Page 2 of Eden's Deliverance

“What about the other gems?” I ask, hopeful that I’ll find something better suited for me.

Penelope continues, “Topaz is for delayed orgasm, or in other words, edging. Amethyst is for impact play, which is spanking, whipping, blah blah. There’sSapphire for breath play—that’s me. Emerald is for heavier BDSM themes like hardcore bondage, degradation, and things like that. Real ‘dom daddy’ stuff. Pearl is as close to vanilla as you’ll get, but you’re allowed to participate in light BDSM if both partners agree. No matter what gem you are, everyone has to agree on a safe word before they’re allowed to play with their partner. If you’re ever uncomfortable, just say your safeword and they’ll check in with you.”

I try to disguise my hesitation, but she picks up on it and speaks again before I can respond. “Let’s sign you up for Pearl. It’s your first time, so maybe you should only dip your foot in. Let me just…click here, here…and done!” She selects the appropriate gem, then uploads my negative-STI results.

Just like that, it feels like my life’s been signed away with the press of a button. I’m nervous. Like, so fucking nervous that my hands are shaking and I’m sweating in places I didn’t know a person could. I know I should be excited to try something new. And I was…until it became final.

Now, I can’t think of anything more terrifying.

The idea of having sex with a masked stranger isn’t the scary part. If anything, that’s probably a kink of its own I’d totally be into. What’s agonizing to me is the vulnerability. I’ll probably be the least experienced person there, and I can’t stand the possibility of looking like a fool.

It’s taken so many years of my life to build up a healthy confidence in my body, my persona, and my art. I couldn’t handle that assuredness crumbling because it turns out I’m just as boring when it comes to sex as I’ve considered my previous partners.

I’m tired of settling for the mundane.

Taking this step will either embarrass the shit out of me, or it’ll be the best thing I’ve ever done for myself. Either way, what’s done is done. I can only move forward from here and hope for the best.

It’s painful to do because of the knot in my stomach threatening to expel my lunch, but I offer Penelope a half-baked smile of appreciation. “Thanks, Pen. I obviously couldn’t have done this without you.”

She slaps her palms onto either side of my face, pulling me closer until our noses touch. “Scar, if friends can’t help each other get a good dicking down, what are they for?” She plants a wet kiss on my forehead before letting me go to complete her own application.

Ding.

My phone lights up with a notification, and for a second, another rush of anxiety sparks at the idea of facing such an immediate response. Hearing back so quickly after any kind of application is almost always a bad sign and a sure rejection.

Fortunately, it’s only a text from my dad asking if I’ll come to dinner tomorrow night, and I’m quick to reply with a big fat yes. I’ve been juggling so much shit this summer, it’s been nearly impossible to plan so much as a phone call with him.

Between attending my college courses during the day and squeezing homework sessions in where I can—not to mention finally landing a tattoo apprenticeship at a place that understands my hectic schedule and is willing to teach me on nights and weekends—I’m lucky just to have time to breathe.

Penelope and I are in our third year at Pennbriar University where I’m studying for my Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. It’s not a requirement for me to become a tattoo artist, but my degree’s concentration in illustration should be extremely useful when it comes to designing tattoos.

The issue lies in the fact that I’m doing everything I can to graduate as soon as possible, and staying an extra year isn’t an option—even if it means lightening my schedule up. I’d rather be a busybody than a super senior like my stepmother’s son.

I roll onto my back and lay beside Penelope on the bed, wondering how the hell I’m going to fit sexual depravity into my jam-packed life. “Hey, when am I supposed to hear back from Eden, anyway?”

She spares me a glance, taking a moment to ponder her answer before turning back to the laptop. “I forget when I got my first acceptance letter, but my weeklyconfirmations usually come through on Sunday nights. Then, they mail out masks early in the week, so we have plenty of time to prep for the following weekend.” Looking back at me with a soft smile, she says, “Tomorrow, hopefully.”

The hour-long drive to Dad’s house is full of pitch-black roads that wind through blankets of surrounding forest—not unlike the darkness swirling through my head as I make the trek.

It looks like a scene straight from a horror movie.

Despite checking my email every five minutes since waking up, I haven’t been able to manifest my acceptance letter into existence. Surely it can’t be that I’m not kinky enough, else they wouldn’t allow any Pearls, right?

Right.

That’s what I tell myself as I pull off the main road and down the long, shrouded driveway of my dad’s place, shaking with anticipation.

I’m jamming out to “Teeth” by 5 Seconds to Summer when I see a red car parked in my usual spot, causing my heart to instantly plunge. Dad conveniently omitted the fact that his wife’s son would be joining us for dinner.

I really hate that fucker. The man is Satan incarnate.

Dad met his mom, Gretchen, two years ago when helping Penelope and me move into campus dorms for our first year. At the time, her son was starting his third year.

As the story goes, my dad grabbed some breakfast at Café Noir—the only acceptable coffee joint in Pennbriar—where he met a woman who was visiting her son before the semester started. They spent the next few hours bonding over the joys of parenthood, and the rest is history.

When they got married this past fall, she moved into our family home and assumed her motherly role with an annoyingly positive disposition. I get along with her well enough, but her son is a different story.

Thankfully, she didn’t bring the dirtbag when she moved in; he shares an apartment near campus with his friends, like Pen and I do now.

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