Dont Call Me Sweetheart
A spark…
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I kept checking Alt.com daily, mostly because I kept recieving email after email from them, promising new matches.
“You can slap me as many times as you want, I wont stop fucking you hard till i cum all over your sexy face. 7″ cut, thick cock would do it for you?” No.
“You would be the perfect little bitch for me. My dick isn’t huge, but its not tiny either.” No.
“You need to be trained like the proper 3 hole slut. I will choke you to death on my cock.” No, no, no.
This tactic was clearly getting me nowhere.
As disheartening as that was, I could also feel the weather getting colder and with that comes two unwanted feelings. The first is my dread of winter, when the sun dissapears and with it, possibly, my happiness. I know that to dwell on something is to bring it about, but I don’t think I can stand another winter like the last, where I had to rack my brain for a reason to get out of bed.
The second emotion that I wish would dissappear is my desire to nest–I’m used to falling in love during autumn, (not sure how it always happens that way), so I feel like I’m conditioned to start wanting someone to snuggle up with. I feel this urge to find someone who meets my long-term mate requirements, which are kind of the opposite qualities I’m looking for in a dom. Is it possible for someone to be cruel and merciless AND warm and comforting?
Either way.. I was at a loss.
Until, that is, I recieved two consecutive emails from a man named Freddy. He expressed interest in talking to me, while assuring me that he was a nice, completely normal guy with a strong kinky side. He told me that he didn’t want to come off as too persistent, but that he didn’t come across many women like me on the site–genuine, beautiful, smart. He seemed down to earth, sweet and not crazy.
Ask and you shall recieve.
Our emails felt so comfortable and real; our exchanges quickly moved to instant message, where we talked about our interests in life and bdsm. Conversation flowed easily between us and I found myself very intrigued by this cute, sweet guy from Queens who wanted to tie me up and do terrible, wonderful things to my helpless body.
After about a week and half of chatting, we finally set up a date to meet. He chose a great sushi restaurant, (my favorite) on park avenue, and I agreed to meet him at 7 on Monday evening. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel nervous.
Tags: anticipation, bdsm, control, culture, dating, desire, dissapointment, dominance, excitement, expectations, friendship, internet, life, lifestyle, love, my life, new york, online, people, personal, random, relationships, S&M, sex, sparks, submission, subservience, waiting
An update, sort of…
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Disaster, disaster, diaster, disaster.
I’ve spent the last three weeks having a myriad of online chats and in-person meetings with potential Doms.. I didn’t want to write until I had something interesting to talk about.
I still don’t.
You cannot imagine, first of all, how many unattractive, old, violent men there are out there. My inbox is flooded with people I wouldn’t let touch me with a 65 foot pole. As for the three I mentioned before…
I met with the Preacher. Not totally unattractive, but talked with a lisp and couldn’t make eye contact with me. We spent a good hour talking in circles while he stared at the wall beside me, avoiding my gaze at all costs. Pass.
I almost met with the Professor, but we were both an hour late and, upon my request that we reschedule, he got angry and gave me a guilt trip. Pass.
I met with the Stranger. He was at least twenty pounds heavier than his photo, sweated profusely, and was incredibly obnoxious. Pass, pass, pass.
Why is it so hard to find a cute, smart, funny guy who wants to tie me up and slap me around?
I was still holding onto hope for Jordan to come through, but his message was so short:
“Hope you’re well.
you’re very pretty and I like your voice. Let’s grab a drink. Speak soon,
Jordan”
I messaged him back, asking what he had in mind and when I hadn’t heard from him in a week, I messaged him again:
“Sounds like a great plan. Looking forward to it.”
He waited about a day before getting back to me.
“I moved last week and am still looking for a new place. Sad as it sounds, I’m staying at my parent’s house while they’re out of town. Will probably be moving to my friend’s couch in a few days while I keep looking. I get off work tonight at 11:30 – I know it’s late, but feel like a rendevous?
J”
I waited until the following day and said no, but asked for a raincheck. There’s no way I’m trekking out to a middle of nowhere bar at midnight to meet some strange guy who wants to slap me around–no matter how much I might like it. Here’s hoping he’ll take me up, though, since it’s been another whole week since I’ve heard from him.
Boring. Boring. I’m bored.
Tags: anticipation, bdsm, control, culture, dating, desire, dissapointment, dominance, expectations, internet, life, lifestyle, limits, love, my life, new york, online, people, personal, random, relationships, S&M, sex, submission, subservience, waiting
A new approach…
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The aftermath of the Tiger fiasco consisted of mass shock and dissapointment, a large portion of it on the part of my friends. They had all supported him and believed he would deliver on all of his boasting and big intentions. No one believed the small-penis threat that is ever-present when meeting someone new would be realized. Either way, I threw up a big middle finger to craigslist–two strikes and you’re out in my book–and considered my options. I would, of course, love to meet someone organically but how do I go about finding people with such an interest? I resolved to do a little more research into this lifestyle and how other people find matches in this capacity.
I went to google and searched “bdsm ny.” Guess what came up?
Bdsmsingles.com
Alt.com
Bondage.com
Not porn sites–personals websites. Duh.
I browsed through a few profiles on each site and settled on Alt.com as the most promising. I created a profile, honestly stating my interest and level of experience, uploaded my cutest picture of me in my playboy bunny costume, sat back and waited.
It took mere moments for the messages to start rolling in. And I mean rolling.
