Yes, this first chapter does have a bit of an AI ‘smell’ about it— but there’s less and less as it goes on, and the plot and relationships are all THW. Also, it’s as close to ‘romance’ as THW is likely ever to go.
This has been free on reamstories.com for a month or so. Anyone who wants a free long-term subscription to the THW channel there should email me. There’s the first chapter of another new story there, too, on the free tier: ‘Tish gets Blunted’. I have codes!
Picture: Clyde and Colette— 'steamy romance' book cover style : Click here to reveal.
They met through an app that promised something different, where users could tick boxes for interests and predilections which were, shall we say ‘out of the ordinary’, and where discretion felt almost clinical. Careful people with sensitivities could reveal themselves in somewhat protected circumstances, was the idea (The app in question is the one that, in this story from the ‘Cruelties’ section (DON’T GO THERE!), is being set up to be perverted into something much, much darker. When I say ‘about’, I mean ‘about’ in story-land time, which, in real-world time translates into; ‘when THW can find the time to turn three or four drafts and a lot of fevered imaginings into a chapter or two’. I hope that can be taken as read).
Clyde swiped right on Colette mostly because her profile listed “Dostoevsky” and “structural inequality” in the same breath, a combination he found both intriguing and faintly absurd, and this made it possible for him to allow himself to be interested in what actually compelled him to message her— she had checked the ’tentatively submissive role-play’ box in the ‘romantic preferences’ section; he had never— not once— allowed his own fantasies of control and dominance to get anywhere near his real sexual encounters, but— maybe this once?
Her picture showed a woman with sharp, intelligent eyes and a smile that didn’t quite reach them, framed by a fall of dark hair. He liked that she was pretty, but not in the polished, effortful way of so many women on these platforms, though, as always, he couldn’t really be sure what she really looked like. There was a naturalness to her that appealed, a sense she’d be just as comfortable arguing about political theory as she would be feeding ducks in the Park.
His own profile was almost boring. He’d set it up that, way, not wanting any public hostages to fortune, but this app was one of those where men paid and women didn’t, and he wanted to be doing the choosing, so he was hoping it would work. At any rate, Colette responded to his initial contact request within a reasonable few hours, and they began to message.
Their first exchanges were a fencing match of wits, a verbal sparring that quickly moved from the app to text. She was sharp, funny, and surprisingly vulnerable in her admissions. She confessed a love for trashy reality TV, a secret indulgence she seemed almost ashamed of. He, in turn, admitted to a childhood obsession with model trains, a detail he hadn’t shared with anyone in years. It was in these small cracks in their carefully constructed personas that they found each other.
It only got going, though, when she managed to get up the nerve to ask, had he seen her ‘romantic preference’? The back and forth became stilted then, but each time one thought they had got it wrong, the other somehow found an answer which took the conversation forward— each of them at times the driver, each of them the cop-out. It took them a long, awkward time, but eventually they got to the point where a ‘Boss’ and a ‘Secretary’— the clichĂ©s embarrassing to both of them, but taken as the price of meeting (and, implicitly, of having interesting sex)— would actually meet in real life.
The meeting took place in a bar of all places, which felt odd for the conversation they had very loosely planned, but they were both feeling so vulnerable they were each grateful to the other for accepting a meeting place with the safety of a busy public venue, and the certainty of noise to minimise the chances of being overheard.
He got there first, and as he waited, he felt a familiar tightening in his chest, the ghost of the supposedly successful high schooler who had never quite felt at home, failed to fit in with either the jocks or the intellectuals. He’d worn a simple grey button-down and dark jeans, an outfit that said “I tried, but not too hard.”
When Colette walked in, and came to the corner he’d suggested, she recognised him immediately, while he was struck by how she both was and wasn’t her profile picture. She wore a flowing, bohemian-style dress that did little to flatter her figure, hiding what he could now see was a body with curves he wanted to put his hands on. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and her face was bare of makeup except for a touch of mascara. She looked like a grad student who’d just rolled out of bed, and yet she carried herself with a confidence that was at odds with her casual appearance.
“Clyde?” she asked, her voice softer than he’d imagined.
“That’s me,” he said, standing up. “Colette. You’re exactly as your picture, and also not at all.”
There was a long pause, then. Far too long. She looked— odd, as if she’d swallowed something unpleasant, and she was blushing, hard.
And then she said, in a very small, wavery voice;
“Hello, um … Boss. You … you wanted to see me after work? Did … did I do something wrong?”
Clyde felt a jolt, part panic, part pure electricity, his heart hammering against his ribs. He cleared his throat, feeling awkward and exposed;
“Yes, Colette,” he said, trying to find the character. “Close the door.”
She stepped closer, her gaze dropping to the floor.
“I have some concerns about your performance.”
The words felt foreign in his mouth, a borrowed language he was struggling to speak. But something in him, a dormant part of himself, was starting to wake up.
“Is is there anything I can do to improve it, Sir?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
The use of “Sir” sent another jolt through him. He could see the pulse beating in her neck, a frantic rhythm that matched his own. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to feel the warmth of her skin, but he held back, afraid of breaking the fragile spell they had woven.
“There might be,” he said, his voice rougher now. “But it will require special attention. Are you prepared for that?”
She looked up at him, her eyes dark, mostly with fear as far as he could see, and his excitement mounted, shocking him.
“Yes, sir,” she just about managed to say, almost inaudible, her breath catching in her throat.
And in that moment, he felt something. That this was real; this was the thing he had been denying, the hunger he had been starving. And she was the one who had offered him the feast.
It nearly worked; the awkward role-play becoming surprisingly enjoyable as each of them found ways to inject a lightness which simultaneously moved the story on and also acknowledged that they were being deeply silly.
