My Masters

As a rule of thumb, I don’t date white men.

I know how that sounds. If I said it out loud in mixed company, heads would tilt, mouths would tighten, like I’d just admitted to something ugly and unsayable. It lands wrong, even to my own ears. If a white person said it about Black people, it wouldn’t just be awkward—it would be a whole discourse. Think pieces. Group chats lighting up. That quiet, loaded silence where everyone pretends not to judge while doing exactly that.

So yes. I hear the hypocrisy. I feel it sitting in my chest.

But it doesn’t change the truth.

It isn’t really about race—it’s about the unknown. About not knowing the rules. With white men, I don’t know the tells, the red flags that masquerade as charm, the subtle manipulations that only reveal themselves once it’s already too late. I don’t know the games they play because I’ve never been close enough to learn the pattern.

With Black men, I know the terrain. I know the rhythms—how affection tangles with ego, how pride sharpens love at the edges. I know when to lean in and when to brace myself. I know how to protect myself.

With white men, I’m walking blindfolded.

And when I say protect myself, I don’t mean from danger in the dramatic sense. I mean from bullshit—the quiet, insidious kind. The kind that makes you question your instincts after the fact.

The kind that is, apparently, about to unfold right in front of me.

“You’re… giving me to him,” I say. My voice comes out flat, stripped of inflection by disbelief.

Clark’s eyes harden. There it is—that expectation. He waits for me to look down. To fold. To soften around his decision. Normally, I would. Normally, I’d do anything to please him—not because I’m weak, but because trust, in our dynamic, looks like surrender.

But right now?

Right now, I want to bite him. Hard enough to draw blood. Hard enough to leave a mark he can’t explain away or forget.

Why the hell would he do this?

“Yes, Kalia,” he says, his voice clipped, cold. Final. “I’m giving you to him. I’m not able to give you what you need, and I think Alexander would be better equipped to see to your needs.”

The words hit like a slap—not the negotiated kind, not the kind that carries intention and care beneath it.

This is something else.

Something ugly.

I open my mouth—not even sure what I’m about to say—when Clark’s hand shoots out and fists into my braids, yanking my head back so hard my vision blurs. Pain detonates across my scalp, hot and sharp and humiliating all at once.

“I suggest you keep that comment to yourself, Kalia,” he growls.

Let me pause here and make something very clear.

Being submissive does not mean being a pushover. It does not mean lacking a spine, or a voice, or the ability to choose. For me, submission has always been intentional. It’s trust. It’s deciding—consciously—to let someone lead because I believe they care for me. Because I believe my wellbeing sits at the center of every decision they make.

Which I am now realizing…

Clark does not.

People move around us, barely sparing a glance. I can’t blame them. This house is full of scenes—negotiated ones. Consensual ones. Someone is being flogged on a sofa in the next room, the steady rhythm of leather meeting skin echoing faintly through the space. Near the bar, a couple stands close, deep in conversation, their body language relaxed, intimate.

All of this is normal here.

What’s happening to me is not.

Clark’s broad frame blocks half my view—which feels fitting, considering how much he’s been blocking lately. Blocking my pleasure. Blocking my rest. Blocking my voice.

Blocking my damn autonomy.

I glare up at him, even though the angle sends another spike of pain through my scalp.

“If you didn’t want me anymore,” I say, my voice low, trembling with fury, “you could have said that. Before trying to pass me off to someone I don’t know, like we’re back in the—”

His grip tightens. Hard.

Tears sting behind my eyes.

And then something in me goes still.

It isn’t the soft, floaty numbness I sometimes slip into when I’m overwhelmed. This is different. This is sharp. Brittle. The kind that settles in when I’m past anger—past pleading—past hope.

When my brain simply says, Nope. We’re done.

A switch flips. A door slams shut. I detach.

“You brought me here,” I say. My voice sounds distant even to my own ears. Flat. “To give me to someone else.”

Clark sighs, looking down at me like I’m a problem he’s tired of fixing. “You know why, Kalia,” he says. “You need something I can’t give you. Something I’m not able to handle.”

That doesn’t mean you get to give me away, I think, the words burning behind my teeth.

I don’t say them. Not because I’m afraid—but because I’m exhausted. Too tired to waste breath on someone who’s already decided I’m inconvenient.

Clark finally releases my hair. My scalp throbs in time with my heartbeat. Then he takes my hand—gentle now, as if that somehow balances the scales—and guides me toward a sofa tucked against the wall.

The room is dim, washed in warm amber light from wall sconces that cast long shadows across the floor. People drift past us, absorbed in their own scenes, their own negotiations, their own carefully contained worlds.

