I’m soaking wet from the moment we start negotiating on the phone the night before. I’m out of town on business and I masturbate in my hotel room to take the edge off. It doesn’t help. I get home the next day and shower briefly, rushing to put on something slutty that’s nice enough to be attractive but not precious enough for me to mind it being torn off. I experience a rush of panic when my brother’s girlfriend comes home early, and a fresh wave of relief when she falls asleep on the couch. I don’t have to explain myself on my way out the door. I lie to my brother via text, telling him I’m having dinner and going to a movie with a friend.
I get a light dinner and a couple mugs of green tea. I try to study in the cute downtown coffee shop where I’m waiting and find myself rereading the same paragraph over and over again. When I get the text telling me to come over, I feel relieved and anxious at the same time.
I don’t hesitate until I’m standing in front of the door to his apartment. I breathe, trying to to slow my pounding heart. I don’t ever actually consider leaving.
I walk in and lock the door behind me. It’s a nice apartment and the dog and cat come running over to say hello. I step farther down the hallway, looking around cautiously. I see a couch just past the open door on the left, and think maybe I’ll take off my coat and scarf and set them down on the couch.
I KNOW he’s waiting in that dark doorway on the left, but I jump and squeal anyway when he says “Hello.” I think for a minute he’ll cut me some slack and we’ll sit down and have a nice chat. A cup of tea maybe? But in reality, I didn’t even have enough time to finish that thought.
He hits me hard, in a full-body tackle. I’m on the floor before I know it and I’m still not quite sure how it happened. Maybe he grabbed the back of my neck and knocked me off balance? I can’t move under his weight. My heavy wool coat pinions my arms – I didn’t plan to have to deal with this. The next thing I know, he’s got his hand between my legs. His fingers tear at my fishnets and slide inside me. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he growls as he fucks me roughly with his fingers. My legs splay open of their own accord before I remember that I’m supposed to be resisting. I squirm and twist and manage to get an occasional knee and elbow into his torso. I haven’t fought like this since I was a pre-teen tomboy. I remember it being easier back then; I still had a height advantage on the boys. I feel pathetic. When I swing at him, he laughs and grabs my wrists roughly. A few times, I make some ground toward the door by lunging with my whole body weight, but he wrenches me back into the hallway. I end up on my back again, pinned to the floor underneath him. He deftly ties one of my wrists to a desk in the hallway. I dig my nails into his hands while he works – he just laughs. “Go ahead and do that while you can.” He pulls my coat off and pulls my scarf tight around my neck before removing it.
His weight shifts, and I manage to twist under him and get on my hands and knees with my bound wrist twisted under me. I try to buck him off, and turn and sink my teeth into his arm. This is my trump card, the thing that has always gotten me out of trouble in the past. I’m not fucking around – I want to surprise and hurt him.
He pulls my hair and wrenches my head up. “See what happens when you bite?” I don’t register what he said and don’t understand. I lunge forward and bite him again. He pulls harder. “See what happens?” The pain finally registers and I understand. He takes something crucial away from me in that moment. I want to hurt him so badly, and I start to understand that he’s not going to allow me that.
It happens again a minute later. He’s pulled me up to my knees, and my spine is arched backwards, with his arm around the back of my neck. He’s clasped my wrists in a pair of black metal handcuffs, but not untied his previous work, and the rope pulls at my left hand. My knees are splayed open. He slides his fingers into my cunt again, then into my mouth. “Clean them off.” I normally love the taste of my own fluids, but my menstrual period is just ending and it has a sour, metallic taste. And I’m still pissed off, so without hesitation I bite his fingers. He pulls his hand back and reaches for my cunt, pinching my labia. “See what happens?” I know what he’s trying to do, but the spot he grabbed doesn’t hurt me. So I bare my teeth at him instead. He slides over and pinches my clit and I gasp. He slides his fingers into my mouth again. “I don’t want to feel any teeth.” I don’t mean to resist this time, and I don’t even notice myself doing it, but I must have gagged and closed my jaw because he pinches me again. He takes a second to find the spot that hurts but I react again. Who knows if I whimpered, or moaned, or begged, but he accepts my surrender. “Let’s try that again.” I let my jaw go slack, being careful not to bite down. He moves his fingers in and out roughly, like he’s really fucking my mouth. It’s not as bad as I would have expected.
