I Will by Noah Jackson


Kittridge Burry stared at the text. He’d been searching for a suitable Dominatrix on dating apps for months. But this text found him. More an advertisement. A solicitation. 

The last line stopped him.


It was from a man. A man willing to do exactly what Kitt wanted. Only Kitt wasn’t gay. He wasn’t “bi-curious.” Not homophobic. Men just weren’t a turn-on. He didn’t want to touch one.


Maybe it didn’t matter. He didn’t want to touch. He wanted to be touched. A woman would use a dildo, anyway. So could this guy if Kitt wanted.

Kitt shifted in his office chair. Spread his knees to give himself more room. 

Or maybe not a dildo. Maybe not. A real dick would be hot and pulse. Be excited. He’d have to really want Kitt to be able to come, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he have to like it and… 

… and Kitt could end up dead under an overpass at the hands of serial-killer he’d picked up with his phone.

Or get everything he’d ever fantasized about. 

Just once.

It was only a text. He tapped a message.

tell me more

The response was immediate. 



The man who gave no name made Kitt tell him everything. Every morning before work on the disposable cell he’d been instructed to buy. Sitting in his car in a store parking lot. 

The first morning his hands shook finding the small buttons on the cheap phone. 

i’m here 


Shit. Right off the bat. Kitt licked his lips and took a look around. No one in sight. The cell was untraceable. He’d come this far.







Kittridge Burry was a 42-year-old inventory-control manager for a major online retailer. He carried a briefcase. His wife sold Amway and he was sitting in his car at six in the morning, throat tight with shame just thinking about the look on her face. Now he was telling a stranger.

disgust – she said only queers like that


16 yrs


Kitt turned the phone face down. He couldn’t look at it, written out. A kid hurried across the lot, cutting through. Kitt’s face burned. Fuck. He couldn’t. But his stomach was hollow and there was a prickling in his balls. He lifted the phone.


The texts went on, asking exactly what he wanted, how, in what position? Just about his nipples. Tongue, fingers, object? Clothing? Restrained? Face up or down? One side then the other? Both at once? Sucking? With teeth? Pain? How much? Gag? Speaking? What words? And finally:





There were a lot of tomorrows. Questions and answers. About his cock, his nuts, his ass, his mouth. Specific, embarrassing, exciting questions. He always answered. He always ended up hard. Until.

i’m here


A thrill ran up his spine. He wondered if he’d faint. Kitt dropped his head on the steering wheel. Breathed. He wanted it. More than ever in his life. Every minute. Weeks of texting, describing, thinking about it. The details, exactly what he wanted. Possible. Real.

He’d never been like this. Heavy and sensitive all the time. Imagining it. Jacking himself raw in the shower. He should smash the cell. But he knew he wouldn’t.

it can’t be my fault


He did.


On the day, Kitt left his car in a parking garage blocks from his office. His regular cell, wallet and briefcase, he locked in the trunk and walked to work.

Somehow, Kitt managed to do his job through his morning. Scanned spreadsheets. Sent emails. Answered questions. Until noon. He’d arranged to take the afternoon off. He tidied his desk. Put on his coat.

In the elevator crowded with lunch goers, so normal, his intention seemed beyond bizarre. People didn’t do this. He wondered if he was having a kind of breakdown. 

He exited the building into the overcast October afternoon. He could just go to a movie. He walked along the gray sidewalk next to concrete buildings under a blanket of damp. The world felt unreal. His fingers closed around the throwaway cell in his pocket.


That would be real. Alive. He’d be used. He’d arouse someone. He’d be exciting to them. 

yes. and i want to hear you come

Snugging the required red scarf up around his neck against a fine drizzle, he checked his back left pocket again. Ten hundred-dollar bills in a plastic baggie. As ordered. He had the cell in his left coat pocket. Lube and large size condoms in his right.

Kitt wasn’t large. He turned up the specified alley wondering just how large, large would be. 

Too large?

The throaty hum of a vehicle engine behind him. He kept his head down, heart pounding. Eyes closed. Rattle of a door sliding open, feet thudded on concrete. A hood jammed down over his head … tossed inside on a mattress … handcuffs snapped on. In seconds. 

Door slam. What must be a van accelerated out of the alley.

Tossed. Like a ragdoll. Helpless

He shifted against his erection.


