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The grammarian in me had appreciated his use of “an” before NSA, even though, as my students sometimes complained, it doesn’t look like it should be an.

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 to wonder 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.

His boundaries were short but specific:

· No exchange of identifying information

·I always wear a mask

·No kissing

·Lights off during scenes

My boundary list was much longer, but for a while, his occasional “I’m in town, up for a good time?” texts fit perfectly into my life. Especially during the terrible months after my diagnosis.

Which I still hadn’t told him about, even though it had been nearly a year and a half since my ob/gyn delivered the bad news—along with a printed negative STI report to send my occasional lover, as agreed, every three months.

Usually, sex with Mr. Good Time worked like a drug, erasing my real-world problems for a few perfect hours.

But not tonight. Tonight, the question I needed to ask hung over me like a cloud made of anxiety.

“Your arms okay?” Mr. Good Time emerged from the bathroom carrying the plastic tub he always packed in his black duffel. His voice was no longer distorted. He’d swapped the LED mask for the red-skeleton ski one from his original profile picture.

He set the tub of warm, soapy water on the nightstand and picked up one of my arms, gently massaging from the elbow to the wrist.

“Any numbness or tingling?”

Maybe he was a doctor. Like Patrick Bateman. That might explain the ski mask, the hard boundaries, and the refusal to let me see his face.

Though he was a lot more muscular than the actor who played that infamous psycho.

When I first told my twin sister, Robin, about him, I said, “It’s like having sex with someone cosplaying Bane.”

She’d blinked at me. “Who’s Bane?” Which tracked. Despite being my fraternal twin, Robin was my opposite in every way.

Her fiancé, Vikram, looked like the Canadian-Indian version of Prince Charming. She was so Disney, she didn’t even know who that DC villain was—let alone why anyone would agree to a no-strings-attached relationship with him.

“My arms are fine,” I said, taking mine back. “Actually, I’ll handle this.”

I reached for the washcloth and started wiping between my legs. Technically, that was outside our rules. But it was two a.m. on Christmas morning, and my ability to mask was shot.

Usually, his aftercare cleanup—really just a soft-touch, washcloth-based lead-in to a third round of much gentler sex—was my favorite part.

But tonight, I couldn’t be that vulnerable with him.

The ski mask had real eye holes, and I looked away to avoid seeing whatever expression might be in his dark, nearly black eyes. It was such a small thing, but I’d never defied him before—at least not outside a scene.

Silence settled over the room. He sat beside me, the bed dipping under his weight.

“Did I fuck this up?” he asked quietly. “Was it the new mask? Do you want to revisit the boundaries list so this never happens again?”

“What? No!” My head snapped up. I dropped the towel into the tub, already regretting my decision to go off-script during aftercare.

“I didn’t mean to worry you. I liked it. A lot,” I said quickly. “Almost as much as primal play.”

“Good.” His shoulders eased. “Since we have the whole day together, I’ll set up an extra scene for when we’re fresh. Then we’ll do the makeup sex after that.”

My stomach turned at the idea of going through two more scenes with the question still sitting there. Clawing at me.

And being an autie who’d been woken up in the middle of the night for CNC play, of course, I couldn’t mask my reaction before it showed on my face.

He stilled. “I know. You probably want to curl up under your weighted blanket and go back to sleep. But I think you need to tell me what’s going on first.”

His voice was reasonable. Calm. His “non-scene Dom” tone. But it still felt like a command.

“Um… well, it’s Christmas. And I was wondering if maybe, instead of primal play, I could make another request... sir?”

The lips behind his mouth hole twitched at the use of his preferred title, which never felt quite right on my tongue. Another point in the Bad Submissive column.

“Sure, anything,” he said. “What were you thinking?”

I opened my mouth.

Then closed it again.

Geez, this is embarrassing. I deeply, deeply didn’t want to be the one to bring this up. And if things had gone even slightly differently, I probably never would have.