He sits me down like I’m fragile.

Like I might break.

Like he doesn’t want to deal with the pieces.

I stare straight ahead, my jaw locked.

And then I feel it.

That subtle shift in the air. The change in energy that tells me someone is approaching before I ever see them.

He moves with a slow, deliberate stride, as if he owns every inch of space he steps into. Not swaggering. Not loud. Just controlled. Grounded. The kind of presence that doesn’t announce itself because it doesn’t have to—the room adjusts around him instead.

He’s tall—almost unfairly so—with dark brown eyes that look carved from something ancient and unyielding. His beard frames sharp, angular features that make him both striking and intimidating. The kind of face that could be kind, if he chose to be.

I try not to react, but my throat tightens anyway. A small, involuntary sound threatens to escape, and I swallow it down hard.

I’ve seen him before.

At Clark’s house.

In Clark’s space.

Clark has even let him play with me before—carefully, deliberately. Structured. Negotiated. Safe.

But right now, I can’t remember his name.

It sits just out of reach, taunting me, and the fact that I can’t grasp it irritates me more than it should.

Clark stands as the man stops in front of us.

“Alexander,” Clark says, offering a nod.

Alexander.

Of course.

Alexander’s eyes flick to Clark, then to me, then back to Clark. He doesn’t smile or soften; he simply acknowledges Clark with a curt incline of his head.

“Clark,” Alexander says, his voice deep and threaded with a thick Russian accent—utterly unmistakable, the kind that gives every word extra weight, extra deliberation.

Clark clears his throat. “Thanks for coming.”

Alexander raises an eyebrow. “You sounded… frustrated.” His gaze slides to me again, assessing without being invasive. “I assumed it was serious.”

Clark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is. I’m not the right person for her anymore.”

Alexander’s expression doesn’t change, but the air tightens all the same.

“I told you,” Alexander says evenly, “training was not your thing.”

Clark winces and nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Alexander looks at me again—not unkindly, but with an attention that makes my skin prickle. There’s no ownership in it, no hunger, just awareness, as though he’s quietly taking stock of my posture, my silence, the tension I haven’t bothered to hide. As though he’s trying to understand what state I’m in, what I might need, and how much damage has already been done.

I draw in a slow breath and keep my mouth shut. Not yet. Not until I understand what’s happening.

“I thought I could do it,” Clark mutters.

Alexander’s head turns sharply, and the look he gives Clark is cold enough to stop the blood. It isn’t loud or dramatic, just unmistakable—a look that says you should have known better.

Then Alexander glances at me once more, quick and precise, like a final assessment, before nodding toward the far corner of the room. Clark follows him, and the two of them move out of earshot.

I remain on the sofa, hands folded loosely in my lap, staring at nothing in particular.

I won’t pretend Clark and I were ever perfect. In the beginning, we were good—fun, curious, exploratory. He helped me uncover parts of myself I’d only ever wondered about, showed me what I liked and what I didn’t, what I wanted more of and what I never wanted again. But somewhere along the way, something shifted, subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.

Clark got tired of me slowly, like a light dimming. A little less patience here, a little less interest there, a little more irritation when I didn’t respond the way he wanted, and more distance whenever I tried to talk about it. No matter how hard I tried to please him, nothing ever seemed to be enough.

Then came the night he played with another submissive and made me watch, and something in me broke in a way that couldn’t be repaired.

After that, I became difficult—defiant, unmanageable, done. My obedience evaporated, my patience vanished, and my willingness to follow his lead shriveled into nothing. I couldn’t help it, and I couldn’t even pretend anymore. Every time he gave an order, my body refused to move, my mind shut down, and my mouth betrayed me with words I hadn’t planned to say.

That’s how bad it got.

Now I watch the two men talking—about me, obviously—and I try not to feel hurt. I shouldn’t feel hurt; I don’t even like Clark anymore. The place where I once kept affection for him is empty now, reduced to something like ash.

Except that isn’t entirely true, and I know it.

He does realize what he did. He knows exactly how he hurt me, and he doesn’t care.

That’s what stings most—not the betrayal, not the handoff, not even the humiliation of being discussed like a problem to be solved. It’s the indifference. Clark is over there gesturing toward me like I’m a chore he’s relieved to be rid of, a responsibility he’s finally setting down, something he tried and discarded without much thought.

I swallow hard, my throat tight despite myself.

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t feel anything at all. And yet, watching him talk about me like an object while Alexander’s expression shifts from irritation to something heavier, I feel a small, sharp ache settle in my chest—not because I want Clark back, but because I deserved better than this ending. I deserved honesty and respect, a conversation instead of a transaction.