Taste Test: A First Experience with BDSM

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Taste Test: A First Experience with BDSM - 3/7/2010 11:24:26 PM

beej

Posts: 145
Joined: 1/24/2010
Status: offline

(written as a second person narrative for your entertainment. for me, it was an ideal first experience)

You were only supposed to get tied to a tree on Valentine’s Day, amusingly. You thought that clever and comical since you’d never celebrated the holiday in three loving years with your vanilla ex boyfriend. You could only recall one Christmas with him on which you both had ditched your 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. You had enjoyed thumbing your nose at Christmas sentimentality, perhaps because you’d always hated holidays that prescribed how and when you were supposed to love someone or perhaps because you didn’t like your mother and hadn’t wanted to spend the day with her. Either way, you would laugh at cheap shag carpet sex by the end of that Valentine’s Day. You would crush that vanilla memory under foot like the clothes that you would shed before you got out of your truck and walked into the arms of dark chocolate raspberry sex.

Your friends were mostly appalled and a little bit envious when you told them who you would be doing. They made you promise to call and to report that you were not dead in a ditch, and they asked you to take pictures to verify that he really was tall and fit and pleasant and put together like all of the other men that you’d dated. You refused to play paparazzo but you understood the urge. You 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 you’d never told anyone else before him. He was supposed to be a black-hearted bastard so that you could be your secret black-hearted bitch self with him and then go home with a great story to tell and no lasting damage to your taste buds. Dark chocolate raspberry was supposed to be a delicious indulgence but not something that you could live on all the time; decadence was not also supposed to be nurturing.

You told him that you would arrive at his house at midnight but you pushed him off until one. A night out with your family lingered on too long and you let it because you were scared a little of him and mostly of who you might become. He had been messaging you all night to ask if you were on the way finally, to ask how you felt, to ask what you were wearing, to ask after your family. He had been getting to know you by wire for weeks, starting your days with “Good Morning” and ending them with long conversations about the specifications of his kink, highly sexual conversations that somehow had not been dirty. You knew what you were supposed to do; you had agreed after carefully questioning every detail as though the encounter were contractual. You would show up at his house, you would get out of your car sans clothes, makeup, perfume, lotions, and potions, and then he would dominate you. In the morning, you would make his breakfast wearing nothing, you would get fucked willy nilly whenever he desired you, and you would want to, he had promised you. You neither had wanted nor had been domestic and yielding for anyone else, and perhaps you were going to him just to see if it could be true that a man would move you finally, that a man would make you come back and not just to get your rocks off.

You played with your pussy on the drive to his house and imagined rude taunting things to say to him when you got out of your truck. Ten minutes away, you sent him a message to “get his cock out.” He wrote back that you should “get your ass here now.” You drove slowly off of the interstate and then off of the main street of his tiny town onto a poorly lit rural lane. You passed his house, he sent you a message telling you to turn around, and your neck prickled because he was watching you. His house sat far off of the road on an acreage much like your house in your small Southern town; it was picturesque and charming because both of you were from the sunny shores of California and Florida respectively. You pulled around back of his house and up to the garage. You turned off the engine, slapped your hands to your face, and growled deep in your throat because you were 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 your truck door and opened it for you. You cussed him out about giving you a minute, pulled the door shut, locked it, growled again, but then you started taking off your clothes because you’d said that you would and you’d driven too far to be a punk. You put on your bitchface as a kind of armor, and then you got out of the truck and left your keys on the running board in case you needed to make a hasty escape. He came to you and grasped your wrist. You jerked away; resistance was supposed to have been a game, but it felt very real while he dragged you around the garage to his muddy snowy yard. You shoved and smacked. He pulled and finally pushed you onto your back in a mud wallow next to a small bare tree with a slender trunk. You had never been handcuffed before and didn’t like it when the cold metal closed around your wrist. You fought hard to keep him from attaching the other handcuff to the chain wrapped around the tree, but he restrained you smoothly and a little slowly, you noticed, so that the handcuffs didn’t bite, so that the tree limbs didn’t scratch you, and so that he didn’t injure your flailing limbs. You pushed at him with your strong thighs but that didn’t keep him from pushing into you, and then you and he were fucking abruptly like piglets. You squealed and squirmed away and watched him fight off the talons of that scrawny tree to stay in your heat and to fuck you under a starry sky and on a snowy night. You laughed maniacally the way that you had in the past when good dick made you feel ecstatic. You clung to him with your thighs and then you remembered to fight; you scooted on your back in a half circle around the tree until he told you that his knees were six inches deep in frozen mud and numb. He left you to get the handcuff keys, and for half a second you wondered whether he was sadistic enough to leave you there to freeze, but he wasn’t. He was a naturalist, above all.

