Chapter Text
“I can’t believe you would do this to me, Carson. Twenty-three years we have been together and you’re going to throw it all away because you’re unsure of yourself? You’re thirty-eight years old. Grow up. I’ve spent so much of my time trying to convince you that you are not your mother - but I’m seeing now that I’m wrong. You are your mother’s daughter. God, I can’t even begin to express just how disappointed I am in you.”
Charlie's words echo in Carson's mind a lot lately, relentless and cutting. Throughout their relationship they’d had their fair share of arguments, as most couples do, but never before had Charlie unleashed such a torrent of harsh words upon her. Carson still feels the weight of each syllable, the impact searing through her conscience. In the depths of her being, she believes she deserves it. Perhaps Charlie isn’t wrong. He knows her better than anyone else, right?
It has been months since Carson filed for divorce, seeking liberation from a life that had grown stagnant and unfulfilling. Or perhaps it had always been unfulfilling and she hadn’t realised it until it was too late. But the guilt clings to her like an unwelcome shadow, refusing to be shaken off. The image of Charlie's shattered expression, a mixture of anger and betrayal, haunts her. She can't bring herself to contact him again about signing the divorce papers - the fear of being perceived as overly eager to sever their ties gnaws at her. She doesn't want him to think he means nothing to her, as if their twenty-three years together were inconsequential, unimportant. Despite her revelation, she knows that those years held significance and shaped who she is today, even if they were no longer compatible. (Were they ever compatible?) Carson only wishes she could make him understand.
She sits at the kitchen counter in her brand new apartment - well, it’s not new, Jo and Maybelle have lived there for a year now, but it’s kept in such immaculate condition that it might as well be new. She sips on her fourth beer, and Jo is unfortunately drunk enough to start asking Carson the hard questions.
“If you think you like women, you should probably start putting yourself out there and find out - so what are you waiting for?”
Hearing someone else say it out loud makes her stomach tense in a certain kind of way. She hasn’t even said it out loud to herself, really. The truth is - Carson isn’t sure if she’s gay. She’s not sure if she likes anyone, because all she has ever known is Charlie. Her face red with embarrassment, she confesses: “I’ve never been with anyone other than Charlie.”
Jo isn’t exactly surprised by this revelation. Carson's vanilla nature and blush-inducing discomfort with the topic of sex have been evident throughout their friendship. It took months of gentle probing before Carson finally admitted that the intimate aspect of her relationship with Charlie was lackluster at best - each encounter feeling like a monotonous routine, more like a chore than an act of passion. Jo couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her friend.
“Okay, well what you really need is a rebound. Someone you won’t even need to worry about seeing again. That way you can just get it out of your system.”
Rebound? Carson almost feels sick at the idea. Her brows furrow as she contemplates Jo's suggestion. A rebound. The word hangs heavy in the air, stirring a mix of discomfort and unease within her. She takes a deep breath. "A rebound? I don't know, Jo… Honestly I think I just… Think about it - my entire life I have been with one person. And honestly, I never had to do much, it was always… him. It was about him. I’m thirty-eight years old and have no idea what I’m doing.”
Jo’s eyes light up, and they slap Maybelle on the shoulder with the back of their hand, “I know exactly what to do.” And that’s when she makes the suggestion.
✦ ✦ ✦ ✦
Jo's suggestion tugs at the corners of her mind for a full week. She wrestles with herself, contemplating the risks and rewards of trying something so… daring. Daring and Carson are two words that don’t frequently go together. The anxiety and self-consciousness threaten to overshadow the flickering flame of curiosity within her. Could she really consider it? Seeing a dominatrix for the sake of bringing her out of her shell?
What makes her settle on a decision is seeing a picture of Greta Gill herself. Carson absentmindedly scrolls through social media instead of tending to her work emails, and finds that Jo has uploaded a group picture from their last outing. Greta catches her eye immediately. There's something captivating about her gaze - enigmatic and alluring. She looks like a confident woman, and Carson is absolutely certain that she’s out of her league. She desperately tries to shove doubts from her mind by reminding herself, t his is business, you’re not trying to make her fall in love with you . Still, she can’t imagine that Greta would ever be seen with someone like her without a hefty cheque in hand.