I PULLED INTO A LOADING SPACE a few alleys away I knew was camera-free. In neutral, brake set, I used the seat backs to vault to the rear and secure the client across his shoulders and thighs with  wide straps I’d set at floor level. They don’t make seat belts for kidnapping. 

Six-inch wide padded leather restraints replaced the steel cop cuffs. The agreement was no marks easily visible to his wife or boss. Which didn’t include his ass. His wife hadn’t looked at his ass in a decade. 

I searched him for a wire I was sure I wouldn’t find. The cell and cash went into a concealed space in the ceiling. I left the lube and condoms alone, but pocketed the receipt I made him bring. I checked it; it was from that morning. It was protection against any claim of coercion to the police.

I took a ball gag from my pocket and rubbed hard plastic against the cotton fabric of the bag over his head against the guy’s lips. 

He opened and whimpered. Yeah, he was havin’ fun. The ball went in with a twist and shove, the straps pulled tight over the dirty sack. I always used a dirty sack for the taste and smell. Humiliation was an artform.

The three minutes allotted for the stop were almost up. But I could hear the guy panting, labored around the cloth stuffed in his mouth by the hard ball. My palm in front of his mouth felt warm air moving easily through the fabric. A check of his carotid told me his heartbeat was fast but strong, his skin hot. 

I thrust a hand underneath and found a hard dick, confirming arousal, not distress. His body lay relaxed along my forearm, except for a slight hip flex against my hand. Good. Excitement and probably some fear, but not panic. 

Back up front, seat belt in place, I drove carefully out of the alley.

The guy looked good. A little soft, but healthy. Well-off. Might become a regular. They all said “just once.” Just once they wanted to get what they really wanted. It was all fine with me at a grand a pop. Now this guy, he’ll get all of it—everything I made him tell me. 

After, I’ll drop him off and he’ll tell himself never again and a week later, maybe two, he’ll buy a new phone. And beg for another scene.

And he can afford me.


Kitt found himself in an armless chair. A recliner? There was padding. He half-laid back, legs apart on some kind of extensions. Knees bound to them, wrapped by something wide. Athletic tape? It kept him from moving his legs.

The bag had been replaced by a blindfold, a kind of elastic hood that clutched his head. Not a sliver of light showed when he looked down.

His wrist manacles attached at the backs to a bar above his head. His arms were slightly bent and he could slide them back and forth. His hands flopped free. It was good. Better than he’d imagined.

Kitt knew a lot of what would happen. He knew at some point the man (who still didn’t have a name) would turn him face down. He knew because it was what he said he wanted. 

When that happened, if it happened here, his wrists would cross and come together. He wouldn’t be able to move much, then. He hoped he didn’t come too fast.

He’d been driven right into a building. Heard what sounded like a large metal door rattle home. Mechanically, not by hand. It was echoey. He’d pictured a big aluminum something. The air was warm, sharp with motor oil and a metallic tang that lay on the tongue.Warehouse? Industrial area?

The man had undressed him without a word. Removed the gag, replaced the bag with the hood. Kitt’s shoes and suit pants and coat had been left in the van. His socks and boxers and his white shirt left on. His tie loosened.

He was big, this man. Kitt felt the heat from his body. Like an athlete or weightlifter. He didn’t speak. He slung Kitt over his shoulder like a rolled rug and carried him through what felt like an open space into a room. Kitt could tell it was a room because it smelled different. The sound of feet on floor was different. There must be carpet.

Kitt occupied himself with these observations to keep his panic at bay. 

He wasn’t that scared at the beginning. But the further they’d gotten from the city, the less traffic he heard, the more isolated he knew the area must be, the more anxious he became.

And the man didn’t speak. 

Now he was locked down in a chair at the mercy of a stranger so strong he handled Kitt like a sex doll. 

Fingers on his head startled him. The blindfold hood was peeled back. Kitt opened his eyes to pitch darkness. Sudden light blinded him. It was a flashlight beam pointed at a paper held about eighteen inches from his face.






Kitt relaxed a little. In a situation a billion miles from normal, this was something familiar. Something he’d read about. Safewords. Responsibility. The man could have just started.

Kitt wanted to go on, but it felt like throwing himself blindly into space from a cliff. 

“I need something first.” No answer. “Contact.”

The man moved the flashlight to the hand that held the paper, gripping it by thumb and index finger so it pointed down, still lighting the text, still keeping everything else in darkness.