He took you into his house, and you both left mud all over his gorgeous wood floors. In his shower, you washed the leaves and twigs and shit out of your hair while he rinsed away the mud that you were both leaving everywhere. He didn’t grope or poke or ogle you, and you wondered whether that meant that he didn’t find you attractive under harsh halogen light bulbs. You got out first, and he stayed to tidy up the shower even though you were supposed to be the submissive. He told you where to find a towel, and then after he got out, he gave you his bathrobe and slippers so that you could go out to your car and get your 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 you were five six. You 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. You went out the back door, and there was nothing to see but trees in every direction which was part of the reason why you called him Wood. You got your things from the car and then you went back resolved to make a pleasant night of it, even though he didn’t seem to be amazed by you, even though he did seem to be fantasy boyfriend material and exactly the kind of man that you were too cold hearted to hold on to. You went back to his room and asked for a tour of his house, thinking that you might find a couch to sleep on in case he shrank away from your 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 you by wire for weeks. He pulled you to the foot of his bed, pulled his robe from you, and laid you down. He touched you roughly and fucked you like a madman and kissed you when you 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 you felt and to threaten to stop fucking you if you didn’t tell him. When you thought it was over, you turned away from him, stared at the ceiling, and tried to have a quiet panic attack. He caught you and asked how you were feeling. You weren’t willing to admit that he’d ruined you for vanilla sex so you said that you didn’t want to talk about it, and when he pressed you, you said that he had worn you out or some such bullshit. He rolled over, wrapped his big body around you, and went to sleep. You didn’t sleep at all. You laid as still as a statue and over thought the whole thing.

In the morning, you burned a batch of bacon even though you stood anxiously over it trying to make it perfect. After you made breakfast and ate, you 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 you, asked what you were doing, made small talk, and then put off breakfast to fuck you on his loveseat and then on his bathroom sink ledge. When finally he ate the breakfast that you’d made, he praised you and thanked you and washed his own dishes even though you were supposed to be the submissive. Then he took your hand and took you back to bed for another power fuck and a nap. You learned how to sleep with him: spooning and cupping his junk as though it belonged to you.

When you woke up, it was time to make dinner. Though he didn’t eat much, he gave you an appreciation fuck for your effort. When you woke up again, it was hours before he had to go to work, but you didn’t stay in bed so that he could break you off another in a seemingly endless supply of fervent screws. You got up, got ready to go, cranked up your truck against the fresh snow, and then you went back to his bed fully dressed for the first time in two days. You yanked his earlobe and said that you were leaving. Still half asleep, he said that was okay. On the way home, you listened to Chaka Khan’s “Ain’t Nobody” and tried not to remember that you’d left in such an asshole fashion. You tried to leech the feelings out of it with thinking. You tried to start filing it away as the boldest bawdiest most beautiful thing that you’d ever done with your body, a thing as signature as your ink, and the reason why nothing else in life could stop you. He’d pushed you to an awesome new you, and it was so moving that you cried fast in hot purging tears that you would only confess weeks later and only after you were prepared to endure any kind of torture in place of admitting that you were in love. 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)