A Gazelle in a Gimp Mask

She was back.
The gazelle—she was graceful and elegant.
She was a gazelle in a gimp mask.

Then she disappeared. Months passed.
And there she was again—new pictures, new profile.
Same woman.
Legs for days.

I figured she wasn’t real. Probably a bot.
A very sexy fucking bot, though.
The kind you’d swipe on even though you knew better.

Then she was at my front door.
Not a bot. Very real.
Very, very real.

—

She was a sugar baby—her affection had been monetized.
She was a sex worker. An extreme submissive, for sale.
She was over men. Jaded. Hurt. Traumatized.

I’m no sugar daddy, I told her.

She said she knew that.
That’s why she was here.

She needed to feel again.
She needed to want to be there.
No exchange of goods. No financial gain.

When I asked her what she wanted.
What she needed.
What she thought I could give her—
She paused, hesitant to answer.

I pressed. Gently.
She exhaled—almost didn’t say it.

And then:
“Could you just hold me?”

—

I lay on my back.
She climbed on top—straddling me, but not with heat.
Her long legs wrapped tightly around me.
Her hands curled into her chest.

And I just held her.
I hugged her. I held her tight.
And she cried.

She needed to feel safe.
She needed to feel affection—
not from a place of gain, but genuine.
And she needed to feel in control again.

In that moment, she didn’t need a daddy.
She needed to feel the safety of a dad.
I held her like a daughter.
She needed a safe man.

I stroked her hair as gentle tears rolled down my chest.
I comforted her and told her stories.
As we watched Orion traversed my skylight,
I felt her nervous system co-regulating with mine.

Her breathing slowed.
Her muscles relaxed.
Her weight slowly sank into me.
She slept.

I woke sometime in the night. Alone.
She was gone.

Had it not been for the damp patch from her tears,
I might have thought it was a dream.

The dad in me still thinks of the gazelle, hoping she’s safe.