I was halfway through my freshman year when I heard about him.
His name was Jack, and he was the sort of guy you’re always told to keep away from as a fresher. Big. Misogynistic. Disrespectful. His dad was some sort of high-flying banker, and he never seemed to suffer any consequences from his actions. There were rumors that he’d raped girls. I heard he’d had a girlfriend in his second year who kept showing up with bruises – the sort she hadn’t consented to. I was warned to stay away from his frat house – especially when they were having a party.
He was dangerous. Scary. And I wanted him.
By that point, I’d had an idea knocking around for a while. The notion of a free use contract. The sort that would give up my rights for 24 hours, and make it clear a guy could do whatever he wanted to me. And once I’d heard about Jack I couldn’t get it out of my head.
When I was young, I had always been fascinated by the idea of giving up my rights. I’d heard about the saner sorts of BDSM – with safewords and negotiation, the kind where you submit to someone you trust. But I wanted something more intense than that.