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That ArmyDude is a right treasure chest of surprises.
Before his hand almost went where I’m still not convinced nature intends, he asked me to don the strap-on and penetrate him.
I fret about lack of control over the harness and dildo with even the gentlest use; I can’t feel anything except the dildo’s base pressing into my pelvis. The last thing I want to do is jab when I intend to glide –I imagine being ripped a new arsehole would turn someone off fake dick-wielding women for a long time.
I like to experiment though – and I’m most amiable after oral sex — so I left the harness in its box and lubed the narrower of its two dildos, working the first couple of inches into his anus with my easier-to-control hand.
He was resistingly tight, tight tight, a little tight, whoa, he was open and relaxed and with his own hand was pushing the remaining length in. I leaned into him, grabbed one of his shoulders as ballast and did the best job I could of fucking him with the lurid pink implement.
Afterwards he asked how much he had taken. Um, all of it young man, and you pushed it in there all by yourself. He didn’t believe me until he saw the sheen of lubricant running the dildo’s length.
“Now it’s my turn to play,” he said, as soon as his endorphin haze wore off.
“What?”
“You heard. On your back.”
I reclined reluctantly — expecting payback — but my wariness evaporated as I watched him masturbate and ejaculate on my labia and inner thighs.
I didn’t expect his encore performance of kneeling, lowering his head and lapping up every drop.
Holy crap, that was leagues hotter than the bi-man porn scenes I concoct in my head. I got a bit excited and grabbed his arms and said, “Get up here and kiss me, you greedy, come-stealing man-beast.” (It’s amazing how sex talk is clever and sizzling when genitals are pulsing, but nothing short of cringe-worthy in the light of recollection.)
I was given the kiss I wanted and soon received three-quarters of a fisting I didn’t know I wanted.
“Did you feel me forming a fist inside you?”
“No. All I could feel was your thumb knuckle meeting my point of resistance.”
“You must’ve felt me wriggling my fingers like this [like each finger was riding a bicycle out of synch with its neighbours].”
“You did not do that.”
“I did.”
His entire face creases and beams when he smiles like a naughty child.
“Can’t say I felt that. I was too busy trying to centre the pain at my battered little vaginal entrance.”
I held up his hand and reflected how bloody large and broad it is, like a late afternoon shadow casting behind mine. He plays basketball and can hold the ball under his fingertips; I can’t grip a discus without it crashing to the ground.
“I told you to relax and the widest part would have gone in,” he said
“And next time I’ll be using the larger dildo on you and telling you to relax.”
I also have a cheeky kid smile.
My dearest friend and I met a decade ago and became the best of drinking buddies, an anti-depression cheer squad, valued relationship confidants. We are proof that grown women can eat fairy bread at pyjama parties and take on the world with equal amounts of vigour.
Her birthday is this weekend and she e-mails daily reminders from the first of the month. We recipients press ‘reply to all’ and exchange playful jibes about her immaturity, even though her gift of enthusiasm gives us the extra birthday each year.
Two sleeps to go and I don’t know which restaurant she’s booked.
A few months ago I confided I was seeing someone casually with my partner’s consent and blessing. We talked about rationale and reasons and she was bewildered but supportive in an if that’s what you want way.
I haven’t heard from her since.
One day she might discover my well-worn shoes on the floor and walk a mile in them.
In the meantime, happy birthday, gorgeous, and safe travels.
That ArmyDude is a bit of a wild one.
When most of the building’s occupants had gone for the day, I locked the door to the open plan section of my office. He waited in the darkened spare office to the side.
The lock on the second door clicked behind me and its only key was in my hand. Same place, same time, and no one on this planet was going to interrupt us.
I flew when he pushed me backwards towards the wall — instinct curved my upper spine so my head didn’t hit the rendered concrete. First kiss, oh wow, he has cushiony lips, too; this must be what it’s like kissing me. There’s something indescribably hot about a man who likes to kiss.
My god, how long has it been since I kissed a smoker? First live-in boyfriend? Years, decades? Be quiet brain, focus on the olfactory assault later.
Fingers clamped his buttocks and pulled him closer – any gap between us was too far. He sucked my tongue. Clothes billowed like kites.
I think I got the angry red mark above my eyebrow when he bent me over the two-drawer filing cabinet. The whiteboard ledge came towards me too quickly to stop in time.