At some point he tears my clothes off, using a combination of his hands, a pair of scissors, and a safety cutter for rope play. I chose my clothes like a religious sacrifice. Fishnets were a given. The bra and thong are old but still lacy and nice. The short black skirt I’ve had since college, and it’s instigated more than its share of slutty encounters. But the elastic is wearing out and I’ve been daydreaming about getting a new one. The shirt is black and soft but too loose and low cut for even my minimal modesty. I’m a little sorry to see it go. It was the perfect choice.
He unties my wrist, leaving the cuffs on. He throws his forearm across my throat and hoists me to my feet, then shoves me toward the dark doorway. “Get in the bedroom.” I make my last escape attempt then, crouching down and backing under his arm into the hallway. He catches me effortlessly, dragging me back into the bedroom by the handcuffs and throwing me against the bed. “You almost got away,” he laughs. He turns on the light and is on me again before I can move. The ensuing struggle is a haze; at one point I’m on all fours, and he bites the nape of my neck and growls in my ear. It sends a shivering thrill down my spine.
The remnants of my shirt are still wrapped around my waist; he tugs at it but can’t break the heavy seam. I muster up some courage and sneer at him. “What – are you not strong enough?” He laughs, sounding surprised. He pins me to the ground, pulling my hair hard and breathing heavily in my ear. “Not strong enough?” Then he stands up and yanks roughly at the scrap of fabric, lifting me off the floor. I fling my cuffed hands out in front of me to avoid hitting my head. I’ll discover later that I have raw abrasions across the ribs under my right breast. Eventually, he cuts the shirt and gags me with it. I’ve never been gagged before, and I like it. I’m left in my fishnets and thong, with my hands cuffed and the black cloth between my teeth.
He crouches behind me and grabs my left wrist. He flashes his keyring at me – I think for a minute he might drag the keys across my skin. I’m okay with that. Instead he shows me the key for the handcuffs. “Do you want these off?” I don’t answer. He clicks the cuff a little tighter. “Does that hurt? Do you want to know what you have to do to get them off?” It doesn’t really hurt. I stubbornly ignore him. He squeezes again; I flinch and turn my head away but refuse to answer him. He tries again, but the cuffs are as tight as they can go. I feel a little satisfaction until he says, “That’s okay. Let’s try twisting it.”
The cuff bites my wrist as he rotates it. My head snaps up and I whimper in surrender. “Do you want it off?” I nod. He unlocks the left side and lets go of my wrist, still holding the right. He pauses, and I’m not sure why. I want to swing my hand around and slap him in the face. I’m pretty sure I could. I’m still debating it when he grabs my left wrist, twists it behind my back, and cuffs it again. I regret not taking the shot. He pushes me back onto the floor with my hands behind me. The cuffs hurt badly – I have to be careful not to roll onto them. I realize that if he puts any weight on me I’ll need to safeword, instantly.
He doesn’t. He throws me against the bed again and ties my wrists and ankles with a light red rope. I twist my head and admire the way the red rope around my ankles looks against the fishnets. I lean against the bed with my head down, breathing heavily and occasionally whimpering. I’m exaggerating a little, playing up the submissive role. He crouches in front of me and roughly pulls my head up. I look at him closely for the first time. His eyes are brilliantly blue; he’s every bit as attractive as I’d thought from his online profile pictures. Part of me breathes a sigh of relief at this. He carefully brushes the hair out of my face, and I realize I’m looking at him like a lover, with admiration and appreciation. I feel awkward suddenly and cast my eyes down and away. If he wants me to look at him, I think, he’ll have to make me do it. He doesn’t. In one quick, startling movement, he slips a blindfold over my eyes.
The next few moments are a defining moment of the encounter for me. He gets up and stands back. I’m on my knees, leaning back against the bed, bound, blindfolded and gagged. I start noticing how truly screwed I am. I have a visceral realization that nothing but his conscience prevents him from crossing our pre-established boundaries. I can hear him moving around the room, occasionally grunting but not saying anything. I imagine him looking at me with admiration and taking off his clothes. I’m certain he’s going to fuck my mouth in that moment. I gasp and whimper, open mouthed, and cringe back, pulling my knees up in front of me. In those few moments, I go from acting helpless to truly feeling helpless and frightened. The part of my conscious brain that’s still firing thinks, “Yes. This is it. This is what I want.”
