This story is part of Tagg After Dark, a sapphic erotica collection exclusively for readers 18+.
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DC is a great city to be in if you’re Black, queer, and kinky. There’s always a munch or meetup where you can mix and mingle with like-minded community. And there’s an abundance of novice and experienced kinksters on the apps.
But I met my lover the old-fashioned way. I bumped into them at a bunch of artsy queer events in the area—open mics, art shows, stuff like that. I went out often enough that I saw some of the same folks time after time, year after year. But this one stood out. We connected over a shared love of art, them a creator and me a collector. We even supported each other on a few projects, but never crossed the line beyond cordial professionalism. And the occasional acknowledgement that we were both attractive people.
They had a slim build that had evolved to a more muscular form over the years. And their six foot frame actually felt tall to my five feet and eight inches. We were the same height when I wore heels. Their hair was in the early stages of freeform loc-ing with a few crystal charms already carefully placed. But their hands were what I was drawn to most. I was always surprised by how well-kempt their hands were knowing that, as an artist, they were constantly using them. The skin around their knuckles and nails never showed the burn of a soldering gun or the nick of a sculpting knife, aside from the occasional bandaid that would pop up and just as quickly disappear.
Gradually, I felt a shift in the energy between us. Things didn’t feel quite so professional anymore. Despite an undercurrent of attraction, neither of us had ever acted on it. a call to action, and I had a hunch that they were feeling it too.
Looking back, we connected at a time when I was putting all my energy into keeping things together. I had a stressful job, strained family dynamics, and demanding creative endeavors of my own. I needed a place where I could fall apart and not be judged for it.
Because I have no shame, I reached out to them on Facebook messenger out of the blue and asked if they were a Dominant. It was an inclination I had and needed to confirm before proceeding with my actual request. They replied surprisingly quickly and without questioning my intentions, they said yes. So I got right to it.
“Do you want to be mine?” I asked.
They responded not with an answer, but with a request—no, a command—of their own. “Tell me what you need.”
I needed someone to take their time with me. Someone who would be genuinely invested in my pleasure. Someone who would respect my boundaries instead of treating them like a challenge. Someone curious and playful, yet knowledgeable and authoritative. Someone safe, someone strong. Someone to choke me, spank me, fuck me, and hold me afterward.
We did a lot of vetting before we decided to go for it. And once we did, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. There wasn’t much that could keep us apart. Not a deadline. Not a late night. Not a call from another companion…
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