With his free hand, he slid Kitt’s wrists together on the bar. He covered both of Kitt’s hands with his. Palm to palms. Firm, not controlling. Kitt’s fingertips closed automatically around the edges of the man’s hand. 

He seemed in no hurry, willing to maintain the position as long as Kitt needed.

Kitt calmed. He imagined the big hand sliding across his shirt, fingernails flicking at his nipples through the fabric. He squirmed a little at the thought.

His fingers relaxed. “Okay. I mean, ‘begin’.”

The hand left him. The light went off. The hood came down again.


I TURNED THE LIGHTS UP AND STRIPPED OFF. The client was doing well. Too many didn’t ask for what they wanted. They just panicked or suffered. But this Burry had a good sense of what he needed.

He’d been looking for a Domme and been clear about being straight. I knew the less he saw and heard me, the easier it would be for him to imagine a woman or whoever he wanted touching him. 

In spite of that, when it came to anal, the client had become more and more sure he wanted meat instead of plastic. He wanted to feel the orgasm, he said. 

Only experience taught people that reality was almost always vastly different than their fantasy.

Unless they came to me. My job is to make reality conform to fantasy. But whatever Burry wanted, I almost never went bareback. And my eight inches and wide girth would be far too much for a first-timer. So a six inch cumming dildo waited in a glass of hot water on my service tray. 

The real feel skin of the dildo, well-lubed, would be indistinguishable to him from a flesh and blood cock. The dildo’s roomy faux cum reservoir sat on another warmer. The longer tube I’d attached allowed me to position it so I could tromp it with my knee when the time came. It gushed a powerful, long-lasting stream.

I put on a jock to keep my johnson from bumping against him during the scene. Modified with a ring to hold the dildo, it allowed me to work with both hands free. 

Burry waited, bound to a dental chair I picked up at an estate sale and adapted for my work. Being a maintenance specialist in the Army didn’t carry the gravitas of a Special Forces weapons expert, but it did make me a kick-ass, all-around, DIY guy. For most clients all I needed was the chair, a few supplies and information.

I grabbed his boxers at the waistband, yanking them up and to the side. It was a common kink, the boner twisted up in the shorts. The slightly strangled testicles. He gave a little moan. I secured a thick twist of waistband with a single loop flex cuff that opened with a key. 

Mr. Burry was about to become a very happy guy.

Kitt heard the movements. The man shedding clothes. Arranging items on a metal surface, a tray. The lube and condoms? A powerful yank, lift, twist, his hips left the chair and pulled at his bound legs. He heard himself moan. Something kept his boxers tight and high. The man released him. He fell back onto the chair, the seam of his shorts cut into his nutsac.

He wriggled. That made it worse. He barely had time to regret telling the man so many details when two hands pressed down on his shoulders. They slid down over his chest, around his sides and underneath him. Fingertips tucked into the seam of his ass left a fold of cotton between his cheeks so the cloth tightened over his balls even more.

Kitt reached automatically to adjust, his hand stopped short, bound to the bar. His legs held down, he could only shift his hips side-to-side. No help. His dick getting harder. He swore as he yanked in frustration at the restraints. 

The hands moved again, this time stopping at his pecs, kneading. Two thumbs in unison rubbed over his nipples.

“Ah, fuck!” Fabric clutched as his boner jerked and throbbed. Index fingers joined the thumbs, caught his hardened nubs and pinched.

“Ah, God, ah yeah, fuck, oh fuck yeah!” Kitt’s body bucked, a leg jammed itself up between his legs onto his body forcing him down. It rubbed hard against his cock all sideways and folded but gave him something to push against.

The clamps of fingers rubbed the rough fabric of his shirt against his nipples. Blood heat rushed to the lower parts of him.  As if he could see, he knew the fingers pulled and stretched him into hard peaks.

It was never like this for Kitt before, nothing he did to himself, no toy or invention made it feel anything like this when his nipples were clamped or rolled. Kitt’s nipples thrummed with the pain that wasn’t pain stabbing into his abdomen, shooting through his dick, something, his prostate, burning hard with every twist and tug, condensing, tightening, spreading.

It was all too fucking good. And he’s just getting started.

The thought was a vicious backhand to his psyche. He already could hardly stand it. He didn’t want to end it, but…

“Jesus, you’re hot.” 