He licked me through my underwear and peeled the sheer material aside to insert fingers. My palms are sore from gripping the filing cabinet’s sharp corners. My forehead aches because it might have made contact with the wall once or twice when his tongue pressed my clitoris and anus.
I turned, told him to kiss me and share my taste. We had different sensory experiences: he could taste only me, and I only him. Cigarette smoke must be the only substance more powerful than my pussy juice.
I slid downwards and locked my mouth on his cock. Wanked him, licked his balls, gripped the magnificent slabs of thigh supporting his shaking legs. A large hand pushed the back of my head further down his shaft. I was surrounded by a force field of adrenalin and nothing could hurt me. Thwuck, thwuck sounds as he made me mouth-fuck him. I remembered not to leave obviously human marks like fingernail tracks down his back, but his hamstrings will bear blue-black smudges.
Thank goodness I didn’t remove the condoms from my purse after the last postponement. My back is a roadmap of red criss-crosses from being fucked across the floor on the industrial-grade carpet. His knees will be rouged discs from fucking me across the floor. Nice tattoos on his chest and biceps; I wanted to bite them.
I can’t explain the tender area on my sternum or matching sore spot to the side of my navel. Haven’t a clue about the three small bruises on an inner thigh.
He crouched on all fours and asked me to tongue his backside. Oh god, no exaggeration when he said he liked all manner of anal pleasures. He wanted fingers. Saliva everywhere as makeshift lubricant; one finger, two, asking for three. Now my knees are carpet-burn red.
Kinky bastard backed into me for more. My other hand found his illegally hard cock. Wish I had a third here and he or she could be sucking him off at the same time. I masturbated and fingered him until his legs gave way. Needs some skin left on his knees. He can go home like that because he has Army games this weekend and abrasions are easily explained.
I scalded my hands grasping the hot water tap for an anchor when he bent me over the ensuite basin and drove into me again.
Four fingers possessed by demons replaced his cock — I’ll either split in half or come. The sound of masturbating behind me prompted every cell to explode, almost to the point of black-out. Thanks, body, if I had known that fucking in every different way over a basin and having my vagina shredded would get me off, I’d have done this years ago.
Sweat from above dripped on my back. He looked pale and needed to sit. Hard to support someone 30 kilos heavier when my post-orgasmic, bloodless legs were about to fall off. I helped him hobble to an office chair to rest until his breathing slowed.
I think I broke him.
Frustration from the build-up and let-downs with ArmyDude forced me to shroud daydreams of him with sanity-preserving resentment. I cannot let you affect me any more. My strategy collapsed the moment he appeared in my office doorway, dressed in camouflage combat uniform (he still serves in a part-time military unit and was on his way out to a training exercise).
A rare blush betrayed my indifference and I was quietly thankful to be alone in the room, my naked desire laid out without permission. He guessed his uniform would melt my professional mask and said later that he scanned the room before revealing his presence.
“Hi,” he said.
“Fuck off,” I said. I didn’t know if I was serious or facetious, probably both.
Fuck me.
Hard.
Now.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” Yes. I want you to push me against the wall and hurt me.
“Do you like?”
“Yes.” Yes. Don’t leave. My eyes haven’t taken their fill.
“I feel stupid in this uniform.”
“You don’t look stupid.” I told you my most carnal fantasies involving you in uniform and you know what we’re both thinking. Why can’t I ask you to leave so I can forget you?
With my thoughts left fully jumbled and without meaning, he executed a burly version of a fashion twirl and marched out after a perfect salute. I stared at the doorway for a long while.
His next text message asked me to describe what was going through my mind. I wanted to withhold the truth and punish him for being the more resilient — for having the strength to be playful — but he deserved a break from my waspishness.
Only that I would like to wear nothing except my collar, have you pull my ponytail and force me to kneel between your legs. Make me pull down your pants and suck you violently. Leave the rest of your uniform on and violate me until every hole is raw and swollen. You damn well know that.
A hint of opportunity arose, something to rest renewed hopes on. His car was with the mechanic and he called in to ask for a lift to work.
“Yes, of course. I can pick you up on the way.” Be warned if my car wasn’t so small, I’d take a detour to the nearest park and leave us both crumpled messes in need of repair.
He was standing in the driveway when I pulled up at the appointed minute. I am trying not to want you, but I coudn’t quell the need to impress you with my punctuality. If there’s a magic ratio between the proportion of a man’s shoulders to his hips and buttocks that turns my mind instantly to sex, his form defines it. I was glad of the task of driving to take my mind off the mysteries beneath his clothes.