A large majority of the messages I received were from older men–way older. I don’t know what gives these men the impression that a girl like me would be interested. I think they honestly believed that I would respond to their messages, which consisted of:
“lets talk , i kown this master can hrut you and use you. to show you thing you never thourh you were very see or do
master john awaits your e-mail back to master”
or
“The best thing you can do for yourself, honey, is to pack you bags and head on down here to Florida so I can start training you.”
with a yes, please. Take me, train me, use me, abuse me!
No. Hardly.
However, I did get a few messages that I found intriguing and, upon veiwing the profiles of the senders, I responded positively. There was The Preacher, who described my submission as a gift that should only be given to the worthy, The Professor, who sent me a picture of his beautiful, gigantic cock and who was actually a professor, and The Stranger, who took notice of my apparent sense of self and described his purpose not as a potentionial match, but simply as a like-minded individual in the same age-range.
What really struck me about these people was their honesty and candor about both their personalities and their interests in BDSM. They each seemed witty enough to hold their own against me (I’m the queen of sarcasm) and intelligent enough for me to respect–key now in choosing who I will submit to.
It’s so funny how desires can change even in a short period of time. When I first realized that I wanted to be hurt and overpowered, I could imagine virtually anyone doing it. It didnt matter if they had any finesse or intellect or skill; I just wanted a good, hard using at the hands of someone merciless. Now, the more I talk to my friends and try to explain these desires, the more I realize that in order to live out these fantasies successfully, I have to find someone smart enough to maintain my respect and skilled enough in the bedroom to insure avoidance of another Mustang disaster.
Thus my interest in these three men. I began corresponding lightly with each.
To the Preacher I responded by commending his coherent sentences and asking how people usually proceed with this process. He replied by explaining that we should exchange a few pleasant emails before exchanging screen names to chat with. We joked back and forth for a couple of days about the strange people we’ve encounter on the site.
Meanwhile, I replied to the Professor with a compliment to the lovely appendage he had shown me and confessed that I’d had a crush on one of my college professors and always fantasized about getting ragaved on his desk. He responded with regret that he had not been my college professor and oh, the things he would have done to me on top of, underneath, and on the side his desk. I asked if I could audit one of his classes to find out what this desk looked like in person and offered the alternative of instead beginning with coffee. He agreed that coffee would probably be safer and sent his phone number.
Lastly, and most intriguingly, the Stranger had me curious as to why he assumed we wouldn’t match, (which is precisely what I imagine his intention was) and asked him such, as well as what advice he would have a for a newcomer like me. He explained that he liked to get to know people before pursuing them sexually and, as far as advice went, I should be wary of people who would treat me disrespectfully, especially right off the bat. He described his sexuality as a ‘switch’ which meant that he could be dominant or submissive; his problem, he said, was that no woman had ever successfully got him to let go and be submissive. Our correspondences were very lengthy and in depth, honest and probing and I found myself really thinking about what I wanted to say to him. It was more introspective than I expected to get with anyone on a BDSM personal’s site.
I also began a search in my area to see who else was out there. That was how I stumbled upon Jordan. His picture struck me because it was slighlty artistic and he was cute. When I began reading his profile, I found myself smiling and simultaneosuly catching my breath at what he wrote–he was perfect. He described himself as being cruel, but kind, desiring open communication and patience with his partners, but being a relentless and merciless sadist. He offered advice to beginner’s, guiding them to seek out a dom who was patient, communicative, and respectful of, again, the gift of submission. He shared his love for psychological subjugation of a submissive. He sounded smart, witty, and interesting.
“The first time I slapped a girl and she begged me for more, I knew I was home.”
Everything I was looking for. Over the course of a few days I had read and reread his profile and now I was scared to click on it again, in case he could see how many times I’d viewed it. I snuck a peak at it again tonight, though, to explain to Ryan why I liked him. I told her that he hadn’t messaged me yet, but that he definitely would–he had to; we were such a good match.
That was about an hour ago. I just checked my inbox. He messaged me.
Tags: anticipation, bdsm, control, culture, dating, desire, dominance, expectations, friendship, internet, life, lifestyle, limits, love, my life, new york, online, people, personal, random, relationships, S&M, sex, submission, subservience, waiting
Riding the pony…
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I slide into the car next to him, smile, and offer my cheek. He kisses it, looks me up and down, and tells me I that I’m gorgeous.
T: “So did you miss me?”
M: “A little.”
T: “A little? I need to go longer between dates, then, so you miss me a lot.”
He looks good and his eyes are peircing.
T: “So, I was thinking we either go to a movie or go hang out at the peir. I’m going to let you decide which one you want to do.”
Alone in a dark room? Movie, please.
M: “Let’s go see a movie.”
T: “Movie it is.”
He hits the gas on his cherry red mustang and we fly down the road. We chat for a bit about what we’ve been doing for the past couple days–something really inconsequential–but for the most part he keeps looking at me, stroking my hair, touching my face, and telling me how gorgeous I am. All I can think at this point is that this guy is really sprung on me.
We get to the theatre and purchase tickets for GI Joe, (apparently he wants to see it), and wait outside for a moment while he smokes a cigarette. He asks me what I know about the lifestyle. I answer honestly.
M: “Nothing.”
T: “You know nothing? So you just read my post and said, yes, that’s what I want?”
M: “Basically, yeah.”
He proceeds to explain to me a few of the basics. A slave, apparently, is anything but a derogatory word. To a master, his slave is his most prized possession, something to be cared for, loved, and sheltered. This concept makes a lot more sense to me that I would have thought; if I am trusting someone to take me at my most vulnerable and hurt me just the way I like, then I had better trust them to care enough about me to respect my limits, as well as pay enough attention to the situation to make sure I don’t get hurt any more than I want to.