He doesn’t do what I expect, but instead pushes me to the floor on my stomach. Moving quickly, he pulls my wrists and ankles together and ties me in that awkward, arched position. He uses his belt to strap my upper arms back. He tells me to snap my fingers if I need to in lieu of the tapping we’d discussed, and to tell him if my hands go numb. I notice him periodically squeezing my fingers tips, checking my circulation. He tears my fishnets again and smacks my ass a few times. Then he rolls my shoulder back, grabs my right breast from behind, and squeezes viciously. It goes on longer and hurts more than I could have ever possibly anticipated. It’s the only moment where I actually consider safewording. “Ow, owww,” I cry out. “Oh, ow,” he says mockingly, and stops, rolling me onto my belly. I start crying in a sudden flood, tears and snot welling up and spilling over.
He ruffles through the bag I brought with me, admiring aloud the slutty high heels I packed but setting them aside. He presses something against the opening of my cunt and then inside me, and I realize he’s found my favorite Lelo vibrator. He fumbles the buttons and manages to turn it on. He fucks me with it for a minute, and I start to lose my mind with lust. He leaves it running and finds the njoy anal plug I brought, sliding it gently inside me. He moans and growls occasionally, sounding as turned on as I am. Somehow he ties the two toys together, so he can move them both at once. The vibrations from the Lelo run up into the njoy plug and send shudders of pleasure through me.
He hears me sniffle and holds a scrap of cloth to my nose, telling me to blow. I feel awkward but I do it. I will hate him for this later – this, and the moment he puts his foot on my back between my shoulder blades. I realize again that he’s going to fuck my mouth, like we’d talked about so many times. This time, he does.
He leaves the toys inside me and slides around in front of me, pulling my head up by my hair and sliding the gag off. I don’t resist as he slides his semi-erect cock against my lips and into my mouth. Later, I will agonize about whether I should have fought in that moment; clamped my lips, turned my head away, threatened to bite. I wasn’t quite broken. Would I have enjoyed a more forceful initiation? Would it have made him more angry and rough? Would I have been able to handle that? What did I really want?
It lasts a little while; he gets harder but not too aggressive. I find myself licking and sucking occasionally. The angle is awkward and uncomfortable, but he supports my head on his forearms with his hands twined into my hair. At one point he uncuffs me and loosens my hands, letting me reach for the vibrator, but I can’t quite get it where I want it. He stops and unties and uncuffs my hands. He focuses for a minute on untangling the cuffs from the remnants of my panties. I shuffle on my knees toward the doorway. He laughs and hooks his arm through the waistband of my fishnets. I shuffle again a little harder, trying to bite back a giggle. I’m having fun, all of a sudden. He doesn’t punish me for it. He unties my legs but leaves me blindfolded. “Get on the bed.” I move too slowly. “On the bed,” he growls. I cautiously feel around for the bed and climb on, arching my back and trying to look graceful. He chuckles appreciatively.
I lie down and splay my legs open. I suppose I’m topping from the bottom then. He doesn’t seem to mind; he puts on a condom and slides his cock into my cunt. It doesn’t occur to me until later than I didn’t need any extra lubricant the whole night. Fucking in missionary feels amazing yet discongruently gentle compared to the rest of the night. Later, he’ll tell me that I wore him out during the fight, that he was exhausted by the time he started fucking me. After a while I beg him to let me touch myself. He acquiesces and I start rubbing my clit, coming close to orgasm. He tells me not to come, that if I do it’ll mean I liked it, and no one will believe my story. I hold back, riding the edge of it, frustrated, then remove my hands.
He pulls out and lies down next to me, and tells me to suck his dick again. I move to crouch between his legs. “You like being down there?” I nod. “Why?” I don’t know and don’t answer. He pulls my hair. “Why do you like it?” “I don’t know, I like the angle,” I mumble. It’s not a real answer – I don’t think about the question again until three days later, but still can’t answer it. He tells me I have a pretty voice when I’m not cursing at him.
Both of us push my limits in that last part of the night. I slide his penis to the back of my throat, sucking in earnest. At some point he takes off my blindfold. He thrusts against me, making me gag. I stop, trying to catch my breath, but he doesn’t approve and puts his hands on my head. “I’ll tell you when to breathe,” he says. He does, but not as much as I would like. I try to catch my breath in short interrupted bursts, between thrusts. The most fascinating, frightening, exciting moment is when he tells me, “I think you need some help.” He clutches my head and thrusts his cock as deep as it will go, saying, “Choke on it.” I feel panic when I realize what he’s about to do, but it turns out to not be so bad. When his cock is past the back of my tongue and buried in my esophagus it doesn’t hurt, and I don’t even feel the urge to gag. I can’t breathe, but I trust him to let me up soon, so I don’t try to inhale. I feel a thrill of satisfaction that I find this tolerable.
