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I flick on the living room light and sink onto the couch, my phone already in my hand as I stare at the last email from Blade . What is your darkest desire? What do you fantasize about when you touch yourself? The questions have been echoing in my mind all day.

I sigh, shaking my head, trying to calm the racing thoughts. I’m overthinking this—I know it. I lean back against the couch, closing my eyes in an attempt to relax. But the questions linger.

What turns me on? I’ve always been drawn to darker things. Even in the romance books I read, they’re never the sunshiny, happily ever-after kind. They’re dark, filled with kidnapping plots and morally gray lovers. Stories with multiple men and few boundaries.

My core clenches, and I squeeze my thighs together at the thought of being used like the women in my books. The realization hits me suddenly—there are so many things I want to try. But how do I narrow it down? And how do I convey my desires without being judged?

As if on cue, my phone chimes, pulling me out of my thoughts. I glance at the screen to find a new message from Blade .

This is a judgment-free zone. I promise.

A shiver runs down my spine, and I can’t help but smile. It’s like he knows exactly what I’m thinking—like he’s already in my head. My pulse quickens, and I feel a strange mix of anticipation and fear. Maybe, just maybe, this is what I’ve been waiting for.

I quickly type a response, my fingers trembling slightly, and hit send.

Now, how did you know I was worried about being judged?

No sooner have I set my phone down than it chimes again.

Because that is usually the biggest reason people hesitate to reach out and use our services. But that is exactly who we are, Red. We are a completely judgment-free zone. We only want to help others discover their deepest desires and carry them out in a safe environment.

Why don’t we start with you telling me a little about yourself?

Talk about myself? I can do that. Excitement fills me, much like the rush when I first connect with someone on a dating app. Those initial butterflies before the inevitable disappointment. I scroll through my photos, hesitating for a moment before coming across a picture of myself in pink lingerie. I’d taken it during my last serious relationship nearly a year ago. I crop out my face and attach it to the email.

I think it’s best to keep my name as Red. I like the anonymity.

I pause, fingers hovering over the keys, before continuing.

I’ve attached a photo of myself. I’m thirty-four and have lived in the city since college. My dating life has become boring and monotonous. I’m missing that spark with the men I’ve gone out with. I don’t know if it’s just me, or if every man in this city simply doesn’t know how to pleasure a woman properly. That’s why I reached out to you…

Before I can second-guess myself, I click Send and settle back into the couch, my heart still racing from the boldness of what I’ve just done. I glance at my phone, half-expecting a response from Blade to pop up right away. But the screen remains dark, and the seconds stretch into minutes.

I try to distract myself, scrolling mindlessly through social media, but it’s no use. My thoughts keep drifting back to the email, to the photo I attached, and to the words I chose so carefully. Did I come on too strong? Was I too vague? Doubt starts to creep in, gnawing at the edges of my excitement.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. I check my phone again, but there’s still nothing. The initial thrill starts to fade, replaced by a familiar twinge of disappointment. It’s ridiculous, really—I barely know this man, and yet here I am, hoping for some kind of immediate validation.

I toss my phone onto the cushion beside me, trying to shake off the feeling. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s thinking through how to respond. Or maybe he’s just not as interested as I thought he’d be. I hate how quickly my mind goes there, how easily I slip into doubting myself.

I push off the couch and head to the kitchen, deciding to make myself a cup of tea to calm my nerves. As the kettle heats, I lean against the counter, trying to focus on anything other than the email. But it’s no use. I can’t help but replay our brief exchange in my mind, wondering what I could’ve done differently.

The kettle whistles, and I pour the hot water over the tea bag, the steam curling up in soft, comforting tendrils. I carry the cup back to the living room and sit down again, the warmth of the mug grounding me. I tell myself it’s fine, that I don’t need to hang my hopes on one email.

But even as I sip the tea, the disappointment lingers, a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. I glance at my phone one more time—still nothing. With a sigh, I set the mug down and close my eyes, trying to calm the flutter of nerves.

Just as I’m starting to resign myself to a long wait, my phone buzzes, the sound jolting me out of my thoughts. I snatch it up, my heart pounding again as I see the notification.

Blade.