Saturday night I opened a chest I’d kept closed all these years, inside was my Dom gear—a chest harness, bicep harnesses, leather pants and a leather mask I’d worn to masquerades back in the day. At the bottom a photo of Layla smacked me hard. I’d forgotten that photo—white blonde hair and blue eyes stared up at me. She was gorgeous, naïve, and dead. Not even 18 when she’d killed herself, me barely a year older. Do it. I forced...

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