The man spoke. His voice was soft, thick. Praising Kitt. The leg came off his body. The hands left him. One unbuttoned his shirt, carefully. The other drifted down and a finger insinuated itself up a leg opening and stroked around his balls, forcing the fabric to open. More fingers, weighing him, exploring each of his swollen nuts, pads of fingers underneath—pulling, tugging, freeing them, rolling them.

“So fucking hot.”

A noise he’d never heard before came from deep inside him and Kitt didn’t even notice when the sides of his shirt were pushed open exposing his torso, his chest. But when a hot tongue met a sore nipple and sucked hard he gasped so hard his breathing stopped. The other hand did something and his shorts loosened and were yanked down to the tops of his thighs.

A heavy forearm across his chest. Kitt almost shouted RED! knowing what was coming, what he’d asked for. He’d gotten himself off a hundred times to this fantasy. But now it would be real and too much. The man licked and sucked and scraped his teeth across one nipple while his fingers worked the other, and the hand on Kitt’s cock milked him firm and slow.

Then the man’s mouth switched sides.

Kitt went stiff, panting, nowhere to hide.

Not my fault. 

He sank into an ocean of overwhelming stimulation.


I CHECKED THE CLOCK. Each client got two hours unless they’d negotiated something special. Thirty minutes from pick up to arrival. Fifty minutes for the scene. Ten minutes in case they needed aftercare. Thirty minutes for pack up and drop off. 

I had another client scheduled from 5 to 7 and needed to reset the scene and do a couple errands. 

Burry was new, and new ones could go really short or far over, which is why I scheduled him at noon. I was already 30 minutes in and I still had to flip him and fuck him. He wasn’t really an anal virgin if he’d reported his plug use accurately, so prep time would be shorter but I had to take the time to give him what he’d paid for.

Only the guy seemed to have slipped halfway into subspace. I wasn’t expecting it, but I did know it could happen. I didn’t read Burry as a serious masochist. He didn’t want pain as much as some mild humiliation, control and denial. But he’d waited all his life for what he was getting and no way he thought it would be this powerful. 

The finale for Burry was getting fucked with his hands or arms bound and “made” to come during it. But he also wanted his ass slapped, first. Slapping instead of paddling or flogging or other things was common enough. But usually the client wanted to be slapped to a deep punishing red. They wanted bruising and finger marks. 

But Burry wanted to be slapped “like someone slaps your face.” A few times with contempt commentary. He’d written it out. He wasn’t bad for an office worker in his 40s. Bit soft, but there were golf-playing muscles under there. 

I figured I could extend the ass-slapping phase past what he imagined. It was something that would keep him coming back. It was a thing he’d want pushed, to see how far he could go. Like most of these guys, he didn’t know how much he could learn to love pain, but he wanted someone to teach him.

This took time, of course, advance—retreat—repeat. And now I had to get him back into reg space before I could unbind his legs, flip him and bind him into the 45 degree stirrups to get the quiver he wanted to feel. If I didn’t get his feet turned in correctly, he’d clench up at the first whack. No good. It would hurt more and he wouldn’t feel what he wanted. I’d be running 30 minutes over my already extended time and I didn’t have ice.

My mistake, I almost always had ice. Couple cubes on these nipples would bring this guy right up. I did have bottles of water to stave off dehydration. Neither were part of his scenario. But if I didn’t bring him up, he wouldn’t experience phase two the way he wanted. 

I straightened up and buttoned his shirt. Surgical scissors made short work of the self-adhesive medical wrap around his knees. The wrap was pricey but it had some give, didn’t slip, or leave marks.

I downed half a 2-liter bottle of water and poured most of the rest over his chest, and down over his genitals.

That get his attention.

“Jesus, watthfuck?

I picked up his head and put the bottle to his lips, pouring the last few ounces into his mouth. I grabbed the back of his neck and lifted him so he’d know where I was. And where he was.

“Phase two, Burry, and I can hardly wait.”

Oh God, he’s gonna do it. 

On his stomach, a firm something shoved under his abdomen to pop up his ass, Kitt pulled against his restraints. Wrists locked over one another when he was flipped, the fingers of one hand could just grasp the bar. 