Summoning all her courage, Carson reaches for her phone and composes a text to the number Jo had shared with her. Before she presses send, she takes a deep breath, reassuring herself with two things. First, "I am allowed to change my mind." Second, she affirms with unwavering conviction, "I deserve this."
Carson: Dear Miss Gill, my name is Carson Shaw, and I recently came across your name and services through a trusted friend's recommendation. After much contemplation, I have decided to reach out to you because I believe you can offer me the guidance and support I seek in this particular phase of my life. I am happy to disclose more information should you need it, but I am hoping that you have an availability for a consultation sometime later this week where we can discuss things face to face. Thank you in advance for your time. Warm regards, Carson Shaw.
She presses send and immediately locks her phone, turning to the laptop on the desk in front of her. Carson and anxiety are the best of friends. They’ve known each other well for the majority of her life. Rarely does she allow the weight of it to get in the way of her getting her work done - but for the next thirty minutes, she stares at her screen with a blank stare, leaving the emails regarding the upcoming exhibition unread and unthought about. The only thing to snap her out of her trance is the ping of a new text.
Greta: Carson, thank you for reaching out to me and expressing your interest in my services. I was told by my friend Jo that you may be contacting me. I'm glad to have the opportunity to assist you in finding the guidance and support you seek.
I understand the importance of having a face-to-face consultation to discuss your needs and expectations in more detail. Normally a consultation would require a fee, but I’m happy to waive it. Consider it a friend's discount . I would be more than happy to arrange a consultation at a time that works for both of us. Please let me know your preferred day and time, and I will do my best to accommodate your schedule - however, I am a very busy woman, so I do ask for patience as I make space in my list for you.
Please be aware that during our consultation, we will both be required to ask each other a number of questions - so please prepare yourself for this. It is crucial for me to gain a comprehensive understanding of your boundaries, concerns, and desires. This will help us establish a solid foundation for our future sessions and ensure that our arrangement is built on mutual trust and respect.
Once I receive your preferred availability, I will promptly confirm a date, time, and location for our consultation. I look forward to meeting you in person and discussing how we can best tailor our arrangement to meet your needs and aspirations.
Regards, Greta Gill.
Carson's fingers dance across the screen of her phone, her eyes scanning the packed schedule that stretches out before her. Though she enjoys her new role as a curator at the museum, a pang of frustration washes over her as she realizes the overwhelming busyness that lies ahead with the new exhibition. Balancing the demands of work and personal life had never really been an issue for Carson, but in this moment, Carson curses herself for the timing of it all. When she spots a gap in the schedule, she hopes for the best.
Carson: How does Thursday next week sound? I don't mind what time. There's a nice little restaurant I like to go to for brunch most days - I can text you the address if you like.
Greta: I can do 12:30 then. Wherever you're most comfortable, I'll meet you there. :)
Carson lets out a sigh of relief.
✦ ✦ ✦ ✦
Carson's reflection stares back at her, anxiety etched in the lines of her face. Doubt creeps in, casting shadows on her confidence. She can’t help but overthink every little thing. Is wearing no makeup the right choice? Is her hair presentable? Is she overdressed, or underdressed? Is she making the right choice? The uncertainty gnaws at her, nervous energy pulsing through her veins. “Are you so sure about this?” She asks Jo. Carson’s nerves refuse to let her relax. The absence of any real previous dating experience leaves her without a frame of reference.
“I know Greta better than anyone,” Jo says as Carson fidgets with her shirt collar. With a knowing smile, Jo steps forward, armed with a maroon tie that works well with the dark navy of Carson's skirt and blazer. Skillfully, she ties it around the collar. “You’re not going to impress her if you try too hard. Try-hards are no good, she sees too many of them already.”