And it didn’t take much of that for them both to need to take things further, and the awkwardness which descended again as they negotiated going to her place was dispelled by even more risque banter as they walked— both ot them feeling somehow safe in the street.
The pressure— and the nerves— took a sharp uptick for both of them as they entered her building, and again once they were inside her apartment. It was small, cluttered with books, the air thick with the scent of pot-pourri. She offered him a glass of wine, her hands trembling slightly as she poured.
“So, boss,” she said, her voice back in fearful mode, a hoarse whisper, but determinedly enunciated “what’s on the agenda for tonight?”
He took a sip of wine, the liquid a welcome distraction from the confusion of desire and nerves which was making him wonder if he should just go. He didn’t like her place at all. But he did want to see her naked, really, really needed to have sex, and made himself play-act again, coming out with the first clichĂ© that appeared in his head;
“First, we need to discuss your attire. It’s hardly appropriate for the office.”
She looked down at her dress, dismay in her eyes;
“Oh! Im sorry, is it? I … I didn’t know what to wear,” she said, her voice losing its playful edge completely, the balloon punctured. “I didn’t want to be too much.”
Too much. The words hung in the air between them, a sudden, unexpected intrusion of reality. He saw it then, the vulnerability beneath the role-play, the fear of being seen, of being judged. And he felt a surge of protectiveness, a desire to take away her fears, to make her feel safe. But he also felt a surge of something else, something darker, more primal. He wanted to see her “too much.” He wanted to see her undone, stripped bare, not just of her clothes, but of her carefully constructed defences.
But he had no idea how to get there, and;
“That’s okay,” he said, his voice softened.
“We’ll figure it out. Together.”
And then, because he didn’t know what else to do, he leaned in and kissed her. It was a clumsy, tentative kiss, though, a far cry from the dominant force he had been channeling moments before— and her response was pallid, evasive, and what little of the spell there had been was broken. The boss was gone, the secretary had fled, and it was just Clyde and Colette, two strangers in a cluttered apartment, unsure of what to do next.
They stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching between them, thick with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires.
“Well,” she said, finally breaking the silence, a small, nervous laugh escaping her lips. “That was … something.”
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something.”
He felt a familiar sense of inadequacy, the old feeling of not being enough, of not being the man he was supposed to be. He had failed at the role-play, failed at being the dominant figure she had seemed to want. And now he was failing at being …
Colette had tried one more secretary line, but it didn’t take. And when the silence got too awkward, and Clyde made a move as if to stand, clearly thinking it was time to leave, she had rather clumsily grabbed him and kissed him.
It was not a sexy kiss, but a desperate one. He had almost pulled away, but something about the raw need in her made him stay, and then he did something he didn’t expect. He pushed her back, not hard, but with a firmness that surprised them both. He pinned her against the wall, his body pressing against hers, his hands holding her wrists above her head. He looked into her eyes, and what he saw there made his breath catch in his throat. It wasn’t fear. It was relief. As if she had been waiting for this, for him to take control, to cut through the noise and the uncertainty and just take.
“Is this what you want?” he asked, his voice a low, breathless husk.
She didn’t answer, not with words; but she didn’t have to. The way her body pressed against his, the tremulous sigh that escaped her lips, was all the answer he needed. He kissed her then, a deep, possessive kiss that left no room for doubt. He felt a surge of power, a sense of rightness that he had never experienced before. This was him. This was the man he was meant to be. Not the boss, not the jock, not the intellectual, but something else, something specific; something that was him, and his alone.
And then they were on the floor, a tangle of limbs and discarded clothes. It was frantic, desperate, a raw, primal reaching that neither of them could deny. There was no finesse, no technique, just a hungry, urgent desire to possess and be possessed. He took her with a force that bordered on violence, and she met him with a matching intensity, her nails digging into his back, her cries filling the small apartment.
It was over as quickly as it began, leaving them breathless and spent on the floor, their bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with the smell of sex and something else; a confusion of guilt and exultation. A release from the roles they had been playing, from the expectations they had been trying to live up to. It was just them, Clyde and Colette, stripped bare, not just of their clothes, but of their carefully constructed defences.
He rolled off her, his chest heaving, his mind reeling from the intensity of it all. He looked over at her, her face flushed, her eyes closed, and realized he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
Everything slipped away, very swiftly, somehow; they hardly knew each other; the pleasure, the confidence, the certainty proving evanescent, a whill-o-the-wisp. And he suddenly wondered, could she cry rape? Had he done something terrible to a woman he hardly knew? She could. She could. He saw it. He lay there, the cold fear creeping back in, a chilling counterpoint to the lingering warmth of their encounter. He had crossed a line, a line he hadn’t even known was there. And now he had to face the consequences.
But when she opened her eyes, there were no tears, no accusations; just a look of profound, almost bewildered uncertainty.
A look that said, I don’t know what to do with that.
She propped herself up on her elbow, tentative, shy, her hair a tangled mess around her face.
“Well,” she said at last, her voice hoarse. “That was not what I expected.”
“No kidding,” he said, a nervous laugh escaping him. “I … I’m sorry if I got carried away.”
“Don’t be,” she said, her eyes needy, nervy;
“It was … it was what we planned, and and now I guess we know.”
“I guess?” he said, knowing full well that she had made damn sure he didn’t know. Not at all. But at least she wasn’t screaming at him, wasn’t crazy or emotional.
They hardly spoke, then, or let their eyes meet. She found a robe, he dressed himself, turning his back on her, strangely shy. She offered him coffee, or wine, but he made a show of looking at his watch, mentioned an early start, an important deadline, and scurried away.