But my wearable ovulation monitor had gone off right before I stepped into the shower of the outrageously nice penthouse suite Mr. Good Time always rented when he was in town. And the pee test I took afterward confirmed it. A rare ovulation window. My first in months.

There wasn’t time to hedge or beat around the bush.

So I looked up at the ceiling and said it as fast as I could: “I’d like to do a breeding scene.”

I didn’t look at him as I made the request. I couldn’t. But I felt the shock in how still he went. Even though his voice came out level.

“You’re not on birth control.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s actually the point. I’m ovulating. So I’d like to try to get pregnant today. For Christmas. Please, sir.”

His voice wasn’t level anymore. “What? Where is this coming from?”

I tried to stay calm, but I could already hear the wobble in my tone.

“About a year and a half ago, I got a POI diagnosis. I didn’t tell you because those are intimate details that didn’t really pertain to our sex life.”

“POI?” His voice was clipped now. “What does that mean?”

“Primary ovarian insufficiency.”

The words splatted like broken eggs between us. Which was ironic because… “It means I don’t produce eggs regularly. I’m kind of in early menopause—though that’s not exactly the right term. Technically…”

I cut myself off. Technically was one of the warning words. A sign I was about to launch into an overexplaining tangent the other person probably didn’t want to hear.

I took a breath and reset. “Main point: I don’t ovulate often. And when I do, I’m supposed to try. Hence the request.”

He stared at me. Black eyes in a black mask.

And I rushed to fill the silence.

“I’m not asking you for anything. This is actually kind of perfect because if it works, it stays anonymous. I won’t bother you. I swear—okay, where are you going?”

Mr. Good Time stood suddenly and walked over to the built-in bench where he’d left his duffel bag. His back rippled with muscle as he unzipped it.

It would’ve been a rather aesthetically pleasing sight if he hadn’t immediately yanked on a pair of black boxer briefs.

“What are you doing?”

“This wasn’t in our agreement.”

“I mean, it wasn’t not in our agreement. And when I asked to make a play request, you said anything.”

“I didn’t mean anything with permanent consequences.”

He pulled on pants. Then a black turtleneck.

“I wouldn’t call it consequences.” I stood and wrapped myself in one of the hotel robes. “I just meant... I’d rather make a baby with you—someone I like—than a stranger from some clinic folder.”

I paused. My overly rigid conscience tugging at me until I confessed, “Also, it would save me from spending five figures on hormone replacement therapy and IVF.”

He stared at me for a long beat. Then: “Just like you don’t want me to leave scars, I don’t want to leave behind a biological consequence to temporary feelings.”

“Temporary?” That word hit harder than I expected. It was dismissive in a way that stabbed directly into my not-very-thick-at-all skin.

“My feelings for you aren’t temporary. I like you.”

Conscience tug.

“Actually, I love you. Even if it’s not in the agreement. I have so many good, good, forever feelings for you.”

He stared. Then shook his head.

“Are you kidding me? We don’t even know each other! You’ve never seen my face. And now you want me to put a baby in you?”

“Could I?” I blurted out my secret heart's hope. “Could I see your face? Would that make it easier for you to...”

I trailed off.

The look in his eyes told me I’d said exactly the wrong thing.

“No,” he bit out. “That wasn’t part of the agreement?—”

“The agreement we made three years ago,” I said quickly. “Before my diagnosis. Before I found out that the road to having a baby would be extremely expensive unless I get some help. That’s all I’m asking you for….”

I tried to keep my voice steady.

“I’m just asking you to help me make this one dream come true. You don’t have to stay. Or hold my hand. Or even treat me like a human being. I’m just...”

I tried—I really tried—to regulate my emotions. But the hot tears still came spilling down. I had to wipe them away before finishing with, “I just need you to do this one thing for me.”

He let out a long breath, his broad shoulders sagging beneath the shirt he’d hastily tugged on.

He looked at me— really looked at me. And his expression softened.

“Listen…” he said.

I did. I did listen. With my entire heart.

Like a fool, I held my breath and clasped my hands in front of me, hoping Mr. Good Time would give me the Christmas present I wanted most of all.