He also explains that women are meant to be cherished and protected–but also subservient. I bristle at this, being a feminist, but say nothing; when all is said and done, I will gain nothing by arguing with him and have little chance of changing his mind. I’m also afraid of him. He doesn’t notice that I’ve taken offense, as I take care to let nothing show on my face, and continues to explain that a female’s natural role in life is to serve, a male’s to protect. Domination and submission, or D/s as it’s called apparently, is this natural division taken to an extreme. As much as my mind is rebelling against what he’s saying, I can feel my body responding to the way he’s looking at me–like a tiger, stalking it’s prey.
He mentions training and I ask him what that means. His smile is more than a little sinister as he touches my cheek and tells me that a good slave knows how to behave with her master–like not looking him in the eye too much, he explains as his hand tightens around my neck. My eyes immediately drop to the ground and I can feel the heat rising to my face. He laughs and says it’s okay, he doesn’t mind it now; he even finds it cute that I stare directly into his eyes when he talks. He likes how obedient I look standing in front of him–hands clasped in front of me, listening, hanging on his every word. I like how I never know if his touch is going to be soft or painful. I feel on fire and am not sure how I’m going to make it through the movie.
He finishes his cigarette and we enter the theater. He doesn’t offer to buy me popcorn, but pays for my ticket and opens all doors. It’s a good thing I’m not hungry.
We sit down in the last row, (of course), and as the lights dim and the previews start, I feel his hand brushing down my neck. He clearly plans to waste no time. The dress that I’m wearing cuts a deep V and he’s found his way inside and pinches my nipple–hard. I inhale sharply and look at him; he grabs my face and kisses me for a long time. He’s still holding my nipple between his fingers when he stops and I can barely breath.
T: “Watch the movie.”
Holy shit. I turn back to the beginning of GI Joe and try to pay attention; all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears and his hand has moved from my breast to my thigh and he’s making his way up, up, up…
He slides my panties to the side and I have to remind myself to breath as we have a repeat performance of our day in the park. All too soon he stops, grabs my wrist and tells me that we’re leaving. It hasn’t even been 15 minutes since we sat down and as he’s pulling me behind him, I notice the other people in our row and breifly wonder how much they saw. We get outside and walk briskly to his car. As soon as we climb in, he attacks me again and we make out for a few minutes before he climbs in the back seat and orders me back there with him. My heart is racing and I’m almost shaking in anticipation. I wonder what he’s going to do to me and I pray that it hurts. He grabs me by the neck and pulls me to him, kissing me forcefully while he unzips his pants. I open my mouth as he pushes my head down on his cock and my first thought as he enters my mouth is…
THAT’S IT?
He’s pushing my head down hard and I’m BARELY GAGGING. No, no, no. This is not happening! He CANNOT have a small penis! No..
He pulls me back up and I catch a glimpse. Not only is it short, but it’s thin. AND ITS CROOKED. No. No. I’m so confused. This is not right! He’s supposed to be large and intimidating and not crooked!
He pushes me onto my back and pulls my panties off, slides a condom on, and all the while I’m praying that it was a bad angle or that the jeans were hiding the bulk of it or something… this can’t be all that he’s working with.
He slides into me and I want to cry–I can barely feel it and let me qualify this by saying that my pussy is VERY tight. It hurts almost every time I have sex; she, (my vagina), regenerates herself very quickly, so having gone over a month without any penetration has made her almost vice-like. And I still can barely feel him inside me. After a few hearty thrusts on his part–he lasted maybe five minutes–he comes and pulls out. And that’s it. No pain. No domination. No tying me up. Not even a half-ass hair-pull. It was quick, bad sex in the back of a red mustang. I could have had this in high school. He turns to me.
T: “Did you come?”
Come? No. Feel anything below the waist? No.
M: “No.”
T: “Really? You didn’t?”
He looks shocked. How is he shocked? Was he trying to make me come? How is he not aware of how bad this was? He mumbles something about next time and how the second time always lasts longer. I’m no longer listening. I pull my panties back on and climb into the front seat, waiting to be taken home. We make small talk as he drives until he brings up some things that he wants to do to me next time. He mentions a paddle, tying me up, gagging me.. I’m bored and shocked and so, so dissapointed. I have no idea what my responses are, only that he seemed satisfied by them.
We reach the corner at which I requested he drop me off; I definitely don’t want him knowing where I live now.
I let him kiss me for a moment and then look at him.
He’s wearing contacts.
I don’t know how I didn’t notice that before.
Tags: anticipation, bdsm, control, culture, dating, dissapointment, dominance, life, lifestyle, limits, mustang, my life, people, personal, random, relationships, S&M, sex, submission, subservience
The waiting game…
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I just walked up to the meeting spot and I’m trying to look busy; this blog is a life saver. I’m not sure what we’ll be doing tonight since he didn’t specify–maybe dinner, maybe a movie, maybe another get-to-know-you-finger-fuck. I took the train here and he’s driving, so I’m fairly certain he’s either going to make me wait or watch me for a minute–or both. He certainly can’t be waiting here for me, at least not visibly; that would give away too much power.
So I’m standing where he told me to stand, trying to simultaneously look occupied and keep an eye out for him.
It’s been a few minutes so I text him and tell him I’m here–I’m tired of waiting. He replies that he’s a mile away and to wait right there. At least he’s not watching me. I still have time to jet if I need to..
