Page 18 of The Cartographer

“So what do you do as a life coach?”

“Why? You think you might want to coach for a living?”

“No. Just curious.”

“Fair.” It’s challenging sometimes to figure out how to phrase these things. Tell the truth, but not make it sound insane. It’s my life and I’m not ashamed of it, not by a long shot, but I understand not everyone will be accepting of it. “Well, my first task is helping people figure out what they want. Some of them come to me with specific goals—”I want to learn how to use a singletail. I want to try pet play.“—some of them less so.”I’ve been fantasizing about being in a twenty-four/seven TPE relationship, but I’m not sure it’s right for me. I might be kinky, but I’m not sure.“Then we make a plan for them to get it.”

“Simple as that, huh?” Allie studies his fingers, which are woven together in his lap.

“Simple and as impossible as that. Sometimes people have a lot of underlying issues we have to deal with first before we can work on what they actually say they showed up for.” Honestly, more than half my job is comparable to being a therapist. Not that I mind—people’s psychology fascinates me—but you’d think a kink trainer’s life would look more glamorous. More orgasms and less talking about people’s day-to-day frustrations. Not true. And there’s way more paperwork than I’d expected.

Of course, when I’d started with a client here and there in between my classes at Princeton, there wasn’t so much, but now I’ve built my little empire, it requires more documentation. The IRS fucking loves paperwork, and auditing me has become a hobby of theirs.

“Occasionally I get to play matchmaker.” Though I don’t call it that naturally.Brokering an arrangement between mutually amenable parties. If I’ve done a passable job, it ends in some playdates, perhaps a new consistent partner. Sometimes I’m off the mark and they don’t mesh at all—though not often. And sometimes, when I get very lucky, it ends in a collar or a ring. Those are the ones I cherish, to the extent I keep a file of wedding and collaring invitations in a desk drawer. Hopeless, but I’ll take my pleasure where I can.

“You like that part, huh?”

“What’s not to like? You get to make two people happy at one time. It’s efficient.”

Allie rolls his eyes and then flashes a knowing grin. “Please. Like it’s the efficiency that appeals to you.”

I shrug. “Not entirely. I like to see people happy, that’s all. To the extent I’ve made it my life’s work.”

“What about you? Are you happy?”

The question catches me off-guard. I don’t remember the last time someone asked me that. Even my mother doesn’t. Add someone else to the call list. I’m falling apart right and left here.

“My job is gratifying and, as you pointed out, lucrative. I enjoy it. I’m in good health, and I have wonderful friends—”who I don’t get to see often enough“—and I have pretty much everything a person could ask for.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Observant asshole. Although that bodes well for me. Usually paying attention is something I’ve got to train into subs.

“It’s hard to say. I haven’t thought about it for a long time. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”

“What are you, looking for that someone special to make your life complete?”

His goo-goo eyes and kissy face make me laugh. It’s fun to see Hart loosen up. I’d like him that relaxed around me all the time. “Not looking. That’s not something I’ve ever expected.”

Not something I’ve ever permitted myself to want. I’ve got more important things to do. Obligations I need to fulfill.Helping people is the best and most important thing you can do.That kind of commitment requires sacrifice.

“More of a sailor-in-every-port type?”

“That’s a clever twist, Hart, but no. I just don’t date much.”

“But you do get blown in alleys?”

“All the time.”

It takes him a few seconds, but then he cracks up and I let myself smile.

“What about, uh, returning of the favor you promised me?”

“Happy to deliver on that sometime when you’re not three sheets to the wind. Call me when you’re sober and I’ll be at your disposal.”

An image of Hart—stretched out on a bed, hands gripping the headboard because I’d start him off easy, teasing him, torturing him, getting him so worked up he’d be begging me to come, and then the look of gratitude and adoration when I finally let him—slams into my brain at speed and nearly gives me whiplash.

“Why?”

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