“You’re making this sound like a date - and I swear I’m going to throw up any moment now-”
“Nuh-uh,” they reassure her with a gentle pat on the back. “The consultation is important. Greta has a job to do, and she’ll do it whether she likes the person or not. But from what I’ve heard, you’ll get more out of it if you let yourself connect. Plus, this outfit is right up her alley.”
A soft blush creeps onto Carson's cheeks, adding a touch of warmth to her complexion. With a quick glance in the mirror, she instinctively reaches up to adjust her blouse, ensuring every detail is in place. It's a small act, a final touch to her appearance before she’s ready to leave.
✦ ✦ ✦ ✦
Carson stands outside the restaurant, waiting to enter. It’s a restaurant she’s entered dozens of times before, but this time is different. She begins to regret having organised the meeting to take place here. What if it goes horribly wrong? Then she might have to find a new restaurant to visit on her lunch break. Her hands are clammy, her mouth is dry. She can’t believe she’s agreed to this - but it’s too late to turn back now.
Carson steps into the building, her eyes scanning the room until they settle on Greta, who sits alone in a private booth. A wave of relief washes over her as she notices the relative calm of the restaurant, grateful for the lack of bustling crowds that could potentially add to her nervousness. Gathering her courage, she approaches the table, introducing herself with a warm smile before taking a seat opposite the intriguing redhead.
"Hi - it's nice to meet you," Carson's voice carries a blend of anticipation and curiosity. She struggles to make eye contact - she forces herself to, but she’s sure Greta can sense her nervous energy.
Greta's lips curl into a mischievous grin, her raised eyebrows conveying a playful sense of admiration. "Ooh, well aren't you a little cutie," she remarks, her gaze lingering on Carson.
Carson sees the menu laid out in front of Greta. A flicker of concern crosses Carson's face as she inquires, "Sorry, am I late?" Her gaze briefly glances at her phone, confirming that she's actually five minutes early for their rendezvous.
Greta's laughter dances through the air as she leans back, exuding an air of confidence. "Oh no. I like to be early. It gives me the chance to observe briefly before you even realize I'm watching. It's fascinating, really," she muses, her elbows resting on the table as she intertwines her fingers, using them to support her chin. “I’m a big people watcher.”
Carson's smile wavers slightly, her nerves betraying her composure. "Oh, okay. Sorry," she stammers, trying to regain her confidence.
Greta leans forward, her eyes fixed on Carson with a subtle intensity. "Did you think about the questions I asked you to prepare?" she inquires, her voice laced with a hint of anticipation.
Carson nods, her gaze meeting Greta's. "Yes, I did," she affirms, her voice steadier now.
"Good," Greta replies, a hint of approval colouring her tone. "So, Carson, tell me a little bit about yourself."
Carson takes a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before she begins to share fragments of her life. "Oh, uh, right. Well... I'm thirty-eight years old," she starts. She desperately tries to push past the anxiety that often makes it hard to speak. "I've lived here for two months now. I recently landed a job as a curator at a museum, and I like it because it’s quiet." Pausing for a moment, Carson finds it impossible to look at the woman in front of her, eyes focused on the menu from across the table. "I'm... recently divorced. I was married for nineteen years. We were together for twenty-three, so... more than half of my life thus far. It was my decision, not really a mutual thing." The nerves cause her words to tumble out hastily. “What about you?”
Greta nods approvingly at Carson's response, acknowledging her effort to open up. With a subtle gesture, she catches the attention of the waiter. "I'll have a martini, please. And you?" she requests, her voice composed and confident.
Carson's eyes briefly scan the menu, but her mind draws a blank, overwhelmed by the swirling thoughts and emotions of the evening. "Oh, uh, I'll have one of those too, please," she replies, her voice tinged with a touch of self-consciousness. The waiter acknowledges their order before departing to fulfil it, leaving Carson and Greta alone once again.
