A couple of weeks ago I took part my first scene. There was a 4-day build up to it, as we chatted online and made that initial connection, and then we moved onto WhatsApp where things quickly heated up, with him giving me instructions to do things that kept pushing me further and further past the limits I’d lived with up till then. It was intensely charged, highly erotic and my head was spinning as he introduced me to the ideas of the things he was going to do to me, and make me do, that coming Saturday night.
It was also a crash course in the etiquette of BDSM for me. I had to call him ‘Sir’; he called me a slut a lot, and subPeggy (I preferred slut). Through his naming of me, I observed this part of my psyche emerge. She was really there and I’d had no idea. As I paid attention to her, she grew in strength and became more solid. As I accepted her, instead of rejecting her as a perversion or a deviation from the norm, I became stronger. I became empowered. And with this power came liberation too. I cannot tell you how rich and fulfilling it is!
Every day I was scouring FetLife for information. If I was going to be entering this world, I needed to know about rules, and safety, and consent, and toys, and fetishes, and oh my god — there was so much to learn! I felt like a teenager again. Terrified but eager to break the spell by losing my kinky virginity as quickly (but safely) as I could.
The thing that frightened me most was the prospect of wearing a collar, which he would put on me when I arrived. I was sure that my will would rise up and reject this act of domination but when he made me kneel and placed it round my neck something very strange happened. It was as if the woman that I am in daily life just got up and left the building. She drifted away and in that moment the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders. A sense of myself, who I am, still remained, but it was a simpler version of me, with no responsibilities and the only requirement she had was to do as she was told by Sir.
Things became a little vague from that moment on. I think he put cuffs round my ankles and wrists and lead me to the bedroom on a leash. I felt remarkably calm, but essentially he was gentle and polite and I expect that probably helped.
I don’t know how long it lasted. My wrists were bound and suspended above me and he beat me with various implements (soft flogger, paddle, riding crop, cane, I think). I’m sure he didn’t hit me very hard, or I just have no memory of the pain, but the photo he took shows bright red marks and they left a gentle glow on my bum for a few days which was very satisfying to me.
It turned out that when it came to arousing me, he wasn’t very adept. He wanted to tease me to the edge of orgasm and then deny me my climax but he never made the effort to get me anywhere near it, and then ended up shouting at me to cum now! cum now! which was fucking hilarious. The thought of this sort of eventuality had never entered my mind. And the promise of being fucked hard and long also proved to be a big fat wet dream for him, as he couldn’t ride me for more than a couple of minutes without getting short of breath and having to stop. The general disappointment I felt about his small, limp dick (not the ‘medium endowment’ he had spoken of beforehand, but all men lie about this) would have been erased if he could have at least fucked me properly for a while.
And so I settled in to sucking his sad little penis for a couple of hours and at least found that to be an interesting diversion. I let him play the part of Sir-giving-Peggy-deep-throat-training and whilst I’ve taken in much bigger dicks than this before, there was some enjoyment in the brutality of it for me. Being taken to the edge of not being able to breathe, trying not to gag violently, eyes streaming with tears, proved to be something quite memorable…. my take-home moment of the night.
When we’d finished that part of the scene, he stood me up to face the mirror and tenderly said, “Look. Look at her. There’s Peggy. She’s beautiful.”
And I saw her for the first time, and he was right: she was beautiful. Something burst free inside my chest and I sobbed wildly because she was so beautiful, so natural, naked and pure. Even with the collar round her neck, and the smudged mascara under her eyes. Especially with these things!
When our play ended we were laughing and chatting. He gave me water and told me to drink. It all became quite mundane. Putting toys away and looking forward to sleeping. I wondered around naked in this stranger’s flat feeling completely at ease in myself; that has never been me before. Perhaps because we’d shown so much of ourselves to each other there was really nothing else to hide or feel self-conscious about. He loaned me a t-shirt to wear, I remember, as it was rather chilly then. He made some remark about me being ‘high maintenance’ when I asked for a cup of tea and I felt a bit miffed, I mean, come on, I’ve just sucked your cock for two hours, at least offer me tea! But he bought me a few slices of ginger cake and I realized how bloody hungry I was, and we sat in his bed eating cake and talking about our mutual love of the countryside.
Something strange happened after the light went out. We started kissing and he finally became hard, so I got on top of him and rode him until he was exhausted and sore. There was no giant orgasm for me, but it was orgasmish and sometimes I’m happy to settle for that. I would have enjoyed it more if he’d employed less dirty name-calling during this interlude, but I think men do it because it turns them on and he was trying to stay hard until I came. Maybe he was just trying to play the part of the mean old Dom. Either way, it wasn’t the real him. I felt what he wanted to say and it was tender and sweet. Just a lonely man looking for love. So when it was done I let him hold me in a gentle spoons position and he drifted off to sleep, snoring peacefully.
I don’t ever sleep in a strange place but I lay there feeling at peace, reflecting on the strangeness and the non-strangeness of it all.
On Sunday I struggled through the tiredness I felt but it was mixed with elation at the new barriers I’d broken through. The real prize, however, came on Monday morning when I woke up and discovered a huge beautiful bruise on each forearm, which must have been where he’d restrained me with the cuffs and tied my arms behind my back. Inspecting the bruises gave me a deep sense of calm and satisfaction. This lasted the best part of the week, until the bruises faded and disappeared. I was proud of them. They were a sign of my strength. They were talismans that could take me back to that space of weightlessness, liberation and purity. They were the tells that indicated I’d come home and found my kinky self before it was too late… that I wasn’t going to get subsumed by the heartbreak I’d been experiencing anymore.