But I won’t. The draw is too strong.
My stomach is in knots, the wind is blowing and my hair, which I conveniently wore down for a good pull, is getting in my lip gloss, and I want to run away. I always want to run away though, S&M or not, sticky lipgloss or no. I’m not good at meeting new people or at going on dates. I get nervous and I either want to cancel or not show up. It’s not that I’m not fabulous and charming; I am both. I just hate small talk and akward silence and so I get nervous about both, which causes me to do both–a viscous cycle.
A cop just passed me. At least if I scream, someone will hear me–not that I’m in the middle of nowhere. He wanted to pick me up from my house, which I am not comfortable with; I demurred and I think he got angry because he made me come all the way to Queens to him. I left my meeting plans and his name and number with my roommates, on the off-chance that he really is a psycho. It’s weird having to do that on a date; although, if I really think about it, I should be doing it for all my dates–especially in New York. There’s no greater or lesser chance that this guy is crazy than someone who doesn’t want to tie me up. At least he’s being up front about all the freaky shit he wants to do to me.
Here comes the red mustang. Wish me luck–I’m going in.
Tags: anticipation, bdsm, culture, dating, dominance, life, lifestyle, limits, my life, new york, people, personal, random, relationships, S&M, sex, submission, waiting
The confession…
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I don’t know how I managed to work a full day after the meeting in the park. After I left Tiger, I felt like I was floating and I couldn’t stop smiling. Here was everything I’d been looking for, wrapped up in a beautiful package. It felt so good to submit to someone so unabashadly, even in the smallest sense. I wanted much more.
I had to tell someone; since I was still nervous about telling my best friend, Sunshine, I found the person who I knew could look at the situation simultaneously objectively and judgement-free, yet wary of my safety and mental health–my good friend Lola. Lola and I work together and understand each other very well; she knows much about my history and when I went to her with as much excitement and apprehension as was written on my face, I knew she would be all ears.
She brought up some good points, after listening to me ramble for our entire lunch break. I should enter this situation with a clear exit strategy, (lest he decide he doesn’t want me to leave), and establish clear limits, (like, ‘stay away from my backdoor’). Apparently, there is such a thing as a safe word, which, when spoken, halts or pauses all activity, sexual or otherwise. I would have to figure out a word to use for mine.
As it happened, I met up with Sunshine right after work; she immediately asked about my meeting with my friend. I was still a little worried about her reaction, but couldn’t stand not to talk to her about it any longer; I gave her a guilty look and confessed that it wasn’t a friend I had met up with. She narrowed her eyes at me as I explained my desire for dominance, finding and meeting this guy and what he had done to me in public. As my story progressed, a look of pride spread across her face; Sunshine revelled in any expression of frank sexuality and adhered to the strict belief that if you were dong what made you happy, you were on the right track, regardless of what anyone thought or said. Combine that with her dislike of the boy I had recently broken up with and she was pleased as punch at my new adventure.
As if there were any question that she would be behind me.
When I got home that night, I found my other roommate Ryan home alone; Sunshine had gone out with one of her many admirers. We chatted for a bit about our respective days, and I sat on the floor and muched on an apple while she told me about her ridiculously incompenent boss. Strangely, the conversation turned to S&M, though for the life of me I can remember what the transition was, and she asked me if I had ever read The Story of O. Had I read it? Reread it? Comitted it to memory? It lies in the top drawer of my nightstand next to my bed. (I will qualify this by saying that not everything that happens to O do I desire to happen to me–the branding, the irons, I think, are too much. However, that level of submission and powerlessness is incredible.) The conversation progressed, strange as it was, since we had never spoken of it before. Emboldened by my talk with Lola and confident of Sunshine’s support, I made my confession to Ryan. It’s so funny how having just a few people on your team can make you feel like you can take on the world. I guess it makes everything easier, knowing we have someone to stand by us and support us.
Ryan was wonderful, as I knew she would be–as Sunshine had been, as Lola had been; she was so excited for me and immediately wanted to see pictures of Tiger. We went through his Myspace page and gushed over how pretty he is and how much fun I’m going to have with him. Of course, being the cautious girl that she is, she brought up more issues for me to be concerned about. What would my limits be? What would I do if he crossed a line? Where would these rendezvous be taking place? All things to consider. I knew that I didn’t want him in my house, and that if he stepped over any of my boundaries that it would be the last time he saw me, but what would my list of limits consist of? I had no idea where to even begin, and told her so.
When Sunshine got home, the three of us sat down at the kitchen table and brainstormed all of the things that I would and would not be willing to try.
R: “Ass?”
M: “No ass.”
R:”Peeing? Pooping?”
M:”No, no. None of that.”
S:”Gagging?”
M:”Gagging like how?”
S:”You know, like a ball-gag.”
R:”Or maybe just something over/in your mouth so you can’t scream… or talk.”
M:”Ooh, yes. Gagging is okay.”
S: ”Ok, what about animals?”
M:”No! No animals, jesus.”
R:”Did you put ass on there?”
S:”Skull-fucking?”
M:”Skull-what?! I don’t even know what that… you guys are… I’m done with my list. Thanks.”
End scene with us collapsed in a fit of laughter. I’m so lucky to be surrounded by people who love and support me regardless of what crazy shit I come up with to throw at them–not only that, but who will hold my hand and walk with me through the madness.
Tags: culture, dominance, friendship, life, lifestyle, limits, love, my life, people, personal, random, relationships, S&M, sex, submission
A walk in the park..
