Since so much has the potential to go wrong in BDSM - from ropes that are too tight to one party suddenly feeling horribly uncomfortable to this scene from Californication, which may have permanently put me off the concept of weighted nipple clamps for life - it’s probably an absolute necessity to stay safe, sober, and in total control of yourself.
So when Suzanne met me at the Tube station, wrapped up in a thick black coat and looking deeply trepidatious, if not outright scared, I of course suggested that we go for a few soothing drinks beforehand.
“I won’t be having anything, though,” I added. “I need to be sober for this.”
She gave me a worried look.
“Why?” she asked.
I hesitated.
“Because, um…” I said, “...you know. Because of the things I’m going to do to you.”
She gave me a thoroughly worried look. And I began to feel frightened myself; I wanted to tell her that I wouldn’t do anything too bad to her, obviously. Not unless that was, you know, what she wanted.
Instead I remained silent.
We walked a little way together, both of our hands in our pockets.
“Are you nervous?” she asked.
“No,” I said, in a surprisingly strained and quiet voice. Then, realising that I was actually nervous, I rapidly became extremely nervous indeed.
And so it was almost certainly inevitable that the two of us ended up in a booth in one of south-west London’s many unbearably chic gastropubs, drinking a bottle of Prosecco, making awkward and occasional conversation, and giving each other long, wary looks.
“Are you ready?” I asked, once we were done. The wait was killing me. Nerves were piling upon nerves.
She visibly balked.
“I think I need to eat something first,” she said.
And so we headed to a nice Thai restaurant around the corner and shared another bottle of wine.
“Are you ready?” I asked, after we’d paid.
“I think I need some more booze,” she said.
By this time I was feeling, somewhat understandably, very fed up and horribly, anxiously impatient. As well as increasingly drunk.
There’s a term in the often confusing BDSM encyclopedia for a sub who primarily enjoys being dominated but who also likes to try and push her luck (or his? Although I don’t think I’ve ever encountered that). Taunting their partner, acting up, refusing to co-operate, general misbehaviour.
Brat.
I don’t know if I like it - perhaps it just plays too much into the infantilising, ‘daddy/daddy’s little girl’ aspect which I’ve never had a great deal of interest in.
But there it is, and I suppose it’s a very natural part of the entire process, since power dynamics are inevitably at the very heart of the relationship. And the whole obedience/punishment equation is screwy as hell anyway, thanks to the sexual interests of both parties involved.
Sub misbehaves = sub gets punished.
But sub likes to get punished. Dom likes to punish sub.
So sub misbehaves. Even though doing so is actually the complete psychological opposite of being submissive.
It’s the very definition of rewarding bad behaviour.
In the end, we grabbed another bottle of Prosecco from the off-licence and headed for home - where my housemates were both out for the evening, just as planned. Still, I was quivering internally during the entire walk back. What if they’ve come back unexpectedly? What if they’re having a party in there? What if they’ve found the small collection of ad hoc toys on the bed -
I don’t think I said much, during that walk.
Once we get through the front door, I told myself, everything has to change. I shed my nervousness, I become the dominant, I take charge of the situation. No more fucking about, no more compromise. Leap in head-first.
I unlocked the door, ushered inside, and we began to kiss.
“Turn around,” I told her firmly, and whipping a couple of cable ties from out of my coat pocket, I secured her wrists together, took the half-scarf out, wound it around her head, and tightly blindfolded her.
“...wait!” she said.
I stopped.
“I need to roll a cigarette first,” she said.
And, not for the last time that evening, I faltered.
What went wrong? Everything went wrong. A few very basic things went right. But more importantly, everything went wrong.
But I think we can do the sensible thing and skip ahead to the moment when I had her bound spread-eagled to the bed, dishevelled and naked, with the knotted tie stuffed into her mouth. There’d been some spanking, there’d been some awful drunken over-aggressive fingering*, and the blindfold had fallen off about a dozen times. But I’d kept going.
I kissed her cunt, straightened up and stepped out into the next room, where I’d stashed the condoms. Whipping out one Extra Thick, I took a deep breath, slipped it over my stiff prick and returned.
For obvious reasons, she hadn’t moved, but was watching me with wide wild eyes. Crouching over her on the bed, I aligned myself, leaned forward and down towards her -
- and then my penis began to sag.
I was startled, to say the least. And horrified.
Quickly, I began to tug at the base, in an effort to salvage the situation.
The condom slid neatly off the shaft and landed amongst the morass of blankets.
I got up, maintaining a stern poker face, walked into the next room, tore open another condom, masturbated myself quickly back up, and replaced it.
Everything was fine. Just a blip. Soon forgotten.
I leant back over her, refocused, aimed for her surprisingly large, all-concealing labia - and suddenly I felt incredibly, overwhelmingly caught-up in what was happening to my cock.
And so I hesitated. And glanced back down.
It drooped. Again.
Suzanne began to laugh through her gag.
I got calmly back up, walked through into the next room, and began to mouth obscenities down towards my own flaccid penis.
_______________________________
* It’s nigh-impossible to finger someone in a physically dominant way. But I was drunk and insecure, so I tried. This was just one of many bad ideas that evening.
No comments:
Post a Comment