Wine, Slut, and Surrender
(Note for readers: Pierre wasn’t actually the second person I met after Daddy — there were a few casual, forgettable hookups in between. Nothing special, nothing worth writing about. Pierre was just the first one that felt meaningful again, the first one that unlocked something new.) Pierre’s flat was small but warm — soft lamplight, a faint scent of coffee and old books, a single window overlooking quiet rooftops. The moment the door clicked shut behind us, he didn’t rush. Instead, he walked to the tiny kitchen counter, pulled out a bottle of French red wine, and poured two generous glasses. “Here,” he said with that gentle, broken-English smile. “Just a little. To relax.” I took a sip. It was rich, velvety, slightly tart — nothing like the cheap stuff I’d tried before. The warmth spread quickly through my chest. He set his glass down, stepped closer, and held out his hand. “Dance with me?” I laughed nervously. “I don’t know how to dance…” “No problem. Just follow.” He pulled me ...