Over the next couple of days I will think of a boy I knew in high school who used to brag and rave about girls who could deep throat, and how cruel he was to all the girls in my small class. I’ll remember the way I used to drink stolen Pinot Grigio and have cybersex with him late at night, and how we’d never look each other in the eye at school. I’ll remember the other boy I lost my virginity to, who was cheating on his girlfriend and pushed my head down toward his crotch on our first date. How on our second date I told him I wanted him through a haze of alcohol and marijuana, how fluid rushed out of me when he touched me, the pain of my hymen tearing. I’ll feel a flush of anger at them for the way they handled our interactions, and an evil thrill at the knowledge that I’ll never give them the chance to do THIS with me.
He lets me up and I gasp and cough for a minute until he pushes me back down. After two or three times I start doing it on my own. He gets more excited and thrusts harder, and I start to struggle and gag. I think for a minute that he’s coming, then realize with a shock that the soup I had for dinner is refluxing into my throat. I have to lunge back and swallow frantically to avoid vomiting. I’ll never eat spicy pho before sex again; it’ll probably be a while before I eat it again at all. I try to keep going, alternating between sucking on him and licking the base of his cock while stroking it with my hand. In retrospect, I should have tapped out then, our soft safeword to move on to something else. He senses my frustration and asks me where I want him to come. He has to ask twice. I say I don’t know, burying my face in his thigh and hiding behind my hair. He helps me out, saying “You want what you want, but you want to obey me?” I nod, relieved to hear it articulated so clearly. “What do you want?” “I want you to fuck me again.” I’m practically whining and I hate the sound of it. “Where do you want me to come?” “In my…my vagina,” I say, stumbling awkwardly over the anatomical term.
He gets up and puts on a condom, then mounts me again. I reach down to rub my clit. “Did I say you could touch yourself?” “No,” I whimper, sliding my hands back up to his shoulders. I think of scratching him but hold on to him gently instead. Eventually I beg again and he lets me touch myself. I get close to coming, but he starts to lose his erection. He pulls out and slides his fingers into me. He presses intently at the sides of my vagina near the opening, and I orgasm twice in quick succession. The third orgasm takes longer. I want deeper penetration but it doesn’t feel as good as what he was doing before. I flip onto my belly, knowing it will be easier for me, and tell him to put his fingers inside me again. “Wouldn’t you like that…wouldn’t you just like that,” he murmurs, running his hands over my back. I moan in frustration. He relents finally, pressing lightly into me the way he was at the start. I think later that he must know his anatomy better than most men; that’s just the spot where the crura of the clitoris wrap around the vagina. I file it away for future reference. I finally orgasm for the third time.
A split second later his phone chimes; it’s the alarm he set for moving into aftercare. We laugh about the excellent timing. He covers me with a blanket, gets me some water, then gets back into bed and pulls me close to him. We talk about what went well, likes and dislikes, and compare battle wounds. We laugh and talk about how we got into kink, what kind of trouble we’ve gotten into since.
I wonder about the time – it’s just ten minutes before my safe call – and he sets an alarm. He pulls me close and kisses my forehead. A minute later, he asks if I would perform oral sex on him again for a bit. I quickly agree, realizing that he didn’t orgasm. He’s careful to double check – “are you sure that’s okay?” I feel like it is. Later, I realize there are a lot of things I would have done after that sweet kiss on the forehead, and I wonder whether he knew that. It doesn’t matter.
Being in control helps me focus on my usual methods, and I get him off in record time. I swallow his semen. I normally prefer not to – it often makes me nauseous – but I know he wants me to and I feel okay giving that to him. I’ll wonder later how long it’s been since I did that; eventually I’ll come to the conclusion that it’s been at least five years. It doesn’t bother me as much as I remember. He thanks me profusely. We cuddle a little longer before the alarm goes off.
I dress quickly and throw my toys and shoes into my backpack. He stays undressed. At one point, I playfully smack his ass, thinking he’ll let me get away with it. In a flash he grabs the back of my neck and forces my head down. Through my startled giggling I choke out, “Sorry!” and he lets me up. This will be one of my favorite memories later. While I’m rushing around, he shows me some handmade floggers he and his friends made. I’m impressed, but late, and I feel a sudden need to get into the open air. I kiss him quickly and dash out the door. I take a picture of myself in the stairwell, hoping for an attractively messy post-sex image. Instead I’m alarmed by the glassy look in my own eyes, but note appreciatively that after everything, the bright red lipstain I put on earlier is still visible.
