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LanceHughes -> RE: Taste Test: A First Experience with BDSM (3/12/2010 12:55:36 AM)
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Well, fine. Just fine. DAMN! It is HARD being a Dom.
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I was only supposed to get tied to a tree on Valentine's Day, amusingly. I thought that clever and comical since I'd never celebrated the holiday in three loving years with my vanilla ex-boyfriend. I could only recall one Christmas with him on which I both had ditched my parents and had spent the day drunk and fucking in slow motion on the floor while "It's A Wonderful Life" had played on TV. Cheap shag carpet sex had seemed titillating at the time. I had enjoyed thumbing my nose at Christmas sentimentality, perhaps because I'd always hated holidays that prescribed
how and when I was supposed to love someone or perhaps because I didn't like my mother and hadn't wanted to spend the day with her. Either way, I would laugh at cheap shag carpet sex by the end of that Valentine's Day. I would crush that vanilla memory under foot like the clothes that I would shed before I got out of my truck and walked into the arms of dark chocolate raspberry sex.
My friends were mostly appalled and a little bit envious when I told them whom I would be doing. They made me promise to call and to report that I was not dead in a ditch, and they asked me to take pictures to verify that he really was tall and fit and pleasant and put together like all of the other men that I'd dated. I refused to play paparazzo but I understood the urge. I couldn't shake the expectation that he would be a loony toon or else some mythical half man, half horse with a dick as big as his libido and no conversation, a figment of dark fantasies that I'd never told anyone else before him. He was supposed to be a black-hearted bastard so that I
could be my secret black-hearted bitch self with him and then go home with a great story to tell and no lasting damage to my taste buds. Dark chocolate raspberry was supposed to be a delicious indulgence but not something that I could live on all the time; decadence was not also supposed to be nurturing.
I told him that I would arrive at his house at midnight but I pushed him off until one. A night out with my family lingered on too long and I let it because I was scared a little of him and mostly of whom I might become. He had been messaging me all night to ask if I was on the way finally, to ask how I felt, to ask what I was wearing, to ask after my family. He had been getting to know me by wire for weeks, starting my days with "Good Morning" and ending them with long conversations about
the specifics of his kink, highly sexual conversations that somehow had not been dirty. I knew what I was supposed to do; I had agreed after carefully questioning every detail as though the encounter were contractual. I would show up at his house, I would get out of my truck sans clothes, makeup, perfume, lotions, and potions, and then he would dominate me. In the morning, I would make his breakfast wearing nothing, I would get fucked willy-nilly whenever he desired me, and I would want him to, he had promised me. I neither had wanted nor had been domestic and yielding for anyone else, and perhaps I was going to him just to see if it could be
true that a man would move me finally, that a man would make me come back
and not just to get my rocks off.
I played with my pussy on the drive to his house and imagined rude, taunting things to say to him when I got out of my truck. Ten minutes away, I sent him a message to "get his cock out." He wrote back that I should "get your ass here now." I drove slowly off of the interstate and then off of the main street of his tiny town onto a poorly lit rural lane. I passed his house, he sent me a message telling me to turn around, and my neck prickled because he was watching me. His house sat far off the road on an acreage much like my house in my small Southern town; it was picturesque and charming because we were both from the sunny shores of California and Florida respectively. I pulled around back of his house and up to the garage. I turned off the engine, slapped my hands to my face, and growled deep in my throat because I was crazy, he was crazy, and it was all crazy.
It was literally freezing outside. A freak snow storm had hit just the day before, but he still came out of his house naked and tall and powerful. He came to my truck door and opened it for me. I cussed him out about giving me a minute, pulled the door shut, locked it, growled again, but then I started taking off my clothes because I'd said that I would and I'd driven too far to be a punk. I put on my bitchface as a kind of armor, and then I got out of the truck and left my keys on the running board in case I needed to make a hasty escape.
He came to me and grasped my wrist. I jerked away; resistance was supposed to have been a game, but it felt very real when he dragged me around the garage to his muddy snowy yard. I shoved and smacked. He pulled and finally pushed me onto my back in a mud wallow next to a small bare tree with a slender trunk.