We discussed the fledgling ‘us’ and I tried to give meaning to my frustration: I don’t open up easily but when I do, I find it hard to switch off when I see you but can’t touch you. It’s not fun any more. He said sorry for neglect and cancelled plans; I apologised for my selfishness and lack of faith.
My thigh felt the tender stroke of his hand and I returned an exploratory touch. I am a hopeless addict of sexual build-up but terrified of navigating the supercharged moments between desire and action. No matter how many times I start anew, I feel as if I’m on a first date, not knowing if the other person wants to hold hands.
He broke the silence and asked if I was wet.
“Yes.” The only thing holding me on the seat is my seatbelt but I am sometimes awkward and socially backwards and don’t know how to tell you.
His hand shifted between my legs and they parted in encouragement. He rubbed and kneaded until my tracksuit pants stuck to my skin. The over-ripe smell resulting from his touching filled the air in the cabin; I was thankful my work locker held my business clothes.
My free hand found his erection as if it were coming home, and felt an unbreakably hard cock through layers of strained fabric. He unzipped his pants and pried his underwear to bring life to the nude photos he had sent. He moved my hand nearer and didn’t mind it was cold.
My fingers explored and discovered his warmth and how his cornflour smooth outer covering of skin yielded under my fingertips.
He undid the drawstring of my pants and discovered there were no more layers.
I removed my hand to negotiate the last turn before the reality of the working day fell upon us. His unmalleable erection resisted returning to the confines of elastic and cotton and wool. I noticed he didn’t wipe the hand he used on me.
It was enough for now. Next time we need to kiss.
I returned for another bout in Jekyll’s car, determined to either ditch him or drown him in my juices (over-reactive fight or flight actions are my conduct of choice when frustrated).
In the brief slip of time between arriving home from work and leaving to meet Jekyll, I tossed into my gym bag a vibrator, condoms and the unopened tub of Crisco on the chance we’d test its reputation as the fisting and handballing underground lubricant of choice.
During our warm-up chat comparing who had the most unproductive work day, Jekyll’s eyes widened and he demanded I remove my pants. I glared in response and said mine would hit the deck as soon as his were off.
He asked if I wanted my clit licked.
My shoes, jeans and underwear were in a pile before I could get my tongue into gear to respond verbally.
I pulled a towel from my bag to place under my backside in anticipation of flooding his face and caring about his car’s upholstery. Jekyll asked what else was rattling about in the bag and I said the Crisco hadn’t been opened.
It was like a pervert family Christmas morning when we removed the plastic lid and peeled the tub’s protective silver foil. We looked, poked our noses in and dipped our fingers as if the vegetable shortening might come to life and bite us. We rubbed the white grease between our thumbs and fingers until it turned clear and our digits slippery. It tasted bland but acceptable enough if dollops reached our mouths during hands-on testing. We pondered if people really used a cake-making ingredient to insert human body parts into other human body parts or if we’d been taken for a ride. We wiped our hands on the towel and placed the open container on the dashboard for later. The electric blue tub and its pound of contents stared at us mockingly as if we were too scared to play.
Jekyll folded his legs into car’s floor cabin and licked, fingered and slurped until all I could hear was my breathing. I went to a glorious place where my body turned on and my brain turned off and nothing mattered but the tiny mass in my centre where our surfaces connected.
My hamstrings strained to secure my body higher up the backrest and allow Jekyll’s fingers more room to move. I wriggled into his first two, burbled something unintelligible when the third entered and lost the power of speech when the last finger slid against the upper lining of my vagina.
So close to making the car rattle on its axles and forgiving Jekyll for any sin of the past, present and the entire fucking future. Please, body, I will crawl along a highway of broken glass to pass the stubborn gatekeeper between tension and release.
I asked Jekyll to rest his tongue when the cruel remnants of medication dangled relief an unreachable grasp away. He noticed my stagnation and enclosed his thumb in his hand, toying with my already-stretched cunt. We played with pushing and holding, retreating and re-trying, stretching and contracting.
“Feel that,” he said.
My right hand groped a digit-less forearm and I yelped.
“Where are your fingers?” my last functioning braincells asked.
“Inside you, silly.”
He guided my hand to the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the last undulation my vaginal entrance was reluctant to accommodate.
