Going Dominant, Part One
Slapping, spitting, and sexting
It was mid-January, the end of the festive period. The wreath had come off the front door, the Christmas tree was back in its broken box held together by packing tape, and the snow had turned to grey sludge on the side of the streets. I just had my first BDSM experience as a submissive, and despite the time spent in my childhood home and lingering Christmas air, I couldn’t feel less holy.
I spent the last few days in my hometown working from my living room couch, lazily reading in the winter sun during my lunch breaks, and meeting friends in the dark, cold evenings.
Then I kissed bye to my family, headed to the airport, and flew back to my normal life.
I landed in London on a Sunday afternoon, descending through a curtain of dark clouds swollen with rain, and once home I fell asleep fully dressed on my unmade bed. When I woke up to the quiet darkness of the house at 3 am, I picked up my phone to see a wall of notifications from Feeld.
You have received a ping from Scotty. You have received a ping from Loverboy. You have received a ping from Jr.
I frowned, confused. I opened the app, still half asleep, and found around thirty new aspiring matches on the top of my screen, looking at me from a row of orange circles. I scrolled through the profiles, overwhelmed, reading bios and swiping through pictures. I opened the suitcase to find my toothbrush, phone still in one hand, and started brushing my teeth.
While I unpacked my clothes the phone kept pinging rhythmically. Jack. Banjo. S. James&Ellen. Bug. Quentin. In the first 24 hours in the city I received around 100 pings, it wouldn’t stop. And I promise that I’m not that hot. Nothing mind-blowing, just medium pretty. Post lockdown brits seemed to be all hookup app at hand, foaming at the mouth, ready to jump on the new girl in the area. I felt flattered and slightly intimidated.
In the next few days, I started window shopping between my pings and the homepage, rejecting the people I didn’t want to meet before committing to matching with anyone. Between the buff men showing off their abs, the creepy profiles, the faceless torso, and the captionless faces, I managed to find friends’ housemates, old coworkers, friends of friends, and my ex. Who apparently was looking for “casual, sensual, singles, kink, nudity, sexting”. After causing a fit of laughter, the screenshot immediately landed in the girls’ group chat.
I eventually matched with a few people and started talking with them. I chatted with a blonde British guy with a surprisingly diagonal nose, whom despite having tried to plan a date with a few times, I ended up never meeting. I talked lustfully with a very tattooed man ten years older than me, drop-dead gorgeous and with a monster dick. Sadly he ended up getting covid a few days before our date, and I never got to see the said dick in person. I’m still salty about it.
I met up with a Belgian musician and found upon our first date that we’re both sober, share the same mental health diagnosis and medication, and live a couple of minutes away from each other. What are the odds? We ended up becoming good friends and never slept together. Then I talked with a lad in a Halloween costume who wanted to be pegged, a 23-year-old sub who’s into smells (in his words: sweat, armpits, ass, etcetera), a feminist rugby player, and a queer man looking for friends to go to fetish parties with.
Then I started chatting with another British guy, and despite him not being my type, I couldn’t help but chuckle at his profile. He looked like a lost child at an amusement park in all his pictures, wearing large colourful t-shirts, looking confused and out of place. His desires listed ‘sex lol’ and his interest ‘Music, Memes, Gigs, You’. I found him sweet and funny, I liked his vibe. So I reasoned, even if we don’t end up sleeping together we might be friends. I accepted his ping, and he sent me a message within the hour.
My first message to him read “What I like about your profile is that you look like a lost child in all of your pictures. I’ll help you find your mom if you need help.” He laughed at the unrequested roast, and we started a conversation that lasted hours. From thinking that he was a cute, average guy I was having a friendly conversation with, I went on to find out everything about his sex life almost immediately. Three messages in, he was telling me that the best sex he ever had was when he went full sub. One hour in, I knew of his spit kink and exhibitionism. Within a few hours, I was looking at his porn.
