Jesus, Sarah. A random guy at a park, really? What the fuck . . . ? He could’ve been an axe murderer, or a homeless guy.

To be honest, when I decided to send Sarah a private message, a part of me was hoping that her post was a lie, that she just wanted to see what kind of replies she was going to get. I wanted her to stay pure.

But the way she was talking . . . There's no doubt about it. She's the real deal.

When I push her, she doesn't push back. Instead, she does the virtual equivalent of falling to her knees, apologizing, and asking me what else I wanted, all while calling me “Sir”.

My dick hasn't been this hard in a long time, mainly because there's a limited range of pussy in this small town.

The game was getting too predictable. Even after a long absence, if I wanted someone to come and suck my dick right now, all I have to do is pick one of the numbers on my phone. Easier than a frozen meal, and faster than a pizza delivery.

But it was still fast food. I haven’t really ever had my fill since I moved here from the city. After what happened, it doesn’t feel right for me to gain a woman’s trust, only to turn around and inflict pain on her body.

It’s not that I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t think this darkness within me will ever go away.

I just thought I could substitute variety for intensity, but even that's gotten old now.

I thought I was getting old. I’m not in my twenties anymore.

But my cock’s raging right now. All I can think about is Sarah calling me “Sir” with sweet submission in her big doe eyes.

Even her stupid hobo story was turning me on. Yes, I was angry. But also aroused.

It's a different kind of arousal than I’m used to—no, not because there’s anger in the mix; I’m used to that. There's anger and aggression, like I want to fuck her so hard I erase all trace of any other dick that's been in that pussy—that's the normal part.

What's strange, what's really choking me up, is this heavy stone in my chest.

I’m aching with the same pain she's suffering; we’re not only nursing the same wound, but also dealing with the same addiction.

Problem is, nothing can fill the hole left behind by grief.

After years of trying, I know the truth. All I can do is accept each new hole as death does its thing and somehow live a complete life despite all those holes crippling me.

Most people still hope for a quick fix, though. Some kind of a miracle cure to magically fill the hole left by a person. I see that hope in the faces of some of my customers—the ones who ask for memorial tattoos.

What they don’t know—what Sarah also doesn’t know—is that no amount of ink or sex can fix grief.

I should know. My body's covered in ink, yet I still hurt. I tried sex and drugs, too, and they didn’t work either.

I don't mind using my tattoo gun to unleash physical pain on my grieving customers. They usually like their memorial tattoos right after, but I’m sure in a few days they stop meaning anything. Neither ink nor pain can summon the dead.

I can do the same for Sarah, too. Give her temporary pain on the outside in order to bring her temporary relief on the inside.

But it's different with her.

I already know I can give her what she wants. But she's a junkie engaging in risky behavior to feed her addiction, and I won't enable her. Peter wouldn't have wanted me to.

* * *

Over the next few days, Sarah doesn’t even get online. I try to forget the whole thing, pretend it was just a dream.

Sarah must’ve been lying.

No way she really slept with a homeless guy.

She’s probably ghosting me right now. She’s not seriously going to let some random guy from the Internet fuck her the way she says she wants.

But one late afternoon, as the skies outside start to turn pink and purple, my phone beeps. I twist to see the screen flashing on my desk.

Fuck.

That must be Sarah.

I’ve turned off all other notifications so my phone doesn’t make a sound unless it’s her.

I put my tattoo gun aside. I don’t usually touch my phone while I’m working, but I can do an infinity sign tattoo with my eyes closed. Besides, the girl who requested the popular design looks like she wouldn’t mind staying here longer. She’s batting her eyelashes at me right now.

“Give me a minute.” I give her my usual customer-service smile as I grab my phone.

“Take all the time you need,” she says slowly in a raspy voice as she wiggles on my tattoo table. Is that supposed to be flirting?

Who cares? I’ve got more important things to deal with right now.

I check my messages, and sure enough, there’s a new one from Sarah.

There’s no text in the message; just a PDF attachment.

Blood rushes in my ears, blocking whatever story my customer is trying to tell me as I tap on the screen.

Holy shit.

It’s a clean bill of health from a doctor.

Sarah’s clean. As I huff a sigh of relief, muscles I didn’t know had been tense suddenly relax.

After hearing her story about bareback sex with a stranger, I’d been worried for her. If Sarah’s the kind of girl who’d go online or even to some park looking for anonymous sex, she’s taking on a lot of risks.

But this message also means she’s seriously looking for some strange. And she doesn’t want a regular one-night stand either. She wants to be dominated and used.

My cock stirs at the thought . . .

But no, she’s not for me.

One day, she’ll find a good guy, a normal guy, to settle down with. Maybe someone closer to her own age, someone who’ll take her places.

My job is just to keep an eye on her, make sure she’s doing okay, watch her from a distance.

This is clearly the time to intervene, though. What good is keeping watch over her if I don’t act when she’s in danger?

My heart skips a beat when I notice her coming online.

I watch, unblinking, as she types.

When her message shows up, a rush of feel-good chemicals enter my bloodstream, filling me with excitement. I feel like a little boy on Christmas morning.

RealLifeDoll: Does that please you, Sir?

Except there’s only one doll that I want in the entire toy store, and that’s the one I can’t have.

* * *

As soon as the girl with the new infinity tattoo leaves, I shut the door and turn off the neon-red “Open” sign.

I grab my phone and pace around the store, dodging the main counter, the wipeable faux-leather chairs, and the cabinet where I store shit. By all accounts, I have a pretty spacious, organized space.

But it feels claustrophobic tonight.

Maybe I should go for a run. Yes. I could even pass by the animal clinic again.

But first . . . Sarah’s message.

What do I do with it?

I can’t just ghost her, because what would be the point? She’d just go on to find some other guy. A pretty girl like her? Finding my replacement would be as easy as flipping her palm. I’m lucky enough she takes an interest in “PuppetMaster.”

At the same time, replying to her feels wrong. But also . . . so right.

My thumbs freeze over the little letters on my phone screen. I’m overthinking this. I already know what to do. I just have to go ahead and do it.

I know it must’ve taken Dr. Norman a few days to give her the test results, which must mean that Sarah probably got tested right away after I told her to.

My pants start to feel tight as my cock stirs.

My last client purposely bent down a lot to give me more than an eyeful of her ass and tits, but nothing happened down there. With just a few words from Sarah, though, I’m raring to go.

She’s so eager to please, so desperate for my approval. She’s not usually like that in person. I never would’ve guessed she had this side to her personality.

She’s normally so strong—no, stubborn. She’d do the thing you told her not to do, just because you told her not to do it. That’s what Peter always said about her.

Hell, even knowing for sure this is Sarah, I still can’t fully picture her saying all those things—and I tried. Believe me, if I could, I already would by now.

So, yes, things will irreversibly change after we meet up, but hey, they say change is the only constant that exists, right?

I take a deep breath. I’m really doing this.