“Want to try the Crisco?” asked Jekyll.
“Why the hell not?”
He allowed his vaginally-lubricated hand to slide out and mixed my secretions with the greasier substance. I stretched and relaxed to settle myself for the battle of the last knuckle.
Jekyll’s hand slithered to its previous progress mark within seconds, and I heard him whisper, “Ninety-nine per cent, want to try for the last bit?”
“Please,” I said.
I didn’t have time to finish my sentence because he was in. Almost an anti-climax.
My brain exploded.
Jekyll tried to articulate the moment but my mouth uttered a jumbled, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, overload.”
He asked what was wrong.
“Shut up! And don’t move.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, brainy full. Shuddup.”
He closed his mouth but twisted his hand a few degrees at a time to test the effect. I reacted with yeses and nos as his subtle movements translated into buzzes of pleasure and pangs of discomfort. He said I felt full inside, which I agreed with but also found hard to believe considering his hands are of average size.
The oh fuck, there’s a whole human hand in me concept loosened its hold and I marvelled at the everyday miracle of women popping miniature humans out of their bodies.
I felt his tensed forearm again and marvelled at the I-don’t-know-what of the last few minutes. Like the night I was close to handballing Hyde, there were no sexual connotations at this stage; we were awestruck by the mechanics rather than the sensations.
Jekyll asked if I wanted a photo.
“Um, yes, no, oh, I don’t know, I don’t think I could look at it. Oh, maybe, I don’t know. Can you reach your phone like that?”
His spare hand was within reach of his mobile phone resting in the centre console. As he fiddled with the settings, I spread my thighs to minimise the effect of eating too much comfort food over winter in a surge of camera shyness and silly vanity (in case I did want to peek at the photo one day).
I caught sight of the stump of Jekyll’s arm between my legs when the flashlight illuminated the cabin. I reached mental overload again and it was time for his hand to be removed.
The extraction of his hand was like giving birth to the head of a giant octopus and his fingers were its tentacles. They kept coming out and coming out and I nearly yelled at the never-ending slippery intruders to get the fuck out of my body. A lifetime later my vagina was my own and thankfully Jekyll’s octopus child turned into a hand again.
We wondered and analysed and kissed and decided we were rampantly in need of a good old-fashioned fuck. The night so far had been surreal so Jekyll continued the theme and lubed my anus with his greasy hand. He ordered me on all fours as he wiped his hands and applied a condom.
We muddled about in the confined space and found a happy medium with my face wedged between the seat and headrest and my legs splayed wherever they fitted. Jekyll covered my back from behind and did a rollicking good job of pounding my arse.
He is a confident lover but purrs with the best when he receives compliments, especially my dead-honest feedback between moans and gasps that it’s been the best-feeling anal sex I could remember.
“In how long? Weeks, months, years?” he asked during thrusts.
“I don’t know.” Oooh. “Probably forever. Don’t know if it’s you or, hmmm, the heavier lube or both but, ahhhh, I don’t remember backing into a cock like this to get more.”
He’s sweet (and backhandedly asking for more) when he says if I keep talking like that he’s going to come.
I provoked him with the most vulgar dialogue I could channel and was drowned out when throaty groans and wails signalled his orgasm. He collapsed on my back as I fell down the seat in a helpless lump.
We cleaned ourselves and congratulated each other’s talent for causing so much mayhem in barely an hour. As I searched for my belongings, Jekyll offered to send the photo to my phone.
My skittishness returned.
“Okay, but not Bluetooth because it’ll open on the screen and I can’t look at it yet. Send a text and do not dare text me for the rest of the night, because I’ll forget and open it accidentally.”
I ignored the discreet buzz as the image hit my inbox and skipped to my car, forgetting how to drive and where I lived and how I managed complex tasks like remembering which traffic light meant stop and which said go.
My leg and glute muscles are strained from maintaining anatomically unusual positions but the important bits have bounced back to normal. I’m curious to try his hand again now the ignorance and apprehension have been dealt with and I can focus on how it feels.
I had junk food sex with Jekyll a few nights ago. A mid-afternoon phone call fuelled by hungry libidos saw us an hour later having a quick-to-consume, tasty yet ultimately unfulfilling fuck in the passenger seat of his car.