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When I woke up the next morning, I was a little irritated. Actually, more than a little.
Tiger had threatened to spit on me. In the moment, I was more focused on the excitement and the aggression I could feel coming through his text messages. But now, in the light of day and without the headiness of sexual tension, I realized that the idea of being spit on really pissed me off.
There is a difference between being dominated and being degraded.
I was feeling indignant and defensive–not a good way to go into meeting this guy. I still wanted to meet him, but I was ready to tell him off and forget the whole thing if he pulled one wrong move while we were together. My Leo pride had reared it’s head.
I got dressed quietly, since my roommate and I share a bedroom, but as I exited she stirred, asking me where I was going. I told her I was meeting up with a friend, wishing desperately that I had already talked to her about Tiger so I could get some moral support. I resolved to tell her everything that night, regardless of how the day turned out.
Tiger and I had agreed to meet at Starbucks, which instantly took the edge off for me–I am a coffee addict, with a capital A, so the prospect of getting my fix makes everything a little more manageable. I looked very cute, though casual, in a strapless, black cotton dress, sandals, and leopard print hoop earrings; I wore my hair up, loosely, and my makeup was pretty natural, save for the black cat-eye liner that is my signature.
So there I was, charged and ready to bolt, when I saw him walking towards me.
My mouth ran dry. He’s so pretty.
I stood up, (don’t know how), and he hugged me and he’s strong–good arms, good smell, disarming smile and wolf-like eyes. I was nervous and couldn’t remember what I was upset about.
T: “Do you want some coffee?”
M: “Yes.”
Please, god, yes. Whatever the question is, the answer is yes. Have I mentioned that it’s been over a month since I had sex?
T: “I thought we could take a walk through the park since its a little early for lunch.”
M: “That sounds good.”
He bought me my iced, venti, nonfat, two-pump, caramel latte and laid a $50 down on the counter. Nice start.
We started to walk towards the park and he looked at me and told me how gorgeous I am–I knew I was blushing.
We walked and talked for a minute about something; I can’t remember now, because soon, in the middle of the sidewalk he said:
T: “You’re such a feisty little girl over text message.”
M: “I’m feisty in person, too.”
He scowled in contempt, reached out a hand, and pushed my face.
T: “Oh yeah, you’re feisty?”
I hadn’t even been with him 10 minutes and he already put his hands on me in aggression.
I wish that I could recount the details of this conversation, but when I get nervous, I switch into auto-mode and my memory functions fail. Ill do my best with the snippets I have.
T: “It’s all about trust and understanding. You need to trust me enough to do what I say and understand that I won’t ask you to do something without a purpose. I could tell you to flash your tits to me right now in the middle of the park and would you do it?
M: “No, of course not.”
T: “No. Of course not. Because I’m a stranger to you. But with time you’ll trust that I wouldn’t tell you to do it if I weren’t sure you wouldn’t get in trouble and you’ll understand that the reason I’m doing it is to break you of your concept of embarrassment or humiliation. What would really happen if you showed your tits right now? A few people would see, they might stare for a minute and then an hour later forget about it. So what? No dire consequences, no lasting trauma. You just get over it. Get it?”
I got it. We sat down on a rock and he placed himself so that he was facing me with his legs on either side.
T: “You’re so gorgeous.”
Why did that make me so happy? Of course I’m gorgeous.
He grabbed my face with one hand and pulled it close to his. I couldn’t hear anything he way saying to me; I could only feel the pressure of his fingers on my face and watch his eyes glare at me with both desire and contempt.
When he finally let me go, it felt like to world started up again; sound and movement resumed and he was still talking to me. He was asking about me–what I studied in school, what I like to do in my spare time, what the last guy I dated was like.
This was starting to sound more and more like a date. Small talk ensued until suddenly he reached out and took a chunk of my hair in his fist, pulled me in close to him and kissed me. His mouth was soft, but the way he kissed me was not, promising aggression. I had a heard time catching my breath when he stopped. His hand was still gripping my hair.
T: “Tell me you want me.”
M: “I want you.”
T: “‘I want you’ what?”
M: “I want you Daddy.”
T: “Good girl. I want you too.”
He started kissing me again and I felt his hand sliding up my thigh to disappear under my skirt. He moved my panties to the side and I whimpered as he slid two fingers inside me.
I’m getting finger-fucked in the middle of Central Park. In broad daylight. At lunchtime. By a stranger… sober.
When he finally stopped, I was so dizzy I could barely speak. He commented both on how wet I was as well as how tight I was and I had to remind him of the fact that I’ve been with women most of my life.
T: “Let’s go. I have to get back to work.”
I got up off the rock with some difficulty, not only having to do with the fact that I was wearing a dress. My head was spinning.
He reached back and slapped my ass–hard; I cried out.
T: “Did that hurt?”
M: “It hurt a little.”
He laughed.
T: “That was nothing.”
Tags: culture, dominance, life, lifestyle, my life, people, personal, random, relationships, S&M, sex, submission
Hear him roar..
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The phone conversation left me feeling a little more comfortable–though not by much. Tiger didn’t sound crazy–just very dominating, which is what I’m looking for, after all. We set up to meet for coffee that Thursday, since I had the morning off. I could not think about actually meeting him in person or my heart would start racing and I would want to cancel–I get very nervous.
