How I Forgot There Was A D in BDSM

“Well,” she said, “so what are you into?”

We both had pints in our hands; the bar was packed full with after-work drinkers. This being the very centre of London, five minutes from Oxford Circus, we could barely stand. Somebody’s elbow was poking into the small of my back.

I hesitated. And then leaned in, my lips grazing her ear, and I told her in a gentle whisper.

“You know. Rope. Whips. Gags. Blindfolds. The usual.”

And this time, straightening up, I saw her eyes widen for sure.

I explained my past to her. I talked about how hard I’d found it to mention this stuff to anybody. And she began to open up as well. That she’d always been a little bit interested - she’d seen Secretary, she’d read Fifty Shades, and she’d enjoyed them - but that she’d never acted upon it or come to terms with it. I was enchanted and sympathetic. And also, obviously, I had a jeans-tugging, denim-itching hard-on.

“If we did do this,” she said, one beer later, and her eyes were shining, “I could back out at any time and you wouldn’t be annoyed.”

“Of course,” I said, and meant it.

She sipped at her drink.

“No anal,” she added. “And no urination, and no defecation.”

I’m more than a little proud that I managed to conceal my complete and utter shock at this ultimatum - allowing me to maintain my composure long enough to decide whether I should cheerfully reassure her that I had no intention of doing any of these things to her, or pretend to be disappointed (implying that I was exactly that kind of thrillingly liberated dominant for whom absolutely nothing was out of bounds).

I went with the first one, and we had a good laugh about it.

Then I squinted at her, poker-player style.

“How about a collar?” I suggested.

Her mouth fell a little open.

“Uhhh,” she said, awkwardly, “maybe we should just keep it simple, to start with?”

I shrank back into my figurative shell. My penis made a similar motion.

“Yes,” I said, nodding vigorously. “Yes, that makes sense. Keep it simple. Of course.”

We arranged our first session for that Saturday. That left, however, an entire five days of unbroken 9-to-5 contact for things to go wrong. Some things did.

“I don’t understand gags,” she said to me, at one point, smoking a cigarette outside the office doors.

I gave her a baffled look.

“It’s to stop you from making any noise,” I explained.

“Yes,” she said, “but I’m not going to make any noise. So it doesn’t really seem necessary.”

“It’s,” I said, waving my hands in the air, “you know. A power thing, a control thing. The fact that I can stop you from crying out. In the same sort of way that the bondage stops you from moving.”

“Oh,” she said, in a voice that implied she very much didn’t understand.

I felt sick, to my stomach; I felt like a sicko.

“Now, listen,” she said. “I don’t want to see any nervousness from you. Is that understood?”

“Er, OK,” I replied, suddenly feeling incredibly nervous indeed.

“Just remember,” she said, “until we get into your house, I’m still in charge. All right?”

“You do know where the clitoris is, don’t you?” she said.

“I want a poem,” she said.

“What?”

“If I’m going to come on Saturday,” she said, “I want a poem from you. About what you’re going to do to me.”

I was aware that there was a game being very consciously played here, and that I was failing miserably to assert myself in the dominant role against her. Unfortunately, being inflamed with a craven and quite pathetically desperate lust to indulge my lifelong fantasy, I was willing to go along with whatever she wanted. (Besides which, I couldn’t really think of an answer that would give me the upper hand in this game. My move: “I’m not going to write you a fucking poem.” Her move: “I’m not going to let you tie me up and abuse me.” Checkmate in two.)

So, in the end, deeply hungover, I wrote it. A sort of e.e. cummings tribute, pun intended.

i'd begin with your wrists,

soft scarf or silk tie,

wound round, tugged taut-

pinning back the elbows

until even wriggling becomes hard.

lead you to the place,

black drawn across your eyes

something hard between your teeth-

see nothing, say nothing, do nothing

but moan, and struggle.

The hard seat of a chair pressing against your tits

your wrists loosened, re-pinioned, your legs spread

your arse upwards, exposed.

slap you raw, shivering with each thwack

harder, no more, more

let you loose, unveil your eyes, tell you to strip.

not too fast.

draw rope round your tits

shape them, tease them, pinch them

decide you've seen enough.

lay you down in fresh duvet

one arm to either side of the headboard

legs drawn out, star-shaped, yanked tight

silence and darkness

and from out of the darkness something cold against your nipple

or something soft and ticklish

or something hard,

working up your throat to your lips

down over your belly

to your cunt

and around and exploring

and you squirm

and you writhe

and you drool

and I press my lips to your cunt and I tongue

and you strain against your bonds

upwards, curving

excited

your fingers gripping rope

silence and darkness

you're alone here and fucking ready to cum

but silence and darkness

you could scream

ropes loosen

you're led to your feet

stumbling a halter around your waist

back down the stairs

helpless

wrists raised

tight cable-ties yanked into the flesh

a torrent of freezing water to make you shriek

and the blindfold lifts and the water warms

and I look into your eyes and clasp your hair

and let my cock rise into your cunt and lean you up against the wall of the shower

and your moaning's muffled

and your bound wrists slip over my head as I pound you

and pound you

and cum

and once we're done you begin to think it might be over with

you don't know whether you're relieved or disappointed

but I pin you back up and spank your cheeks

and wash you, and once the shower's done I towel you off

and tie your waist again and lead you back to the bed

knot a rope twice, tie it down across your belly, pinching into your cunt and back between your arse-cheeks

the knot thrumming and tingling between the lips every time you shift

and tie you down and leave you to play alone in the darkness

and you're exhausted and aching

and i bind your ankles together and lie with you, surrounding you

and afterwards, i untie you

It wasn’t a terrible poem, in the end, but there can be no doubt whatsoever that I had - to my lasting shame - fallen headlong into the trap that must surely await so many callow young wannabe doms. I'd failed to play the game. I'd fucked up big-time.

I’d forgotten to actually be dominant.