Frat Party Femdom: What College Taught Me About My Kinks

A few years of sneaking off to goth clubs with BDSM theme nights with my fake ID taught me that overnight trips wouldn’t be enough to satisfy my cravings, and that once out of my parents house I would have to move somewhere closer to the action. College provided the perfect opportunity to live in a major metro where I would not only have access to a fine academic education, but a sadomasochistic one as well.

My sweet and wonderful new dorm friends would however bring me to a lot of environments that required me to improvise on my expectations of when and where I would get to experiment now that I was no longer under the purview of my parents. Frat parties were ubiquitous on campus, and in fairness most were often full of well-meaning boys who enjoyed the off-campus housing and built-in social life that frats provided.

There were also of course the stereotypical drunk boys breathing their cheap beer in to my face, trying to snake their hands along my waist to claim me. “Do you want to go up to my room with me and fuck?” said one such tall senior, his thick eyebrows waggling confidently at me.

I pulled my drink to my lips to give myself a moment to look at him, his broad chest stretching his red tshirt, where I could see he had shaved his chest, the small prickles of his thick black hair coming back through as a five-o-clock shadow.

“No,” I said flatly before putting the cup to my lips again.

He deflated. “But,” I continue, “if you’re good I’ll let you eat me out later.” I see the gears turn in his head, as if to weigh the relative success of this outcome.

“Okay,” he finally says with a nod, “Can I refill your drink?”

“You may,” I say as I uncross my arms and hand him the solo cup with the dregs of my trash can punch now warm at the bottom. He trots off like an excited puppy, and later I will pull the red tshirt off of him, soaked through after I have decided I’m done sitting on his face. I tell him he should let his chest hair grow in, how much I’d like to pull it. After a few weeks, I do.

I found a comfortable space somewhere in the middle of a city where at public kink events I was the child, and in my own college spaces where I felt I had something to offer to those around me as a burgeoning adult. At BDSM parties in the city I tucked myself in to corners, watching and batting off grown men like flies as they sniffed around for any available young female submissives. I had gotten a lot of practice swatting away handsy frat boys, and picking out more that would indulge my mischief. After I grew tired of watching, I attempted to do the same amongst my more experienced kink scene peers.

One man I met at a party led me back to his trendy artist loft, his walls filled with paintings. His studio was enormous, and the smell of turpentine caught in my nostrils as he explained to me that he does editorial illustrations for men’s magazines. I picked up a brush, large and long with a wooden handle, and swatted him across the ass with it as he bent over my lap, his cock locked between my thighs. I went back to my dorm room and as I looked up his artist biography discovered that he was not 25 as he had said, but 35. I thought better of picking up submissives at parties after that.

In the years I was in undergrad I would strap down many college coeds to my bed, and teach many more about permission, consent, mutual exchange of pleasure. The closed environment provided safety much in the way that for all too many young women it creates inescapable risk. I endured my own share of college men who attempted to take what was not willingly given, and count myself lucky that I came out none the worse for wear.

Graduating and moving to a new city would mean giving up this safe enclosure, and force me to confront what my proclivities would mean for me in the context of dating and relationships as an adult.

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