He showed me an impressive amount of content between videos, pictures, and artistic nudes. Turning and tossing under the blankets I stared at the bright rectangle in my hands wide-eyed, stunned. I would have never expected it from amusement park boy. We talked for hours about his kinks, his drive, his journey from exhibitionism to making amateur porn. I was so invested that despite having work the next day, I only managed to cut the conversation and sleep at 4 am.
We ended up talking every day that week, always till late at night. The conversations got very sexual, but I was reticent to make them personal. I didn’t know yet if I was attracted to him, or if wanted to keep it friendly. But he was so sweet and we had talked so much, that by the time we met the following Saturday I already felt somewhat close to him. And I had seen so much that I would have been able to identify his dick in a lineup.
We decided to go see a nude photography exhibition, which seemed fitting for our first date. I found the place before him and waited at the corner of a Soho alley alternating looks from my phone to the people walking down the street. When I saw him, looking around on his way to cross the road, I was relieved to find him cute. His dirty blonde hair was unkempt above his blue eyes, and his face brightened in an awkward, adorable smile when he reached me. A silver earring dangled from his ear, its little feather charm moving through a ring as he walked by me.
We explored the small exhibition space, looking at the pictures, chatting, and giggling. Despite being tall, somehow he looked tiny next to me. I’ve never been into the lanky, skinny type, but felt a mote of attraction and tenderness towards him. He was cute. Not hot, not the guy I’d want to fuck me disrespectfully and slam me to a wall, but the guy I’d want to have playful, kinky sex with to then hold in my arms while kissing his hair.
After the exhibition we went on a walk, chatting and laughing and telling each other stories. We ended up at a pub whereupon finding out about my sobriety, he refused to drink and ordered a ginger beer to keep me company. Then we headed to a Vietnamese restaurant where we slurped pho out of large stone bowls, whispering to each other, still talking about sex while the restaurant owner towered way too close to our table. I was telling him of my recent adventures, and of how my proposition to be more spontaneous this year has led to lots of fun and unexpected experiences. He smiled.
“Sounds great, I need to do this too. What’s something spontaneous we can do tonight?”
I raised my eyebrows, tilting my head, looking at him with a half-smile.
“Well, except for the elephant in the room. That’s not actually what I meant” he laughed.
“Why not?” I teased him
“It’s a first date, there’s no need to rush”
“I’m a big proponent of having sex on the first date”
He smiled nervously. “My housemates have friends over, I couldn’t invite you home even if I wanted to”
“Why not, why does it matter?”
“My room is right by the living room, it’s way too awkward. But of course, I won’t say no if you invite me over”
“You wouldn’t?”
“I wouldn’t, no”
We smiled at each other across the table. I lowered my eyes and played with a rice paper roll for a long, quiet moment before speaking.
“I don’t see why not. I feel like we’ve been pretty sexual already, and I’m kind of feeling this.”
I could tell that he wasn’t expecting to sleep with me. He was playing it cool, but he was excited.
“Why not, absolutely.” He nodded. “I’m skinny, I promise I won’t take too much space. We can cozy up in your single bed”
I agreed and swiftly changed the topic. We finished our food, paid, and headed to a corner shop to buy some snacks for the night. We picked chocolate, lime-infused dried mango, crisps, and a pack of raspberries. As we headed to the bus stop I asked, “Let’s pretend we haven’t just agreed that you’re coming over to have sex, should we? Let’s pretend there’s some mystery here”. He agreed, and as the bus made its way across the river heading south, we talked casually about anything else.
Once at mine, I gave him a quick tour of the dimly lit house, and lead him to my room. We removed our coats and shoes still talking casually, praising ourselves for our excellent choice of snacks. He asked for some water and I pointed at the tall, full glass still on my bedside table from the afternoon. He asked if he could please have a fresh one, and I went down to the kitchen to fetch him one. As I handed it to him, I apologised with an ironic smile: “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I know you don’t like spit”. He smiled back. “I’d never want to exchange saliva with you, that’s disgusting” he replied as he leaned in to kiss me.