Leaning back in her chair, Greta takes a moment to reflect on her own story. "I'm forty-two. I've lived just about everywhere in this country, but New York is comfortable for now. I've been in this line of work for... twenty years. Jesus Christ, it makes me feel old when I say it," she chuckles, the sound rich and captivating. "I was essentially an apprentice for a dominatrix for three years before I moved on to start my own business. Never been married."
The waiter returns with their drinks, and Carson waits for Greta to take a sip before she tries her own. Truthfully, she’s never been the kind of person who enjoys a drink, but if a social situation calls for it she takes what her friends are having. She wonders if it’s obvious to Greta due to the way she winces ever so slightly when she takes her first sip.
Greta leans forward, her gaze steady. "So, the most important thing about today is that we get to know each other's boundaries," she begins, her voice calm yet assertive. "Most people in my position do things a little differently from one another. Some will engage in sex - I won't. I don't even kiss on the mouth. If you're wanting to climax during a session, you have to do that yourself, and only at the end when I say you can. If that doesn't suit your needs, I can make a referral to someone else."
Carson's heart skips a beat, her throat tightening with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. She swallows hard, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, and musters the courage to respond. "Oh..." she stammers, her voice tinged with a hint of embarrassment. "I don't think that will be an issue. I don't really know what I'm doing."
Greta's piercing gaze remains fixed on Carson, curiosity evident in her eyes. Sensing Carson's unease, she presses on, determined to understand her client better. "What was sex with your husband like?" She asks, her tone direct yet non-judgmental.
Caught off guard by the question, Carson's grip tightens around her martini glass. She takes a moment to collect herself before responding, her voice tinged with surprise. "Excuse me?" she sputters, her eyes widening in disbelief.
Unfazed by Carson's reaction, Greta repeats her question. "What was the sex with your husband like?" she asks again, her words hanging in the air. "How frequent? What positions? How often would you say you came?"
Carson's mind races, grappling with the sudden shift in the conversation. She wants to object, that’s none of your business. But she knows doing so would be detrimental to the consultation. She keeps her voice hushed, “Well… sex was never really a big deal to me. I didn’t hate it. Because I knew him and trusted him. But it wasn’t… good. And it was always the same. Just… him on top of me, doing what he needed to do. The only time I finished was because I’d do it myself. But most of the time I couldn’t really be bothered.”
Greta leans back in her chair as she takes a sip of her drink. "I see," she responds, her tone contemplative. "And masturbation? Do you do that often?"
Carson's cheeks flush with embarrassment, and she averts her gaze for a moment before responding. "Often? Not... never. But not often," she admits, her voice slightly faltering.
Undeterred by Carson's discomfort, Greta continues to push her to reveal the intimate details, her curiosity unyielding. "Do you get off on penetration, or are you more of a clitoral stimulation kind of person?"
Carson can feel the heat intensifying in her cheeks, her face practically radiating with embarrassment. The questions, while logical and necessary, catch her off guard, causing her to squirm in her seat. "Sorry," she stammers, "These questions are... a lot. Like… a lot. "
A reassuring smile graces Greta's lips, her tone turning to one more comforting as she responds. "Good. If they make you a little uncomfortable, it's helping to get you out of your shell. That's important," her voice carrying a warmth that eases Carson's worries. “The more I know about you the better. There’s no shame in sex work, but I do consider what I do more of a… therapeutic service than one that’s purely sexual. This helps me, help you.”
Carson answers, her voice barely above a whisper, "I guess I'm more of a clitoral stimulation kind of person."
"Do you know anything about dominance and submission?" Greta asks, her gaze fixed on Carson.
Carson takes a moment to gather her thoughts before responding. Truthfully, all she’d heard of it was from TV and movies, and it didn’t take much to know that neither of those things were very reliable sources of information. "Probably the bare minimum," she admits, feeling apprehensive.
Greta leans in. "And does it interest you?" she probes, her voice laced with anticipation.
