Stop trying so hard

Domenico

"Oh, baby, you seem so tired; let me give you a massage.” The words slithered from her lips, coated in the syrupy tone of feigned concern. The falseness of it swirled around me like a nauseating perfume. "You are working too hard, Dom.”

As the word 'Dom' rolled off Gail's tongue, it was as if she drew it from a well of insincerity, each syllable dripping with the saccharine sweetness of artificiality. The sound of my name in her voice was like a poorly played melody, grating against the walls of my consciousness. However, when another person—a particular young woman whose image flickered like a candle flame in the back of my mind—whispered that name, it resonated with a symphony of desire and possession.

"Dom," she would say, and oh, how differently it sounded. There was a purity to it, an innocence laced with the promise of something primal. It stirred within me a beast that lay dormant, biding its time beneath layers of control and denial.

“At least you are now starting to