Since it was still a couple of days away, we continued to communicate through text message, talking about random things and trying to get to know one another better. One night I got sarcastic with him when he told me I wasn’t ready to be a slave. I can’t help it; I’m a smart-ass by nature and I certainly don’t like being told I can’t do something. Its the Leo in me. The conversation unfolded like this:
T: “Even if you called me master right now, you wouldn’t mean it. You’re no where near ready to be a slave yet, especially with so much pride.
M: “And what do you think it would take?”
T: “Time, patience, trust, and understanding. Trust blindly until I give you vision.”
What? What is that supposed to mean? It had been a long day, and I was in no mood to be patronized by someone I had never even met.
M: “Oh and I suppose you’ll show me how, is that it?”
He did not like that.
T: “lol. Do you get offended easily?”
M: “Sometimes. Its the Leo pride.”
T: “You’re a stupid ass useless short ugly redneck slut.”
I kid you not, I giggled. I’m so glad we weren’t face to face, because I’m sure he wouldn’t be pleased with how little his insult affected me. I mean, the only thing he said that held any truth was that I’m short–and I like that about myself! Still, I didn’t want him to think his effort was totally in vain, plus I was hoping he had a purpose for taking our conversation in that direction, so I responded:
M: “I’m not quite sure how to respond to that.”
Succinct.
T: “Fuck your pride, understood?”
M: “Yes.”
I got it. Slaves aren’t allowed that measure of pride; it would keep them from following orders. And honestly, this is the kind of anger I was looking for. I wasn’t in the mood to be told to wait. I wanted some discipline now.
T: “Good little bitch. Now from here on out, what I say goes. If you don’t like it, delete me from your phone and forget about me, understood?”
M: “Yes.”
At least he was giving me an option. I mean, if I’m going to do it, I might as well jump right in, right? Right? Oh god..
T: “You will learn to become my slut, my toy, my object.. You will learn to sit when I tell you to sit, stand when I tell you to stand.. You will learn to please me by any means.. You will learn to surrender every hole in your body to me and only me.. You will learn patience.. you will learn that “no” doesn’t exist in your vocab. You have no pride around me.. I will spit on your face if I have to.. You will obey me.. Understood? Now repeat everything I said.”
Ho-ly-shit. Spit in my face? I was mentally adding limits to the list: no punching in the face, no cutting, no spitting in the face… I had literally thrown myself to the wolves. And I had never been more turned on. So I repeated it.
M: “I will learn to be your slut, your toy, your object. I will to sit when you tell me to sit, and stand when you tell me to stand. I will learn to please you by any means. I will surrender my body to only you. I will learn patience. I will remove ‘no’ from my vocabulary. I will have…no pride around you. I will obey you.”
I was worried that he would notice my rewording of a certain line about the different holes in my body. I hadn’t told him yet, but I had no intention of letting him in through the back door. That’s one that’s never been opened for anyone and I wasn’t just going to serve it up to him just because he told me too–or for any reason. Lucky for me, he didn’t seem to pick up on that.
T: “Do you mean it?”
Did I? I mean, not really; I didn’t even know this guy. We’d never met and now he wants me to promise him my every hole? I wanted to mean it, but it just wasn’t going to happen after a few text messages. Nonetheless, I was very turned on and very interested in playing the game. So I lied.
M: “Yes.”
Then he gave me the second real order since the beginning of our little tryst:
T: “Strip naked right now. Take a picture of your body, your ass, your tits, and your pussy and send them to me. Fuck you if your shy, insecure, unsure, or hesitant. I want them now.”
I am none of those things, especially not when it comes to being naked–I love my body. This request was an easy one to fulfill, especially since I was the one taking the pictures. Lighting, angles, and poses were all in my control and yes, I looked great. I sent him four photos, exactly as described. His response was positive, which made me smile.
T: “Congratulations. It takes at least a little bit of trust to do that. I must admit I’m impressed, and you look great.”
Yeah, I know.
Tags: culture, dominance, life, lifestyle, my life, people, personal, random, relationships, S&M, sex, submission
Eye of the tiger
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So I went back to craigslist; not sure why, with all of the luck I had the first time. Almost instantly I found a well-written posting that seemed different from the rest. The author wrote about submission and dominance in the context of life and about the pleasure he derives from sadistic sexual aggression. He described his desire to train a girl to submit to him in every capacity–to use and abuse her, to teach her to love him. He wanted a slave.
The entire post was colored by intelligence and frightening seduction.. and cruelty.
The clincher was when I got to the bottom of the page and saw his picture–this guy was gorgeous! Caramel skin, light eyes, full lips–I was instantly attracted and yet his posting made me more than a little apprehensive. He sounded like he would expect complete submission in all areas of life and that’s just not me. I thought it best not to message him and to try to find someone less intense. Days later, though, I was still returning to the same post, looking at that picture, and reading the words that at once gave me a thrill of excitement and made me still with fear. In an act of thoughtlessness, heedless of consequence, I sent him an email:
“You’re beautiful and I’m afraid of you.”
No one will ever be able to say that I do anything half-ass.
He responded a day later:
“Interesting introduction. What are you afraid of?”
My stomach was in one big knot and I had a million thoughts running through my head. Did I really want to start a conversation with someone who would want me to be his slave? Maybe I should start with someone less intimidating. Maybe I should just scrap the whole idea altogether. Maybe I should stop being such a pussy and just talk to him. So I did; he’s T:
M: “How can I put this? You talk like you would hurt me if we met and the way you talk makes me want you to.”
T: “Send a picture.”
I sent him a picture of me in my halloween costume–a playboy bunny. Cute, sexy, plus my makeup was fabulous that day and I looked great.