I had never been handcuffed before and didn't like it when the cold metal closed around my wrist. I fought hard to keep him from attaching the other handcuff to the chain wrapped around the tree, but he restrained me smoothly and a little slowly, I noticed, so that the handcuffs didn't bite, so that the tree limbs didn't scratch me, and so that he didn't injure my flailing limbs. I pushed at him with my strong thighs but that didn't keep him from pushing into me, and then he and I were abruptly fucking like piglets. I squealed and squirmed away and watched him fight off the talons of that scrawny tree to stay in my heat and to fuck me under a starry sky and on a snowy night. I laughed maniacally the way that I had in the past when good dick made me feel ecstatic. I clung to him with my thighs and then I remembered to fight; I scooted on my back in a half circle around the tree until he told me that his knees
were six inches deep in frozen mud and numb. He left me to get the handcuff keys, and for half a second I wondered whether he was sadistic enough to leave me there to freeze, but he wasn't. He was a naturalist, above all.
He took me into his house, and we both left mud all over his gorgeous wood floors. In his shower, I washed the leaves and twigs and shit out of my hair while he rinsed away the mud that we were both leaving everywhere. He didn't grope or poke or ogle me, and I wondered whether that meant that he didn't find me attractive under harsh halogen light bulbs. I got out first, and he stayed to tidy up the
shower even though I was supposed to be the submissive. He told me where to find a towel, and then after he got out, he gave me his bathrobe and slippers so that I could go out to my truck and get my things. The robe was white and cushy and voluminous as though from a four star resort. The slippers fitted like flippers because he was six five and I was five six. I walked through his darkened kitchen and noticed who he was for the first time: a man who didn't leave dirty dishes in the sink; a man with a refrigerator as smart and fancy as a Star Trek replicator; a man with a treadmill and a boxing bag in the breakfast nook instead of a table and chairs. I went out the back door, and there was nothing to see but trees in every direction which was part of the reason why I called him Wood.
I got my things from the truck and then went back resolved to make a pleasant night of it, even though he didn't seem to be amazed by me, even though he did seem to be fantasy boyfriend material and exactly the kind of man that I was too cold-hearted to hold on to. I went back to his room and asked for a tour of his house, thinking that I might find a couch to sleep on in case he shrank away from my body in his bed or in case he was a horrible snorer.
"Later," he said politely and pithily in the same way that he'd been speaking to me by wire for weeks. He pulled me to the foot of his bed, pulled his robe from me, and laid me down. He touched me roughly and fucked me like a madman and kissed me when I least expected it. It was supposed to have been one-night-stand sex, unleashed and exciting and empty. Instead it was boyfriend sex, deep and lingering but wild. He was animalistic and ruthless and nearly wordless except to ask how I felt and to threaten to stop fucking me if I didn't tell him. When I thought it was over, I turned away from him, stared at the ceiling, and tried to have a quiet panic attack. He caught me and asked how I was feeling. I wasn't willing to admit that he'd ruined me for vanilla sex so I said that I didn't want to talk about it, and when he pressed me, I said that he had worn me out or some such bullshit. He rolled over, wrapped his big body around me, and went to sleep. I didn't sleep at all. I laid as
still as a statue and over thought the whole thing.
In the morning, I burned a batch of bacon even though I stood anxiously over it trying to make it perfect. After I made breakfast and ate, I sat down to write about the experience but couldn't find the right words to put a clever, carefree spin on it. He woke up late, came and sat with me, asked what I was doing, made small talk, and then put off breakfast to fuck me on his loveseat and then on his bathroom sink ledge. When finally he ate the breakfast that I'd made, he praised me and thanked me and washed his own dishes even though I was supposed to be the submissive. Then he took my hand and took me back to bed for another power fuck and a nap. I learned how to sleep with him: spooning and cupping his junk as though it belonged to me.
When I woke up, it was time to make dinner. Though he didn't eat much, he gave me an appreciation fuck for my effort. When I woke up again, it was hours before he had to go to work, but I didn't stay in bed so that he could break me off another in a seemingly endless supply of fervent screws. I got up, got ready to go, cranked up my truck against the fresh snow, and then I went back to his bed fully
dressed for the first time in two days. I yanked his earlobe and said that I was leaving. Still half asleep, he said that was okay. On the way home, I listened to Chaka Khan's "Ain't Nobody" and tried not to remember that I'd left in such an asshole fashion. I tried to leech the feelings out of it with thinking.
I tried to start filing it away as the boldest, bawdiest, most beautiful thing that I'd ever done with my body, a thing as signature as my ink, and the reason why nothing else in life could stop me. He'd pushed me to an awesome new me, and it was so moving that I cried fast in hot purging tears that I would only confess weeks later and only after I was prepared to endure any kind of torture in place of admitting that
I was in love.
I told myself, over and over, "You don't do that. You don't fall. You only get strapped down and turned out and totally sprung on a man who was just supposed to be something fun that you did last month."
(Thanks, Wood)
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