My friend is late to acknowledge my check-in and I’m pissed off while driving home. He apologizes and suggests that maybe he needs to be beaten, and the idea has an instant, visceral appeal. I feel shaky when I get home but fall asleep immediately.
I work from 7-3 the next day and have only a coffee for breakfast. During the day, I notice the soreness and bruising on my wrists and rub at them periodically. I feel gleefully naughty and can’t wait to tell my friend about my night. But by the time I get home and eat, I’m shaking with hunger and almost due for my post-scene check in with my play partner. My ribs have started hurting, and the deep ache makes me feel vulnerable. I suddenly don’t want to call him at all, and feel defensive and falsely cheerful on the phone. He tells me he prefers not to meet again. We’d talked about that possibility ahead of time, and I feel angry and hurt even while I’m telling him I don’t mind. I do thank him, genuinely, for taking good care of me in scene. I tease him a little, pointing out that I can give him shit on the phone without worrying about retribution. He thanks me again and again for sharing that experience with him and helping to fulfill a longtime fantasy of his; he offers to stay in touch and tells me to let him know if anything else comes up. He says “Thank you” before he hangs up; I say “You’re welcome,” feeling a sudden fierce unwillingness to thank him for the entirety of the experience.
Later that afternoon, I confess my feelings of fragility and rejection to my friend, who reassures me with sympathy and promises of hugs and declarations of my sexiness. The confession triggers another flood of tears and I awkwardly cry at the coffee shop where I’m hanging out. A band starts playing and I realize the shop serves alcohol; the red wine and dark chocolate goes a long way toward making me feel better. I write an email to my play partner and express myself more honestly.
In yoga class the next morning, I resent even my teacher’s simple instructions. I act out a little, taking my time and staying a beat behind the rest of the class. Later, in a Warrior pose, I feel my mind and body re-connect with a soft click. I recognize the feeling as resolving dissociation and wonder where in the scene it started. While we’re lying in Shavasana at the end of the class, the teacher says, “Know that you are safe, and allow yourself to soften.” I wonder what made her say something so perfect.
I have lunch with a good friend and we take her dog out to the park. She raves about how proud she is of my professional success. I suddenly realize that one of the components of the scene was being stripped of the respect my professional identity usually affords me. I feel relieved to have it back. I give her the Cliff Notes version of the evening; she is shocked and gleeful when I confess what I’ve done. “That made my whole day,” she says. My cousin has the same response. “I’m jealous of you. That sounds great!” I start to feel better, even a little proud of myself.
I text my play partner and ask him to check his email and respond when he can. He thanks me for the reminder and promises to do so. I feel better. I spend the evening curled up in my recliner, drinking tea and watching old DVDs of boy bands and animated movies. He responds around 9pm, thanking me for expressing myself and reassuring me that my feelings are normal. As I requested, he tells me how hot various parts of our scene were for him, flattering my ego and detailing the scratches and bruises he discovered after the fact. I don’t write back. I realize that I don’t want to meet again, either. I marvel at my ability to feel simmering resentment for him on a visceral level, yet cognitively feel certain that I don’t regret the experience. I continue writing about my experience for most of the next day, entering an alternate reality of re-experiencing and processing. I feel a sense of comfort and normalcy interspersed with waves of deep aching arousal, anxiety, dissociation, anger, and incredulity at the details of what I am writing.
What have I learned? Well, I’m definitely a switch. I couldn’t live in that one-sided reality without a sense of control. I have a deep desire to hurt my partners, even if they’re topping me. It was infuriating not to be able to. At the same time, I loved being forced to change my behavior. I especially loved having the choice to act out and receive more pain, or surrender and get relief. I gained a sense of confidence in my decision making process – I felt like this play partner was someone I could trust to take care of me in scene and respect my boundaries, and he did so with amazing precision. I deeply appreciate his post-scene responsiveness – the unconditional invitation to be honest was helpful and necessary. Overall, it simultaneously felt like too much intensity and not enough – I want more of the pain and that sense of having my will broken. I feel intensely brave for having tried it. But the post-scene drop was harder than I expected; I feel a sense of having touched something hot and snatching my hand back. I think the next time I play with BDSM, I’ll hold my hand over the flame a little more cautiously, instead of plunging it straight in.