I’m concealing a crop underneath my clothing. It peeks out of my skirt as I move into the car, pressing painfully into the flesh of my thigh.

“Where are you folks off to tonight?”

“Just a club,” we both mutter, looking anywhere but at each other.

The driver nods and says no more.

He doesn’t notice the collar around Dylan’s neck.

I’ve been aware of my kink since I was six years old. Of course, at that age, I had no idea what it meant. I just knew I got a “special tingly feeling” when we played baby-sitter/child and I was punished as a naughty little girl. I started exploring it in my later adolescence.

It’s one thing to come to terms with the presence of a kink; I’d written and spoken about it extensively, explored it in the safety of the bedroom. But to act on it publicly — to walk into a room, clad in lingerie and leather, and ask a stranger to dominate you — that is a whole other ball game.

Dylan and I were a $55.45 Uber away from cementing ourselves as kinksters.

Esmé
Kink tales: When my best friend became my Sub