She Seeks Out Older Men—Master D Teaches Her to Set Boundaries novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Username
At 12:10 a.m., I already had three men open on my screen.
The first was fifty-eight and wrote in all caps when he got turned on.
The second was sixty-one, and he took his time with every sentence.
The third, fifty-four, had sent me a picture of his hand on his thigh without me asking for one.
I was sitting cross-legged on my bed in my studio apartment in La Guillotière, with the bedside lamp off and my phone propped against my knee.
I was wearing the black lace bodysuit I'd bought with my first summer paycheck.
Nobody knew I wore it for strangers.
Nobody knew, either, that I'd turned eighteen in March, that I was in my first year studying literature, and that I'd never slept with anyone.
At college, people said Élise Navarre was nice.
They also called me shy because I never spoke in lectures.
On the site, I was someone else.
"Tell me what you'd like me to do to you," the sixty-one-year-old wrote.
I stared at the sentence for a long time.
Then I typed with both thumbs, without thinking, because it was the only way to say things like that.
"Make me stay on my knees until you're done talking on the phone."
"Tell me I'm a dirty little girl who doesn't even have the right to ask."
My left hand was already under the lace.
I was so wet it embarrassed me, and the embarrassment made me even wetter.
"There," the sixty-one-year-old replied.
"Show me what you're doing right now."
I took a picture, my bodysuit pulled up to my ribs, my stomach, the strip of lace, my thigh.
No face, ever.
That was my only rule, and I'd never broken it.
I sent the picture to all three at once.
The fifty-eight-year-old wrote, "FUCK," and nothing else for a full minute.
The fifty-four-year-old asked me to get on all fours in front of the mirror.
I got on all fours in front of the mirror.
My hand moved faster.
I watched myself in the wardrobe mirror, small and brunette, wavy hair falling in my face, green eyes too big, and I didn't recognize myself.
"Say you're mine," the fifty-four-year-old wrote.
"I'm yours," I typed.
Pleasure surged through me, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out because of the neighbors.
I came with my face in the pillow, my phone vibrating on the sheet, three messages arriving one after another.
When I caught my breath, I did what I always did.
I went back to the sixty-one-year-old and asked him my question.
"What if I say stop?"
I'd asked it of dozens of men since spring.
Mostly, I watched how long they took to answer.
He replied before I'd even finished rereading my sentence.
"You won't say it."
I blocked him.
The fifty-eight-year-old got the same question, and he wrote in all caps, "YOU WON'T SAY ANYTHING, YOU'LL BE TOO HORNY."
I blocked him too.
That left the fifty-four-year-old.
He took a long time to answer, then wrote, "We'll see."
I didn't delete him, but I didn't feel anything, either.
I was looking for something I didn't know how to name.
A man who would hear the question and not take it as a joke.
I went to wash my face in the tiny bathroom.
In the mirror, my mascara had run under one eye, and my lips were swollen from biting them.
I wanted to sleep, and at the same time I knew I wouldn't.
I went back to bed, opened a new chat, and typed my usual ad.
"Eighteen-year-old girl, shy, curious. Looking for a man who knows what he wants."
I left it up and lay back with the screen glowing on my chest.
At a quarter to one, my phone vibrated.
A new message, from a username I'd never seen before.
"Fifty years old. You write that you're looking for a man who knows what he wants."
"I know what I want."
There was no picture, no emoji, and he hadn't said hello.
I wrote, a little curtly, "And what do you want?"
The reply came right away, but it didn't have the other men's urgency.
"For you to live up to what you write."
"I'm giving you two minutes to tell me why I should waste my time on you."
I felt my stomach tighten, and it wasn't fear.
I typed three lines, then deleted them.
I typed four more and sent them without rereading.
"Because I never get bored when someone tells me what to do, and because I don't lie."
The three little dots blinked for a long time at the bottom of the screen.
"That's not enough," he finally replied.
"But you didn't say, 'Would you please?' That's a start."
My heart was pounding in my throat.
Another line appeared right below it.
"From now on, you’ll call me Master D."
"Not sir, not you, nothing else. Master D."
I stayed there, thumb hovering over the keyboard, staring at those two words.
No one had ever given me an order in so few words.
I could’ve closed the app. I could’ve blocked him like the others.
I didn’t.
I typed, "Yes, Master D."
And in the dark, I felt that this wasn’t a game.
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