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Easier said than done. After breaking up with my boyfriend eight months ago, I’ve had an itch that I just can’t seem to scratch. To make things more miserable, I still can’t get him out of my life. He’s like mold. Right when I think I’ve cleared his existence out of my world, I look again and find a spot I missed—like when I just stubbed my toe on a box filled with brewery glasses in my spare bedroom.

He-who-shall-not-be-named-because-he’s-a-total-cuntcake keeps saying he’ll pick up the rest of his shit and still hasn’t. I’m not a damn storage unit and I’ve reached the end of my rope. We may be over, but I’m still paying for the mistake of agreeing to move in with him. I can’t get out of this apartment lease—the one he insisted we co-sign even after I said I hated it here—for another two months.

After accidentally kicking and nearly tripping over this box of useless glassware, I’d sat on the edge of the bed and pulled my phone out to call my bestie. Instead, I got sidetracked with my email and saw the reminder from Cruz Photography saying they couldn’t wait to see me tomorrow and even sent a list of what to expect and things to bring for my eleven o’clock shoot.

I’d completely forgotten about it, honestly.

Goddamnit, I want nothing more than to put the past behind me, but it keeps sneaking back up in stupid ways that makes me rage. So much money wasted on that asshole. So much time and energy.

So, like any spiteful, efficient woman, I’d decided to kill two birds with one move—I called the photographer as I grabbed the box of glassware so I could take care of both at the same time. Then I dropped the stupid box just before my call was answered and the sound of glass breaking gave me a great, wonderful, awful idea.

That’s when I broke every single one of these stupid souvenirs from the brewery tours He-who-is-a-jerk-face dragged me to. I wasn’t lying when I told the photographer it was therapy. It felt amazing to break all this shit. Freeing, really, because now my ex has no reason to come back to my place and grab it.

Not that he was going to anyway.

Now here I am, one box lighter, one possibly broken toe later, and a boudoir session planned for tomorrow with a man who legit made my pussy clench when he said my name.

Holy moly, how’s that even possible? I really need to get laid if I’m so bad off that one little order from a stranger has me this horny right now. It’s positively shameful.

Trudging back up the steps to my apartment, I do a little self-reflection. All that guy did was take control. Tell me what to do. I’m not sure why I even liked it.

Okay, maybe it was his talk of low-key revenge and having goddess-level vengeance. Or was it his tone?

Actually, now that I’m overthinking it, I’d say it was the entire conversation—from the cuntaloupe to the see you at eleven tomorrow. As if I have no other place to be except in his studio, on the business end of his camera… in my panties.

And I couldn’t say no.

I didn’t want to.

A self-love boudoir session might be just the thing for me. Why stop at the photoshoot, right? There are plenty of things I’ve been wanting to do for myself and haven’t yet. Today is a new me. Might as well go all in and grab my fantasies by the balls and give it a good tug.

Or is it grab life by the hair and give it a good tug?

Whatever. I’ll do both.

I’m about to carpe this motherfucking diem.

Today is the day. This is it. I’m officially going to take the next step in my self-discovery journey. Tomorrow is boudoir, but today? Today is all about finding a Dom to play with.

I said what I said.

Chewing on my bottom lip, I whip out my cell and open the app, K!nkLink.

Leaning against my kitchen counter for support, my fingers shake as I finally fill out the rest of the registration process that’s been sitting as incomplete for months. I’ve agonized over this fetish site for months, and now I’m doing it.

Goddess-level status, here I come.

There’s so much to fill out, from gender to honorifics to hard limits, soft limits, curiosities, and all the other things that make me squirm when I think about them. I’m not sure what to put for some of the boxes, so I say No Preference, and move on.

Jeez, there’re a lot of questions on here. It’s overwhelming. Fifteen minutes later, I’m finally almost to the finish line.

Final step: Please upload a profile pic.

Snapping a quick selfie, I upload the damn thing without giving myself time to overthink it and my belly somersaults when I click on the confirmation and put in my verification code.

The screen changes and I swear I feel like Alice falling down a rabbit hole filled with whips, chains, and paddles while I wait for it to give me the green light.

Welcome to K!nkLink!