T: “Ok, now number.”
M: “How do I know you’re not crazy?”
T: “How do I know you’re real?”
M: “If you tell me you aren’t crazy, I’ll tell you I’m not make-believe.”
Make-believe? I’m an idiot.
T: “I am crazy.
I was scared he was telling the truth. I wished I had someone to talk to, to bounce notes off of, or at least to check in with. Since I hadn’t told anyone about my situation, I was on my own. Still, I don’t know if it was the fear giving me false confidence, but I just bowled right through and sent him my number. I waited, hoping he would call and terrified of what would happen if he did.
My birthday came and went. On the night of my celebration, bold from several glasses of champagne and desperate for another opinion of the situation, I mentioned submission to my best friend, my roommate, the person closest to me apart from family, the sister I never had and always wanted, with whom I can communicate at times without even speaking. I told her that I thought my desire for pain and submission went beyond a little hair pulling and what others might consider ‘normal.’ She gave an intrigued smile and said “oh, yeah?” wanting me to continue. Just then, we were interrupted, I lost my nerve and thought it best to keep it to myself after that.
It’s not that I was ashamed. I want to put that out there. I just couldn’t stand to see her dissaprove. I value her opinion above most others and if she told me it was a bad idea, or unsafe, or unhealthy, it would have sent me right back to where I was before–wanting it, wondering what it would be like, and not daring to act on it.
Nonetheless, the suspense was killing me. It had been over a week since I sent T my number and I had heard nothing. So, laying in bed the night after my birthday, I sent this message:
“Scared to call?”
God knows what possessed me to be so ballsy. The response was immediate.
“Lost interest for a minute. 555-XXXX. Come.”
Oh. Dear. God. He wanted me to call him. I couldn’t do it. I’m terrible on the phone; when I don’t know what to say I’m just silent. Its very awkward. So I sent him a text message instead.
M: “Losing interest, huh?”
T: “What’s your name little girl?”
M: “M. What’s yours?”
T: “Tiger. What makes you want to be a slave?”
Oh god, I have to describe this to him?
M: “.. I like to be hurt and controlled.. and adored.”
T: “I love to do all of those things.”
Small talk ensues for a bit, we exchange myspace pages. Then this happens:
T: “A slave has no choice but to surrender, listen and learn. With time, you learn to trust and respect, as soon as you figure out that I am everything you crave.”
M: “How do I know that you’re everything I crave?”
T: “How? When I grab you by your hair and use you like my little toy. You will call me master when the time is right and you will do anything and everything I say.”
M: “Why do you like to hurt someone?”
T: “Because it turns me on. I enjoy having the power and control–the control to make someone feel hopeless until I reestablish hope. Repetition gains trust, to a point where what I say is what you will do, once you accept where you belong. I want you to kneel and surrender.”
The things he was saying to me were hideous but imagining surrendering to someone with such a desire for dominance made me heavy-lidded and weak.
T: “Call me right now.”
My first order. I didn’t want to dissapoint right out of the gate, so I mustered up as much courage as I could, climbed up onto my roof to clear my thoughts and dialed his number. I wish now that I recorded the conversation so I would have a transcript to post. Suffice it to say that we talked for a while–some of it was polite conversation, where he’s from, where I’m from. Some of it was my awkward silence and him telling me not to be so nervous–slightly comforting, mostly mocking.
Most of the conversation involved him talking about what being a slave entails. He talked about trust and understanding and how without either of those components, a master-slave relationship would be meaningless. Even beyond the fact that it would be only about sex, he explained that if I did not trust him, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing the things he told me to do. We needed to get to know each other, he said; very sweet, I thought, and surprisingly comforting. Yet everything he said a menacing undertone, especially the way he said ‘slave’; almost snake-like, the word sounded sensual and inviting when he spoke it, and simultaneously belittling and depraved. It was disturbing and I wanted it. Bad. It made my mouth water.
We touched on limits a bit when he asked me if I knew what mine are. I told him that I didn’t, since I had never tested them. He laughed a little.
T: “Well I bet you don’t want to get punched in the face, do you?”
M: “No. Definitely not. No punching in the face. I also don’t want any scars.”
T: “Good. I don’t like dealing with blood. Cutting is dangerous; if you do it the wrong way, you might have to go to the hospital, then you’ll call the police and I just don’t want to deal with that.”
M: “Sounds great. No cutting. Awesome.”
Immediately I felt relieved. We made plans to meet for coffee and I felt better knowing I wouldn’t walk away from this experience with any lasting scars–at least not any physical ones.
Tags: culture, dominance, life, lifestyle, my life, people, personal, random, relationships, S&M, sex, submission
To begin at the beginning..
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Let’s start this whole story off by saying that I am not submissive. There’s almost nothing about me that is submissive: I’m strong willed, prideful to a fault, and fiercely independent. But there is a desire in me to kneel before a man while he grips my hair that at times is so strong it’s all I can think about. I have never acted on it before, but I have been seeking it for years.
I guess I use the word seeking loosely. I started to tell my sexual partners that I liked it rough a couple of years ago, and while the response was positive, (‘yeah, let’s have rough sex!’), the actual experience was lacking. I started to think that maybe I was inherently selfish for always wanting to be on the bottom until I realized that it wasn’t because I was lazy or because I didn’t want to reciprocate; it was because I wouldn’t have to be in control. Whoever is on top is the one with the power, and I want to have my power taken away.