Apparently I wanted a lot more but didn’t realise it until I was driving home and felt a twinge of the Why did I do thats? I had launched myself a little too hard at Jekyll: his seat was reclined, his pants were caught in the brake pedal and his cock was in my mouth barely after saying hello. He reciprocated with an aggressive hand down my pants spreading the damp patch in my underwear.
Between the phone call and hook-up we exchanged a few messages about progressing the fisting of my vagina, however, carnality won the war over finesse.
The removal of our shoes and pants occurred with speedy precision (we have knotted our legs together like denim snakes enough times to know that no one makes a move until all legs move freely, regardless of the need to screw at that very second. I don’t remember teenage messing with boys in cars being so tricky, but perhaps we were all shorter then and the best old cars had bench seats).
I bolstered a leg against the door into a V to steady the approaching Jekyll as we manoeuvred limbs and torsos into a workable position with him on top of me. One of my arms gripped the driver’s seat on one side and the other clung to the handle above the rear window that seems to serve no purpose except hang onto when trying to fuck like old-age teens in motor vehicles (and hang dry cleaning, I guess).
He grinded his cock into my pelvis until I wanted to kill him and he (unknown to me at the time) was close to coming. He slipped inside my flooded cunt and hit a strapping rhythm. I had a spare leg not doing much so I wrapped both of them around his legs to secure him so he didn’t hit his head on the roof.
Within 30 seconds he was close to coming and stopped while inside me for some recovery time. He was ready to finish and I was only just ramping up. My vaginal muscles tremored involuntarily – as they are prone to do when they’re excited – and he groaned in orgasm.
Shit.
He laughed that I shouldn’t have flexed my muscles.
Hey, buddy, I was after a solid pounding that would make me bow-legged for a week; I hardly think I made my pussy do the rumba intentionally.
Shit.
The glowing lime of the dashboard clock said there was not enough time for me to come before he had to leave. We cleaned the mating smells off ourselves, replaced the squashed piles of clothing on our bodies and kissed goodbye. He left with a smile on his face and I pondered why I did something that left me hungrier than when I started.
I have been using the solar system as a pretty darn good representation of my personal life.
The Drummer is the sun and I am Mercury who circles closely. Jekyll orbits as the nearby Mars, Hyde is the faraway but occasionally visible Jupiter and Army Dude can be Earth (in close proximity, body hard as a rock and is expected to be rather hot on the inside — the dodgy comparison is working so far). The Drummer is the constant, the planets have their unique orbits and this is how I will manage my interactions.
The theory worked beautifully until yesterday when The Drummer and ArmyDude bumped into each other on the street.
They are loose acquaintances, but this is the first time they’ve met since I told The Drummer I’d like to proceed with ravaging ArmyDude.
The Drummer relayed casually that they had said hello. My smile flipped vertically when ArmyDude sent an e-mail trying to describe new feelings of paranoia and uncertainty.
He isn’t showing signs of insecurity about potential comparison with another male who knows him, or the thought of sharing (as was evident by some men from the dating site who fled upon realising I wasn’t deprived or dissatisfied). He also appears to have faith in my promise of every privacy except his identity — I have already been handed a couple of desires unlocked from his chamber of secrets.
I replied that the source of anxiety might be that his veil of anonymity as the ‘other’ has been lifted. I don’t feel comfortable sneaking around the outskirts of his marriage but that’s the price of admission I am choosing to pay. His is to know this time around he can’t hide and a third person is keeping a quiet eye on him as my protector.
He cancelled a planned lunchtime catch-up today at the last moment. What does this mean, oh, mysterious universe?
Just when the anti-depressant residues are leaching out of my system and I want to road-test my new ‘old’ self that orgasms, it feels like I couldn’t score a fuck in a brothel with a fistful of fifties. “I’m here!” I feel like shouting to the world, “You, person with a dick, come and get me.”
The Drummer apologised recently for his current lack of interest in sex. I’m more amazed than annoyed as he’s the man who can get himself off up to five times a day and I used to worry about not keeping up with him. I helped masturbate him to orgasm yesterday and everything still works, but self-tinkering with prescription medication seems to be messing with his sex drive. I fixed myself up later in the day with some lube and the buzzing gift from heaven I bought on my last shopping trip.
Mother Nature threw a spanner in the sexual works a couple of days ago. I don’t like penetration when I’m bleeding, smelly (my sense of smell amplifies at that stage of my cycle and I dislike the merest whiff of my purging), cramping and double checking that tampons are out and towels are down if sex is on the menu. Too much fucking about but that doesn’t stop my mind spinning like a kinky porn DVD of everything I’d like to be doing.
