Dirty Daddies Underground

Chapter Two

Harper's POV

I scroll further, and his list of options appears beneath his photo, all neatly itemized like a twisted menu:

Dinner date with public affection – $500

Private cuddling and conversation – $350

Teasing over clothes, no nudity – $600

Overnight stay, fully clothed, talking, movies etc – $1,200

Light discipline (negotiable) – price upon request

Yeah, even the descriptions feel cold and clinical, it's like intimacy is just a set of tasks to be performed for a fee. I can feel Mark's eyes on my, waiting and already convinced that I will do it because he knows I'm too weak to refuse him.

Deep down, I want to throw my phone across the room, and scream at him, demanding a shred of dignity. Instead, I just stare at the screen and silently weigh which part of myself I'm supposed to sell next for him.

My fingers stay hovering over the screen, the man's offer is glaring back at me like a dare. My heart pounds in my chest, almost like a warning to not do this. It's just dinner, that's all it is. Dinner and a few light touches, someones hand resting on mine across the table, maybe even a staged kiss on the cheek.

I mean, I've endured far worse than that, for far less. At least that's what I whisper to myself to try and calm the panic blooming in my stomach.

Slowly, I begin to type.

Hi. I saw your profile. I’m interested in the dinner date option, with public affection. Could you tell me what sort of place you’d like to go, and what you’re expecting?

I don’t send it right away, my mind won't let me. My thumb lingers over the screen. I know Mark is watching me and I can see his knee bouncing restlessly, as his fingers drum against the edge of the sofa like I’m taking too long.

“You’re wasting time,” he snaps. “He’s probably fake anyway. Or busy. They all say they’re interested, and then they ghost.”

“I just want to sound polite,” I murmur, not looking at him because if I do he will see the lie.

“You’re being slow,” he huffs, and before I can move, he leans over and yanks the phone from my hands.

I flinch and almost move back, and my chest tightens as he scrolls aggressively through the screen, tapping at it. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are narrowed in focus.

“There,” he says, pushing the phone back into my hands. “Message this one instead.”

I take the phone reluctantly, the unease is already crawling down my spine like ice water. Okay, I can do this. I glance at the screen, expecting another profile like the last, another man, another list, another sickly menu of desires.

Only this one isn't, my breath catches and I stare.

It's not just one man, it's three.

The profile photo shows them sitting together in a high end hotel room. They’re all dressed in suits, their expressions too smug, too eager, with the kind of smiles that don’t reach the eyes.

They look like a pack, not like the men I am used to, they aren't individuals, but a unit. Three men.

My eyes scan the username: The_Triumvirate.

The air leaves my lungs at the username and my hands start to shake, I don't click further, I don't need to because one thing stands out more than anything.

My hands start to shake.

It's three men, not one, but three, I didn't expect that!

Before I can even click on the images or read the rest of the profile, a notification pops up across the screen and stops me. I read the notification and sigh.

“It says I need to complete my account before the message will go through,” I murmur, barely able to hear myself over the pounding in my ears.

Mark glares at me from his side of the couch. “Then answer the f*cking questions,” he snaps, as though I’m wasting his time by hesitating. I didn't want to just do it and then him complain at me for not asking him.

Swallowing the knot in my throat, I tap on my profile. A list of requirements stares back at me.

I need to upload at least four photos, one showing my full body, fully clothed, and another with my face clearly visible. There’s also an option to include explicit images, though those remain locked unless I manually approve someone to see them.

I scroll through my images, debating over which ones are the best to add. I could sabotage it by adding awful ones but something tells me he will figure out my plan.

“You have plenty of f*****g photos,” Mark says impatiently. “Seriously, Harper, f*cking pick some.”

I sigh and nod. Okay, so I need to do this quick to stop his complaining. I select eight pictures in total. A couple of me sitting cross-legged on the floor with a book in my lap, ones that have natural light spilling across my skin. Then I pick one of me in a short black dress at some club I barely remember going to. There's another where I’m in tight hot pants and a crop top, the kind of outfit that only makes sense in summer heat. I don’t even look at them closely. I just upload and move on so he can't complain I'm taking my time.