His underwear was ripped down and off his feet. His knees were free, but he felt the man lock his feet into some kind of metal cage that turned his toes in. He could move more, squirm and wriggle and slightly lift, but he couldn’t move down away from the bar, or up with his feet locked down.

The man lowered the supports his legs lay on and Kitt discovered the metal cage was like a stirrup that held his weight. But now he was stretched and bent over, legs open, balls hanging free. His bared butt exposed, the man could do anything and Kitt couldn’t stop him.

The man was between his legs, hands on Kitt’s thighs, squeezing their way up. Two fingers, the backs of index fingers, Kitt was sure, drew up in the crease between his nuts and thighs.

“What’re these? Lumps of pizza dough?”

slap! slap!

A squeaky cry escaped Kitt. He tried to clench away from the sharp stings and found his muscles wouldn’t obey.

“Christ, they jiggle like water balloons.”

slap! slap! … slap! slap!

Kitt twisted as much as he could, but since he couldn’t move down, it made him lift.

“Looks like you want more.”

“No!” Kitt gasped. “No, please.” It was the response he’d planned. He just wasn’t sure it was the right response. The man was supposed to do it once more and quit. But it was like every stinging slap forced more blood into his pecker and left an aching trail of heat to right between his cheeks.

Instead of the last two slaps, Kitt felt the backs of the man’s  fingers again, moving lightly over his stinging buttocks, seeking, opening, pressing.

“That’s a sweet little rosebud, you have there.”

A shallow penetration of one finger brought the fire of humiliation to Kitt’s neck and face. He buried his face between his shoulders and upper arms, pressed into the leather of the thing he lay on. Kitt willed himself to stay still, to not signal his intense craving for more.

But he couldn’t repress the moan when the man fucked him with a slow, shallow rotation. And there was more. The other hand roamed over Kitt’s ass, over the places the man’s hand connected with flesh, teasing over skin that shuddered under his touch.

“Yeah, you’re hot, tight and wanting my big cock shoved up inside.” Another finger joined the first, opening Kitt wider. He yelped into the leather.. “And you’re gonna feel every inch.”

Kitt knew what was coming when the hand feeling him pulled back and couldn’t stop himself from writhing against his bonds, which drove the fingers further into him. On a strangled cry Kitt felt himself rushing to the edge, 

“It’s gonna happen, it’s gonna happen,” he gasped.

“Not until I say so,” the man told him, sounding amused. “I am so gonna enjoy fucking you but not until I get this white meat all pinked up.”

What? The fingers pulled out. It was only supposed to be four times. Eight slaps. “No. Don’t-”

He felt the man move around to his side, heard a slight metallic scrape as he picked something up nearby. 

“Don’t what?

There was a soft sound and quick something (snic) touched the side of Kitt’s right butt cheek. “Oh!” A warm tingling spread. 

“Don’t what?” 

snic … snic … snic … snic …

It kept on, whatever it was. Quick, light snaps of something touched his ass on one side and the other, on the curve, underneath, over the valley his spread legs had opened and— snic … snic … snic… snic —right over his hole, again and again.

Kitt’s thighs trembled, his legs rigid, shocks and fires flared in his stiff cock, tight scrotum and the incendiary device that was his prostate.

He writhed as the tingling warmth deepened and spread, heated and stung. Wanting this. Wanting more. 

A finger warm and slippery with lube thrust to the hilt inside him. Kitt’s head came up. “Ah – ah – ah – fuck – ah – ah -”

A middle finger, this time, the others spread over his vibrating with stimulation, buzzing with the burn, deliciously sore ass.

“Now we get to the good part.”


I GOT IN POSITION BETWEEN HIS LEGS, staying inside him, careful how my finger rotated so I didn’t set him off early. I’d read him right. He liked his introductory chastisement so much I could have gone for the double layer slapper. But my new favorite toy, the “flyswatter” with the perforated leather face and good, stiff crop handle, was better for a novice. And I only had to use more force on the same spots to bring up the color.

Stopping now would fuel his fantasies. Bring him back for more.

I exchanged my finger for a butt plug just long enough to get the dildo seated and slathered with warm lube. I slid the cum reservoir into the holder on the end of the table pedestal and got started before the dildo could cool. 

Cold, slimy dick is not a great turn-on. Except for the ones who wanted that.