Let me just interject, before we go any further, a quick clarification: I had a great childhood. My parents are kind, caring, and loving, and I wanted for nothing. I probably had a better childhood than most people reading this blog. I’m a pretty normal girl–I like to shop, go out with my friends, cook breakfast and do yoga. I want the same things out of life that most women do: success in my career, financial security, love, good friends, and a great body. There was no traumatic event that lead to these desires and honestly, I’m approaching this quest to experience submission, s&m, whatever you want to call it, with as much apprehension as anyone would. I wanted to share this experience not only so that people can see what it’s like from a first-hand perspective, but also so that I don’t have to go into it alone.
Anyway, coming to this realization has been my entire life in the making. My last boyfriend made a valiant effort in trying to dominate and control me; he even spanked me once or twice and pulled my hair occasionally. I have to give the guy credit; its hard to ask someone to hurt you when he a) loves you and b) doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body. Either way, after that relationship ended, I resolved to try to figure out what exactly these desires were that weren’t being fulfilled.
Now I know that s&m, or bdsm, is multifaceted, so let me try to be clear here, (as clear as a beginner like me can be ): I want to be controlled, dominated, overpowered. I like to be hurt, I derive sexual pleasure from feeling pain–not all pain, mind you. I don’t think I want to be punched in the face, or cut, or have anything to do with blood, really, (although its difficult to know specific limits when they haven’t been tested). Either way, the upshot is that I decided to seek out someone who could take me on a walk through the darker side of life’s pleasures and show me the strength that lies in yielding, (book reference, anyone?).
I started with craigslist–don’t laugh! I didn’t know where else to begin. How does one find a master/Dom/whatever you call it? As I scrolled through the litany of testosterone and misogyny, I felt a little despondent. Am I in some way betraying my gender by feeding into this submissive woman stereotype? Am I going to be reviled as an example of weakness and depravity? I resolved to make clear to whomever I became involved with that I would be submissive only in the bedroom and that in all other areas of life, I would reign supreme as the Leo queen I was born to be.
It turns out a lot of ads on craigslist say the same thing: searching for random rendezvous or spanking sessions. I stumbled upon one that sounded intriguing; he described himself as being creative and calculating.
So I responded in much the same way as I began this post, describing myself as anything but submissive, but harboring darker desires:
“It was the word calculating that made me pick you out of the others.
I’m 5’1″, 125 lbs. Petite and curvy. Dark hair, light eyes. Smart, sarcastic, and pretty.
Coffee sounds good.”
We began to email back and forth; the transcripts are as follows, (for privacy purposes, I’ll call him ‘A’, and I’ll be ‘M’):
A : ” Hi, nice to hear from you. Do you want to actually indulge this desire or is it ilkely to stay a fantasy? It’s ok if you’re not sure you can follow through, I was just curious. Anyway, what is your schedule? Let’s meet for that coffee.”
M: “I would like to actually experience this at the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing. That said, it has to be the right person and that I can’t know without meeting. There’s a possibility I have Friday afternoon free. Does that work for you?”
A: “Of course it has to be with the right person, and you are right that there is no way to know something like that without meeting. As far as Friday, I could be available to meet late afternoon/early evening after work. What time did you have in mind?”
M: “Do you think maybe you could tell me a little about yourself or send a picture? I was thinking, tentatively, somewhere around 4 or 5. What do you think?”
A: “Well, I don’t mind sharing a photo, but you didn’t respond with your own. I didn’t press the issue because I’m willing to meet without, but happy to send you one in return if you would like to exchange. The basics overall, I’m a 35 year old white male (how old are you by the way?), work in finance. I am cleancut, and would describe myself as the cute guy next door type, very nice and normal and no one would suspect my interest in this area. I’m a decent conversationalist I like to think, so no matter what, I think we’d have a pleasant time over coffee or a drink.As far as Friday, probably the earliest I could do is 4:30, but that would work as of now. The only thing is you don’t seem to check this email during the day which might make it hard to plan. I guess get back to me when you can and we can try to meet.”
M: “I’ve attached a picture–I’m 2* years old by the way. If you need to meet later we can. I have the whole afternoon off. I’ll try to keep my phone with me today to check my email.”
A: “Thanks for the photo, here is one of me. 4:30 tomorrow would be fine. You’re off today? What do you do by the way, not sure you ever said? I work at a private investment firm.”
When he finally sent me a picture, I was so taken aback by how normal he looked. How normal he looked? What do I think I look like, the woman seeking out this relationship? Abnormal? Sexually deviant? Either way, I told him so.
M: “Wow, you look so… Normal. Is that weird to say? I mean, I’m not sure what I expected.. Anyway, I’m a stylist so my hours vary. I am working today though. What would be a convenient place to meet? I live in Brooklyn but work in downtown mostly.”
A: “Well not sure what you were expecting haha but yes, I am extremely normal, no one who knows me would ever suspect something like this and I do keep this side very private. So the most convenient thing for me would be around my office in midtown east as I have plans uptown afterwards. If that is ok with you I can suggest a place to meet me.”
I never responded. It’s not that he was unattractive; he just looked so ordinary. I probably wouldn’t have even noticed him if we passed each other on the street. I feel stupid saying this, but I just couldn’t picture being at all threatened by him–I certainly don’t think I could take orders from him. I was afraid I might giggle if it ever came down to it, (what a way to ruin a good s&m session). I never wrote back and he never asked why.
Back to the drawing board.
Tags: culture, dominance, life, lifestyle, my life, people, personal, random, relationships, S&M, sex, submission
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