With a bout of warmer weather shining on the southern hemisphere, Jekyll and I explored a park yesterday to determine its suitability to play out some outdoor fantasies. On first glance it was everything we hoped for: isolated car parks, bushland, sturdy outdoor furniture and undercover picnic benches. I want him to sit at a bench as I kneel on the ground and suck his cock while he controls and manoeuvres me with the lead attached to my collar. I also want to be on all-fours atop a picnic bench as he stands on the seat and takes me from behind. If that doesn’t wear us out, I also envision him bracing himself against a tree as I remove his jeans and tongue his arse until he’s so lust-crazed we collect scratches attacking each other on the ground. I wonder if Hyde is into the great outdoors. He’ll get an invitation, too.
On a more detailed recce the park’s features became everything the fun police have stuck their noses into: every stick of furniture is in open spaces under a light aircraft flight path and the scrub is too sparce (I trotted off to pee in the densest bush I could find and Jekyll wolf-whistled when my pants came off – an unconventional but effective way of testing visibility).
We traipsed around until sunset and returned to his car. I sucked him off as he reclined in the driver’s seat before we went our separate ways. He set me a challenge of masturbating but not climaxing for two days and I may have already broken his rules once or twice. I hope for a darn good spanking as punishment next time we meet.
Tensions are rising with ArmyDude. He has returned to his former workplace and we have been flirting incorrigibly with text messages and guardedly in code using e-mail. I keep thinking about his arms in short-sleeved shirts: forearms muscular and sinewy from years of weight training but tapering to refined wrists in contrast, as if he could snap me like a twig or seduce me with a velvet touch at will. Right now I’d like a lot of both. We were thinking about meeting this weekend but his plans changed at the last minute; I’m somewhat relieved as I might eat the poor man alive and scare him off. And I want to feel him inside me discovering, feeling, pushing, pulling, pleasuring, until we’re both sweaty and hurting. And not worry about tampons and towels.
Frustration doesn’t become me.
The rest
The past suddenly bores me (seems to be a reflection of my present worldly ennui) so time to hit the ‘publish’ button and close this chapter of the past before returning to my ‘now’.
I accuse myself of thinking and analysing too much and sometimes taking too little action. The mental side of bondage and discipline is one of the few things that makes me live in the now: when I was bent over M1’s knees with my bare backside catching the breeze and trying to predict when a blow would land, I’d know I was alive. The guesswork of trying to sense when, where and how hard I’d feel an impact clears my mind of all other thoughts and makes me live each second. The constant anticipation is unexpectedly draining and the only time I’ve needed my safeword was not from physical pain, but because I had hit mental and sensory overload.
When my left wrist and left ankle cuffs were clipped together and my right side was a mirror image, nothing existed in life except the moment and trying to predict the next few seconds of my life. Would M1 straddle me and make me gag on his uncircumcised cock? Or find the uninterrupted view of my wet cunt too much to handle and fuck me in this defenceless state? If he was in a pleased frame of mind, he’d pull the collar so my neck and head were suspended in controlled animation as he fucked me. I will walk barefoot to the end of the earth across molten lava fields to experience that mix of control and helplessness again; joyfully, Jekyll has developed his own spin of biting my ear while holding a hand around my throat. I don’t know how and don’t know why but I get lost in a rush of conflicting but compatible discomforts and pleasures.
One day M1 took me to a shop that specialises in fetish clothing and accessories. My eyeballs almost exploded from the phantasmagoria of books, clothing, collars, toys, chastity devices, footwear and hitting implements. I wish, though, it wasn’t one of those uncomfortable pauses in people’s conversations that I said a little too loudly, “It’s like a big jewellery shop … but … with really cool stuff.” I received a glare from M1 for slipping out of role but the man at the counter and I shared a secret smile.
I’ll always remember the night M1 was driving us home from the fetish club and we were pulled over by police for roadside breath testing. I relaxed in the passenger seat as he had his alcohol level tested, knowing he’d be under the limit, but forgetting I was still clad in collar, cuffs and the leash draped in my lap until the policeman’s torch illuminated my side of the cabin. Whoops. Hello. That was the start of many policeman fantasies that are yet to be fulfilled.
