My name is Lethabo Mokoena, and by all outside appearances, I have it all figured out. A stable job, two beautiful daughters who call me "Mommy" with pride, a modern townhouse in the heart of Motheo Lifestyle Village, Equestria, and a reputation for getting things done—on time and with flair. But behind all the curated perfection, behind the spreadsheets, parent-teacher meetings, and organic grocery lists... I was starving.
Not for food. Not for money.
For something—or someone—who could make me feel alive again.
I was tired of the mundane. The awkward Tinder dates. The missionary-only encounters with emotionally unavailable men who treated foreplay like an optional extra. Worse still, those who made love with their phones on the nightstand, always lit, always buzzing.
No thanks.
Then came Motlatjo—my scandalous best friend, my chaos in heels, my truth bomb wrapped in MAC lipstick.
That Friday night, she arrived with wine and bad intentions. We gossiped like teenagers, legs tucked on my couch, the kids sleeping over at my mom's for the weekend. Somewhere between the second glass and her third dramatic sigh, she leaned over and whispered:
"You need therapy."
I blinked at her. "Friend, I've done therapy. Twice. The last guy fell asleep mid-session."
She chuckled, low and dangerous.
"No, no. Not that therapy. I mean the kind that leaves you limping but smiling. Daddy therapy."
I nearly choked on my cider. "Come again?"
She grinned. "Exactly. Come. Again. And again. And again."
I rolled my eyes. "Who is this 'Daddy'? What's his real name, Theophilus?"
She ignored the sarcasm, sipping her wine like a cat with a secret.
"He goes by Master Vincent. MV if you're shy. Daddy if you're ready. And believe me, chomi—he doesn't fumble."
I wanted to laugh it off. But her face turned serious.
"He's not just about sex. He unlocks you. He sees what you hide from the world and demands it. I didn't know what I liked until he showed me."
I went quiet.
Because somewhere in my chest, something stirred.
Not fear. Not lust.
Curiosity.
Dangerous, delicious curiosity.
Three days later, I sat in my lounge, legs tucked beneath me, my thumb hovering over the call button. My heart thudded like a war drum. I had stared at his number for an hour. Just a man. Just a voice. What harm could it do?
I pressed call.
It rang once.
Twice.
"Hello?"
A deep voice. Rich. Calm. Authoritative.
"Hi… um… I'd like to make a booking."
"For what service?"
"I heard you're good at… relieving tension."
There was a pause. And then that voice dropped half an octave.
"Who gave you my number?"
"Motlatjo."
"Ah. And your name?"
"Lethabo. I'm based in Pretoria East."
"Welcome, Lethabo. Tell me—what dream do you wish fulfilled?"
My stomach did a backflip.
"The full house service. Like... Christian Grey stuff."
A low, amused chuckle.
"Have you explored BDSM before?"
"Never."
"Perfect."
He gave me the rundown: rules, boundaries, consent forms. A safe word. Payment terms. He asked if I preferred his place or mine. I chose mine—familiar ground, in case things got… intense.
Deposit paid. Slot secured.
Friday night. 8PM.
No backing out.
The next few days passed in a haze of anticipation. My mind was no longer at work. It was imagining cuffs, whispers, commands. My body ached from fantasies. My lingerie order from DivineTouch Online arrived just in time—a sinful black lace bodysuit that hugged me like a secret I wasn't ready to confess.
When Friday arrived, I was a mess of nerves.
The girls were gone. The house was silent. I lit candles in every room. Poured myself a cider. Checked my reflection three times.
At 7:45PM, a knock.
I opened the door.
And there he stood.
Master Vincent.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clad in all black. No jewelry. No visible tattoos. Just a presence that demanded attention. His eyes scanned me—slow, deliberate. I suddenly felt very naked under my silk kimono.
"You're early," I said, voice steadier than I felt.
> "I prefer to be early," he replied, stepping inside like he already owned the space.
He smelled of musk and firewood and something deeper—dominance in liquid form.
I offered him a drink. He chose a lager. Then, he pulled out a tablet.
> "We need to do some admin."
"What is this, SARS?"
He smiled. "Protection. For us both."
I read the forms. Consent. Limits. Safety. His expectations. Mine. I was already soaking through my bodysuit.
"Sign here," he said, handing me a stylus. "Then go change into something you'd like to be punished in."
Punished?
Yoh.
I signed.
And ran.
As I slipped into the lace, my mind raced.
What are you doing, Lethabo?
You're a mother. You're respected. This is insane.
And yet…
When I stepped back out, the lounge had transformed.
Candles. Leather cuffs. A BDSM bench.
And in the middle of it all, Master Vincent stood—arms crossed, eyes on fire.
"You're ready," he said.
I was.
I just didn't know what for.