not having a date.”
I brighten and shove my phone into the side of my bra, then I extend my hand. “Yes. Let’s dance.”
He grins and pulls me onto the dance floor, immediately whirling me into a spin. My giggling shriek is lost in the pounding base of the club beat.
God, how long has it been since I just let loose and had fun?
It feels good not to worry about moody men with enigmatic pasts or to be anxious about keeping secrets of my own. The up-tempo beat slows to a mesmerizing, drumming base that thumps while a woman with an ethereal alto sings over top.
I hold onto Daniel’s shoulders and sway with the music. My eyes fall shut and I lean my head backwards, shaking my long hair until I feel it swish back and forth against my shoulderblades.