Carson hesitates, her mind racing. She gazes into Greta's dark eyes and swallows hard. She’s realising now that Greta is even more beautiful in person - those pictures certainly didn’t do her justice. She wants to let her curiosity win. "I'm not sure... but you sound like you have a lot of experience. And... since we're not having sex , if I were to try anything, I don't see why I shouldn't try it with you," she confesses, her voice growing more confident as she speaks.
A playful smile dances on Greta's lips as she nods approvingly. "Good. That's the attitude I like," her words carrying a hint of mischief. "Now, as for your boundaries, given your limited experience, we can discuss them at the start of each session. That way, I can gradually build you up, taking it at a pace that feels comfortable for you. But if you do have any limits, please don't hesitate to tell me."
Carson's gaze shifts to her hands, a hint of self-consciousness colouring her words. "Do I have to be naked?" she asks. The first and last person to ever see her so physically bare was Charlie. She hardly considers herself a picture of perfection - definitely not compared to someone as beautiful as Greta. The thought of exposing herself in such a vulnerable way triggers a mix of anxiety and self-doubt.
"You can wear your underwear, but the more skin you have showing, the better. Especially for our first session. I want to work on sensory experiences first," she explains, her fingers delicately tracing a path along the back of Carson's hand, eliciting a pleasant tickling sensation. Carson feels goosebumps form on her arms - invisible beneath the sleeves of her blazer. "I believe I can help you open up, Carson, if you give me time," she adds.
“Do you like your job? Or do you do it because you have to?”
“I like my job. I like doing what I do. I like being in control. There’s a lot I love about it, and there’s a lot that isn’t so nice. But there’s something very satisfying about letting people live out their fantasies that they otherwise might be judged for. Everyone has fantasies. It just takes some people a while to find them, and that’s okay,” she hums, twirling a strand of her red hair around an index finger.
Carson knows that Greta is referring to her. Everyone has fantasies. Carson had never really thought about it and until their first session, she knows it’s all she’s going to think about. What are my fantasies? “How frequently are you available?”
“I’m almost full at the moment. If it weren’t for Jo I might not have been able to slip you in. But I happened to have a cancellation on Tuesday, if you’re free for your first session.”
Carson swallows the rest of her drink before continuing, as if the liquid may give her some sort of courage. One drink is simply not enough for the amount of courage she needs. “Okay. Tuesday it is. $300 per hour, right?”
“Normally, yes. But after our little talk today, I’ll give you two hours for $400 - split across two sessions. I want you to really make sure you’re comfortable before you commit to something you might regret.” Greta retrieves her phone from her purse and she begins to swipe - scrolling through something that Carson cannot see. “Now, Carson," Greta begins, her tone carrying a touch of formality, "let's talk about the contract. It's an essential part of our professional relationship, ensuring mutual understanding and consent."
Carson's heart flutters with a mix of nervousness and anticipation. The idea of a contract feels both thrilling and unfamiliar to her. She attempts to steady her nerves with a deep breath before responding. "I... I understand. What does the contract entail?"
Carson’s phone pings, receiving an attachment from the dominatrix. "That contract outlines the parameters of our sessions, including boundaries, limits, and expectations. It ensures that we're both on the same page and have a clear understanding of what we're comfortable with. A more legally binding version of our conversation today."
Carson downloads the file, and eyes scan the pages, her curiosity piqued. "And I can opt-out at any time? I’m not like… indebted to you forever once I sign this?”
Even despite the seriousness of the conversation, Greta can’t help but laugh. "Absolutely, Carson. Your safety, well-being, and consent are of utmost importance to me. This contract serves as a foundation for that. Though if I’m honest, I can’t say I’d be against having you indebted to me forever," she gives Carson a playful nudge with her foot underneath the table.
Carson takes a deep breath and nods. "Okay. I’ll sign it."
Greta smiles warmly, a sense of pride evident in her eyes. "Make sure you read it first."
“Oh - yeah, of course,” Carson laughs at herself, and she catches Greta giving her a look that makes her heart flutter in a way that it hasn’t in a very long time. “Do you want to order food?”
“Hmm… I don’t know. Are you on the menu?”