Our clothes came off as we kissed slowly, exploring each other, cold hands reaching under the tops and above the jeans. When his dick emerged from his unbuttoned trousers, I brought my hands to my mouth and collected some saliva on my fingers. Maintaining eye contact, I started rubbing it with my wet hand. He moaned and kissed me hungrily. Soon we were fully naked, touching each other, wet and slippery, kissing and biting and sucking and moaning. And then we were inside each other, with him on top as I ground my hips against his as he moved in me.
And then quickly — too quickly — he pulled back, gasping, his face contracting. I looked down to see something I had never witnessed before, the condom filling in front of my eyes. I laughed as he frantically tried to apologise, embarrassed. I gave him a hug, still laughing, reassuring him, telling him that I don’t mind. He tried to justify himself: “Your hips, the way you were moving your hips… I’m sorry, this never happens.”
He said he got overwhelmed, he called me too hot. I took the compliment, flattered, but I really didn’t mind. As long as there’s a round two or I get to conclude as well, a man finishing quickly is never an issue or a reason for embarrassment. I grabbed my laptop, and we laid in bed watching Peep Show and eating dried mango, my head on his chest. Then later he fucked me again, and then again after that.
On the third round, I was above him, riding him slowly, looking down into his eyes, when he asked me to slap him. I knew he was into it, but I wasn’t sure yet if I’d be into inflicting pain on others. I hesitated and slapped him weakly on his cheek. “Harder.” Still making eye contact, still grinding on him, deep inside me, I slapped him straight across the face, hard enough to leave a red mark. He tilted his head backward, closing his eyes, exhaling hard. The largest, happiest smile appeared on his face. Looking at him you would have thought I had just complimented him, rather than slapped him. He was in heaven. His reaction made something fall into place, and the dominant side of me clicked.
“You liked that? You’re such a whore”
He parted his lips in another large, happy smile.
“Open your mouth”
I collected a pool of spit in my mouth, and while looking down I let it drip onto his, wide open, tongue eagerly out.
“Good boy”
I slapped him again and kept riding him until he asked me to stop. He turned me around and leaned on top of me. He asked if he could finish on me and I said yes, sure. Touching himself he came on me, all over my stomach. And then, unprompted, he licked it all up. In his own words, so that I could see how good of a slut he could be. Not that I had any doubt. By the time we were done, laying in a wet spot of spit, cum, and sweat, the sky outside was tinting in orange. We fell asleep spooning, with my arms around him.
We woke up a few hours later, both in a rush to leave. He needed to catch a train to visit family, and I had a reservation for a Sunday brunch with some friends. We promised we’d meet again, and parted ways. One hour later I was eating fried eggs on toast and orange juice, recounting the adventure of the previous night, feeling like Carrie in an episode of Sex and the City. Between a bite of bread and a sip of juice, I was still texting him from under the table.
We saw each other again just a few days later, this time at his. And then a few days after that, at mine again. We started seeing each other a lot, and when apart we were always chatting, exchanging pictures and videos. He loved showing off for me, and I loved playing with him. I’d tease him to turn him on, then give him instructions on how to touch himself, film it, and send it to me.
Even via message, I could get very assertive. Take your clothes off. Spit on it. Only rub the head. Show me. Something about his slutty, exhibitionist energy made my dominant side fire up. But the episode that finally settled my inner debate on whether I could be a dom came a few weeks later.
Unplanned, spontaneous, and as natural as the first teenage kiss, when after months of worrying that you won’t know what to do with your tongue, you realise that you just know what you’re doing. My lips are meant to move on someone else’s. My hands are meant to tease, give and deny pleasure.
I’m not a sub, I’ve never been one. I’m as submissive as I’m dominant. I was made to switch.
Part II Coming Soon
