A woman sits on the floor in a dark room smoking a joint. She is wearing jeans, sneakers, and has wavy dark hair.
First All-BIPOC, All-LGBTQ+-owned Marijuana Dispensary Opens in Chicago
May 2, 2024
A woman bathed in blue light leans against a silver pole. She's wearing black leather platform stiletto boots.
The Boss: Part 2
May 3, 2024

The Boss: Part 1

A photo of a woman standing. We see her torso incased in a tight black latex dress. Her hands are on her hips and she's wearing fishnet stockings.

🍑💦 This story is part of Tagg After Dark, an erotica collection exclusively for readers 18+. 🍑💦


“Can I ask you something?” Ollie leaned against the counter while I slid a tray of lemon pepper tofu onto the granite. As I opened the oven, heat puffed into the long and narrow kitchen.

I slid the oven mitts off and leaned against the wall across from them. Their eyes, warm and soft behind thin-lensed round tortoiseshell glasses, looked like they could see right through me, like always. Sometimes it was still hard to believe they were mine, that somehow at twenty-six, I’d catapulted into my first queer relationship with them. My eyes traced the slope of their arms stretched to the counter beside them, tanned from camping and taut with lean muscle from years of welding and sculpture making. 

“Of course.” The breeze blew damp summer night air through the open window.

“I know I usually top you,” they said carefully. It was true. Six months into our relationship, I still felt too inexperienced to take charge. “Which I love. But I was wondering—” A cluster of thick, dark hair flopped over their forehead, and they combed it back with their fingers.

“Would you want to step on me?”

I raised my eyebrows. They’d been slowly drawing me out of my submissive comfort zone, but I still wasn’t comfortable dominating them. 

“Step on you,” I repeated, stretching my foot, feeling the arch of it lengthen, the pad roll onto the cool tile. “I’m down to try.” 

Ollie’s smile revealed the tiny gap between their front teeth. They closed the space between us with two quick steps and wrapped their arms around me. 

“What should I call you? Mistress? Goddess? Boss?” They brainstormed into the crook of my neck, and I felt like a switch that had just been flipped on. 

“Boss.” The word slithered like a snake on my tongue.

I untangled our bodies and pulled Ollie into my room. On the edge of the bed, I issued my first command: “Get my boots.” 

Like a sudden crack of summer lightning, Ollie was a good boy, eager to please. Their ass was perfectly curved in worn jeans as they rummaged through the closet. They crawled back with my 8-inch tall platform pole dancing boots, which were black and shiny. I stretched my feet into their lap. 

“Put them on me.” Ollie kneaded my arches with dextrous fingers, ran a hard knuckle from big toe to heel, slid one foot into a boot, then the other. I dropped my feet to the floor with a hard clomp.

When they sat back on their heels, I traced my sharp heel against Ollie’s delicate forearm skin, scratched with faint scars from welding and their cat. They shuddered. 

I leaned forward, knees bent, legs open. My elbow rested on my thigh as I sat my chin in my palm. “Take off your clothes.”

“Yes, boss.” I tried to contain my composure, but as Ollie slid their jeans and t-shirt off, another pulse started to steadily thump between my legs. Boxers joined the pile of cotton on the floor, and they stood before me naked.

My eyes traversed their body: their perfectly smooth chest with two swipes of sun-softened brown scars, their stomach bookended by the sharp jut of hip bones. I ached to feel those hips pressed between my legs. Their soft, fluffy bush. The plant tattoo on their thigh, sunk into skin like I wanted my teeth to be. 

“Sit in the chair by the pole.” I cleared my throat and lifted my chin toward the doorway. 

Alone, I slipped into what the boss would wear: a black latex strapless dress. In the mirror, my shoulders were slumped, my forehead creased. I looked uncertain. I closed my eyes, rolled my shoulders back, fluttered my lips. Usually, Ollie was daddy. Tonight, I was.

When I opened my eyes again, I looked like the boss.



Ready to experience how The Boss runs things in the bedroom? Return here on Sunday, May 12, for part 2! Sign up for our weekly newsletter to be reminded when the next installment drops, OR become a Tagg Supporter to access the entire story today.




Writer Eryn Sunnolia poses outside against a backdrop of lush green trees. Eryn wears their hair in a light brownish blonde bob. She wears glasses with clear frames and a yellow top with a brown corduroy button-up. She smiles as she looks into the camera.
Eryn Sunnolia
Eryn Sunnolia (she/they) is a queer writer living in Philadelphia, PA. Their writing has appeared in Electric Literature, HuffPost, Well+Good, Insider, and others. You can find her at erynsunnolia.com or @erynj_ on Instagram and @eryniswriting on Twitter.