The next section is more invasive. It asks for everything. My height, weight, hair color, eye color. It even asks about piercings and tattoos. Then it goes deeper, and asks me about any freckles, scars, or birthmarks that I have. I hesitate and stare at those ones, it feels oddly specific, even for a site like this. But then again, I remind myself that people have kinks for everything. Someone out there probably thinks a birthmark on the thigh is the height of er*ticism. Who knows?

I fill in the rest, reluctantly listing a few of my interests, and answering some light-hearted questions that feel strange in the context. What would your dream vacation be? What’s your favorite way to be touched? My fingers type answers automatically, my mind not really present. It's all just noise and things to fill in the space between what’s already been decided for me.

Finally, I reach the last part, preferences and what I'm looking for in the app. I sit and stare at the screen.

“Everything,” Mark says, not even giving me a chance to consider this.

I don’t argue, I can't deal with another argument right now. I just select the box. Interested in: Everything. Then I hit save.

The screen refreshes and takes me back to the profile, the one with the three men.

Great, my pulse stutters and I scroll down slowly this time, and let the images load one by one.

The first man is leaning against a concrete wall. He has his arms crossed over his chest and his shirt is open, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows so it reveals the lean muscle and a scattering of tattoos along both forearms. He has a strong jaw, a lazy smirk, and deep green eyes that seem to look right through the screen. His jeans ride low on his hips, the V of his lower abdomen sharply defined and unapologetically visible.

The second guy is seated on the edge of a bed, he has one arm resting behind him, and the other lifting a bottle of beer to his lips. He’s a bit broader than the first, with darker skin and a sleeve of ink stretching from his shoulder to his wrist. His hair is short and neat, and if I focus hard enough I can see the stubble on his chin. His abs are visible beneath an unbuttoned flannel, and his jeans, like the first, are hanging low, deliberately, enticingly low like it's an invitation to look.

The third guy is different. He has a beard, that is neatly trimmed but thick enough to make him look older than the other two. He’s leaning back in a leather chair, and has one leg draped lazily over the other, his chest is bare, and showing the tattoos running up his torso and across one collarbone. There’s something dangerous in his expression, something that feels more like a dare than an invitation. His jeans are unzipped again like the others, just enough to make the message clear.

Then there’s the group photo of them all standing together in front of a balcony at night. I can see the city lights glittering behind them. They're all shirtless and laughing like something off camera has happened. Their bodies are angled toward one another, as if they are used to moving as a single unit.

They look confident, attractive and mostly powerful. Like they’ve done this before and like they already know I’ll say yes.

I sit there, staring. Three men, not one, but three. I didn't expect this to be an option. Depsite the fear that twists in my gut, it's not just dread that is rising inside of me. Something else is also, something that I don't want to name or speak of.

I hesitate for a long time, and stare at the last photo of them standing together. Their smiles are easy, and their bodies relaxed but something about them is unmistakably calculated. The way they stand, the glint in their eyes, the space they take up even through a screen. I blink hard, then scroll down to read their bio.

We’re looking for a baby girl we can spoil together, as three daddies. Just for one night with no strings, purely play.

The words do something strange to me. Baby girl. Daddies. I’ve heard it before, on the street. Girls who whisper about it the ones who live a different life to me, and I'd always rolled my eyes and kept my distance from that world. But here I am now, with the kind of attention pointed toward me, and it doesn't feel so easy to dismiss it. Sighing, I go back to reading their profile.

We don’t require age play, but if that’s your thing, we won’t say no. Whether you’re a submissive or a slave, or just a brat who needs a firm hand, we welcome it.

I shift where I sit, and process that. There’s a strange pull to their words, like they’ve written them not for anyone, but for me. I don’t even know what I am, submissive, brat, slave? If they ask what do I say to that? The words swim in my head like a language I’ve only heard in passing. Okay, focus, read more!

Your interests don’t have to be a perfect match for ours. We only give and take what you’re willing to explore. Consent is everything. Boundaries are respected. Always.

That part makes something inside me loosen. It feels like safety, even if it’s just words on a screen. I read it again. Only what you’re willing to explore. That should make it easier and make it okay, but it also feels like something everyone would say to trick women.

We want to spoil our baby girl and make her feel like the center of our universe. We want her to feel like the only person in the world who matters for one night. All eyes, all hands, all attention, on her.

I let out a shaky breath. I can’t remember the last time anyone looked at me like I mattered. Like I was wanted without expectation, without being a burden. Certainly not Mark. Not in years.