Chapter 2

Harper's POV

Before I can even click on the images or read the text of the profile, a notification page appears across the screen and stops me in my tracks.

"It says I need to complete my account before the message will go through," I murmur, barely able to hear myself over the pounding in my ears.

Mark glares at me from his side of the couch. "Then answer the fucking questions," he says sharply, as though I'm wasting his time by hesitating.

Swallowing the knot in my throat, I tap on my profile. A list of requirements stares back at me. I need to upload at least four photos, one showing my full body, fully clothed, and another with my face visible. There's also an option to include explicit images, though those remain locked unless I manually approve access to them.

"You have plenty of fucking photos," Mark says impatiently. "Pick some."

I sigh and open my gallery. My fingers move through the images with numb familiarity. I select eight: a couple of me sitting cross-legged on the floor with a book in my lap, natural light spilling across my skin; one of me in a short black dress at some club I hardly remember going to; another where I'm in tight hot pants and a crop top, the kind of outfit that only makes sense in summer heat. I don't even look at them closely. I upload and move on.

The next section is more invasive. It asks for everything.

My height. My weight. Hair color. Eye color. Piercings. Tattoos. Then it goes deeper, freckles, scars, birthmarks. I hesitate. It feels oddly specific, even for a site like this. But then again, I remind myself, people have kinks for everything. Someone out there probably thinks a birthmark on the thigh is the height of eroticism. Who knows?

I fill in the rest, reluctantly listing a few of my interests, and answering some light-hearted questions that feel strange in the context. What would your dream vacation be? What's your favorite song that to find musically uninteresting? My fingers type answers automatically, my mind not present. Just music. Just things to fill in the space between what's already been decided for me.

Finally, I match the last part, preference.

I stare at the screen.

"Everything," Mark says, and even glances over.

I don't argue. I just select the box. Interested in: Everything. Then I hit save.

The screen refreshes and takes me back to the profile, the one with the men.

My pulse stutters.

I scroll down slowly this time, letting the images load one by one.

The first man is leaning against a concrete wall, arms crossed over his chest. His shirt is open, blouse rolled up to the elbows, revealing lean muscle and a scattering of tattoos along both forearms. He has a strong jaw, a bony smirk, and deep, gray eyes that seem to look right through the screen. His jawline is low on his hips, the V of his lower abdomen sharply defined and disproportionately visible.

The second is seated on the edge of a bed, one arm resting behind him, the other lifting a bottle of beer to his lips. He's a bit broader than the first, with darker skin and a swath of ink stretching from his shoulder to his wrist. His hair is short and neat, and a shadow of stubble lines his face. His abs are visible beneath an unbuttoned funnel, and his jeans, like the first, hang low-slung, critically low.

The third is different. He has a board, neatly trimmed but thick enough to make him look older than the other two. He's leaning back in a leather chair, one leg draped barely over the other, his chest bare, tattoos running up his torso and across one collarbone. There's something dangerous in his expression, something that feels more like a dare than an invitation. His eyes are unfocused, just enough to make the message clear.

Then there's the group photo.

All they are standing together in front of a balcony at night, city lights glittering behind them. They're shirtless, laughing at something off-camera, their bodies angled toward one another like they're used to moving as a single unit. They look confident. Attractive. Powerful. Like they've done this before. Like they already know, I'll say yes.

I sit there, staring.

Three men.

Not one.

Three.

And somehow, despite the sharp twist of fear in my gut, it's not just dread that rises inside me.

It's something else, too.

Something I don't want to name.

I hesitate for a long moment, staring at that last photo of them together. Their smiles are easy, their bodies relaxed, but there's something unmistakably calculated about it all. The way they stared, the glint in their eyes, the space they take up even through a screen. I blink hard, then scroll down to read their bio.

We're looking for a baby girl to have sex with. We can spoil together, three daddies. Just for one night. No strings. Just play.

The words swirl a flutter of something strange through my stomach. Baby girl. Three daddies. I've heard it before, on the street, whispered between girls who lived a different kind of life than me. I'd always rolled my eyes and kept my distance. But now, with that kind of attention pointed toward me, it doesn't feel so easy to ignore.

We don't require age play, but if that's your thing, we aren't saying no. Whether you're a submissive or a slave, or just a brat who wants a firm hand, we welcome it.

I shift where I sit, pressing my thighs together instinctively. There's a strange pull to their words, like they've written them not for anyone, but for me. I don't even know what I am, a submissive, brat, or slave? The words swarm in my head like a language I've only heard in passing. They make me feel both exposed and curious, like I'm standing in front of a door I didn't know existed.

Your interests don't have to be a perfect match for ours. We only give and take what you're willing to explore. Consent is everything. Boundaries are respected. Always.

That part makes something inside me loosen. It feels like solidity, even if it's just words on a screen. I read it again. Only what you're willing to explore. That should make it easier. That should make this okay.

We want to spoil our baby girl. We want her to feel like the center of our universe. The only person in the world who matters for our night. All eyes, all hands, all attention, on her.

I let out a shaky breath. I can't remember the last time anyone looked at me like I mattered. Like I was wanted without expectation, without being a burden. Certainly not Mark. Not in years.

Then I scroll further, and there it is, the part I was dreading.

Some of the activities we enjoy include: prolonged oral attention, MMF scenarios, light bondage, sensory deprivation, restraint play, orgasmic denial, impact play (spanking, flogging), edging, temperature play, knife play (with consent), and deep oral control. This list is not a demand, it's an invitation. As we've said before, we do expect you to agree to everything. Only what makes you feel good. Only what you want to give.

I stop breathing somewhere between Knife play and deep oral control. The first makes my stomach twist in a surprising close to fear. The second makes my cheeks burn in a way I don't understand.

They've listed everything like a buffet. A selection of pleasures and punishments. Of power and surrender. Some of it makes my skin crawl. Some of it makes the heat pool low in my belly, confusing and sharp. I don't know what it means to trust those things, but the idea that they would ask, that they would wait, that they would make me feel, it stirs something I don't want to admit.

I scroll to the very bottom.

Now, be a good girl and hit that message button. Not sure what to say. Send us a wink, and I'll take care of the rest.

My thumb hovers over the screen. I don't click. I don't look at Mark.

I just sit there, the words echoing in my head like a song I can't get rid of.

Be a good girl.

The center of our universe.

Only what you're willing to give.

I've never been wanted like that. Not even in fiction. And maybe it's all lies. Maybe they're predators in nice suits with perfect smiles. Maybe I'd walk into that room and never come out the same. But for a flicker of a moment, one fleeting, treacherous moment, I recall what it would feel like to be everything they promised.