I’d already adjusted the chair height when I put him in it so it was just a matter of slipping the plug out, slowly with some side-to-side action and a twist. When I dropped it on the tray I flipped my notes to the last page of his script. But as I spread him with one hand and used the other to stroke his rosebud with the head of the cock, I ad-libbed the opening in case he forgot his own line.

“Damn, what do we have here?” I eased the whole head in.

He squirmed so hard it almost popped out.

“What is that? That’s … No – don’t do that!”

“And pass up this sweet, virgin ass? Never happen.” I bent over him, one hand on the table to support my weight, the other steadying his hip while doing the push and pull with the dildo, getting it all into him. “Oh, God, yeah, jeez, that’s good. Feel it? Feel how much I like fucking your hole?”

The guy was a trooper. He was kind of enticing, too, with his splotchy pink mounds, moaning and panting and writhing like he wanted to get away, but trying to get more, faster than I’d feed it to him.

It was a good beginner dildo, not too wide at the nosecone head but a decent inch and a half at the base. He was prepped and well-stretched once it was firmly seated. I reached under. He was hard and straining, glans a hot drumhead.

I tilted him, hooked my fingers over one shoulder, spread my feet for a firm stance and pumped him both ways.


“Oh, oh, oh my fuck-”  Kit Burry choked on the curse. This. That feeling, huge, rubbing inside against his bundle – this – this is it – oh, oh shit I’m gonna come now.

But slickened fingers wrapped Kitt’s dick, big, strong, tight, clamped him down at the base.

He spasmed hard, but he couldn’t come, shit, he couldn’t … The man, hot and hard, ramming into him … loved fucking Kitt’s ass.

Everything in his head, all the words he wanted to hear and say were gone. There was just the huge thing that filled him, the stroke and pull he couldn’t stop. He wanted … the man wanted him. Pulled at him, grunted and panted.

“Can’t – hold – back -”

The hand on his cock pistoned him hard, fast, tight and the man shifted and spasmed so hard his knee hit the table with a harsh growl that became a strained cry. Hot cum flooded into him.

Kitt Burry shot his load. 



TANNER BOND POURED DARK ALE into the glass the bartender set down next to a bottle of Guinness. All in all a good day. The new guy went home happy. Tanner’s evening session had been with a regular who had a raped-at-the-kitchen-sink fantasy. She wanted her wrists bound by the strings of the apron she wore and to be fucked from behind with her face pushed into dirty dishwater. She was a bi-monthly regular.

Tanner’d had her sign a liability waiver and charged her double. He didn’t do a lot of housecalls or much outside his place.

The corrugated aluminum former body shop went for a song at a bank repo auction. It sat in the center of a huge weedy lot behind a newer 8-foot chain link fence with an electric gate. His place was one of the last reminders of a light industrial park killed when exit ramps were installed to get tourists to the new High Rivers Casino and Resort.

There was also a waterpark.

Tanner sat on a bar stool in that very casino sipping the one beer he allowed himself before he entered the poker room. He broke close to even every night, though no one else was keeping track. He claimed whatever he took off the table as winnings for the IRS. 

Tanner Bond laundered his own money.

A slender blond at a nearby table had been eyeing him for a while in the bar mirror. Maybe 30, definitely a tourist. Tanner was 6’4” and still military fit. He was used to sexual scrutiny.

The speaker system announced his seat was open.

Taking the glass with him, he stopped next to the blond’s table, downed the rest of the ale in one and put the glass down. With two hands flat on the table, he leaned over. The blond’s tongue swept over full lips.

“I’m going to play poker for a few hours and then I’ll be stiff from sitting and want a massage by someone who can take an 8-inch cock for a nice slow ride,” he told her. 

The blond swallowed hard. “I don’t know you.”

“You don’t have to.” 

He walked away to find his table. 

NOAH JACKSON, who sent me this when I asked for a picture (and I’m pretty sure doesn’t have a dog) asked me to work with him developing this series of shorts about a male prostitute. A “call guy.” He asked me ‘cause we got to talking and he liked the way On His Knees was set up with the POV switches. Noah

I never worked on it textually enough to be considered a co-author and he kind of went off the project on the 2nd one, which had a female customer. Mostly, and this seems to be a theme with the men I know who have talent, he didn’t have confidence in the idea or his work. 

But I like it. So I got permission to make it a free read here. I hope you like it, I had a bitch of a time re-formatting it, so if that’s irritating, it’s all on me.



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