M1 was the medium through which I found ways of creating lightness in what was a pit of cerebral darkness. And gave me the first sex I’ve had on a New Year’s Eve – brief, sweaty and uncomfortable in stifling humidity but this year is the only one I’ve started with a bang and a smack.
The good (and the funny)
From a deeply depressed period when physical pain and disrespect were what I craved and thought I wanted, I underwent a period of sexual evolution like a child left in a lolly shop after the doors were locked for the night. I’ll have a big, big bag of B(ondage), fill this box with D(omination), give me a few packets of S(ubmission), a handful of the other S S(adism) and I’m not sure I’ll like the aftertaste of M(asochism) so I’ll leave that for now.
Shedding the importance placed on others’ labels of people based on rituals, roles, pleasure and pain has made it easier for me to say, “I’m just me and I like what I like.” I’m not dominant, I’m not submissive, I don’t like the use of ‘switch’ in its derogative form to label those as people who don’t seem to know what they want. I’m not straight but I’m not what I think of as truly bisexual; I think ‘fluid’ is the closest term to describing my preferences. I’ll dress to my body type and not to stereotype, and if I laugh when I’m being urinated on and upset a serious humiliation session, so be it.
I like lots of things – perhaps the liquorice allsort of sexuality — and I’m sure there’s plenty I haven’t discovered yet. Try to worship my feet and I’ll use them to run a mile, but offer to bind them and I’ll be your best friend. Dress in a nappy and pretend to be infantile for me? Not in my worst nightmares. Dress in nothing and show me the vulnerability that’s usually hidden by strength? I’ll respect and honour that trust.
M1 helped that process of growth actively through his discretion and encouragement, and reflectively when I realised I had outgrown his sexual groupset and wanted to test my new self elsewhere.
M1 and I went to a BDSM club night a few times. He seemed to like that although I was collared and attached to his hand with a leather leash, I radiated a sense of the untouchable rather than possessed. Several past partners have commented on the wall I have around the core of my psyche – I didn’t know how or when I was doing it in those times, but when kneeling on the fetish club’s ageing carpet I could channel a reasonable Greta Garbo façade when I didn’t want the unaccompanied, leather-vested dominants leering at me like a potential late supper.
I liked to use the unspoken social code that others’ submissives are not spoken to without permission. In any other situation I’d treat what I consider as idiocy with disregard, but I used the periods of solitude to gaze at others going about their hidden lives. Fetish venues are a lifeline for those who have no other outlet, especially for cross-dressing men who were avoided by almost everyone (myth smashed that BDSMers were generally more open-minded than the ‘normal’ population!) but they could at least indulge their desires safely.
A female dominant caused confusion one night when she was preparing her two male slaves for a suspension bondage demonstration. Her corset so tightly bound her abundant figure that she appeared to have breasts spilling out the front and back of her body. My near-sighted eyes couldn’t tell if she was coming or going.
The Drummer may not have understood my yearnings but my roaming with M1 allowed new erotic material to fill his mind. On many occasions I’d arrive home with swollen lips, aching jaws, battered vagina and second-hand anus and The Drummer would be almost manic with lustful images of me being used by M1. Within minutes of hauling my weary frame in the door he would push me on the closest piece of floor, bedding or lounge suite and demand his fill. If we were canine, I’m sure it would have been the equivalent of re-marking his territory.
The Drummer’s protectiveness towards my personal safety didn’t align with some aspects of bondage, such as not being able to use a mobile phone at times. One morning M1 had me tied to the bed, fantasising I was his pony girl as he smacked me bright red with my riding crop. We lost track of time and I didn’t leave until later than expected, and I had forgotten to turn my phone on. Feeling refreshed and tingling after an enjoyable session, I stopped at the local shopping centre to take home lunch, having no idea The Drummer had left a dozen messages, contacted my parents and called the local police saying he thought I had fallen victim to foul play.
At the same time, I had parked my car immediately outside the police station he called because the shopping centre car park was full. I stopped to check my messages before getting out of the car and nearly died from embarrassment when I heard the panic that had ensued in my post-flogging daze. The Drummer was thankful I was alive but furious I had caused him such alarm, my parents had become aware that I sometimes disappear for the night (they haven’t mentioned anything since, thankfully) and the police – some of whom I know professionally – were on the lookout for me. I slinked home with my tail between my legs (and asked The Drummer to call off the police search rather than have me drop by the front counter to say I was alive and well).
