Shipwrecked

I know what it’s like to single-tail whip someone’s ass until they are raw, to break a rubber cane over someone’s thighs, to flog someone under the hot lights of a dungeon until sweat dripped off my bare breasts, wicked and wild eyed in front of a crowd. And yet I was completely unprepared for the hot flush of embarrassment I felt when my date walked in to the cafe with a bunch of ranunculus in his hands.

His entrance was of course accompanied by a comedic clatter of silverware and everyone turning to see who this enormous, Bruce Willis-looking man in head to toe leather was here to see. I wanted to hide under the table.

When he had first contacted me on OKCupid I was almost certain he made a mistake. It happens a lot, men see “BDSM” anywhere on your profile and pretty much stop reading. They think interest in any kind of kink means I am here for their cheesy 50 Shades of Grey male dom fantasies, and immediately solicit me to try and spank my ass or whatever they think sounds enticing. No thank you.

His introductory message was pretty generic, and I clicked over to his profile to see his looming frame in a leather vest, bare chested with carefully cropped off head. His photos included one of him standing over a blurred face of a woman bound in an elaborate rope tie. I can see she is laughing, even through the pixels. I love seeing “happy BDSM,” we spend so much more of our time giggling like kids than locked in a stern grimace, and the photo made me smile.

But still, he was clearly barking up the wrong tree. “Thanks for your message, I don’t switch though. Nice ties in the pictures though. Maybe I’ll see you around at a rope event or something,” I replied. I figured that he would just move along and hopefully spare me the terse insults rejection can sometimes yield on dating sites.

I was sitting at home folding laundry when the response came back, “So that’s kind of why I messaged you. I figured you don’t switch, but I do. I haven’t bottomed for anyone in a long time, and you seem like someone I could trust and have fun with. Would you like to meet and talk about it?”

Huh. Usually the dominant men who contact me and say “I’d bottom for you” are not at all submissive but just desperately horny, and would pretty much do anything if it meant I might touch their penis or stick something in their ass. This seemed different. Something about the way he noted “someone I could trust” tugged at me, and I agreed to meet.

Our first meeting was hardly private. The cafe owner had raised his eyebrows at me with interest as I ordered my coffee with the bouquet tucked under my arm. “He likes you,” he mouthed at me. I nodded with wide eyes and returned to my seat, thanking (oh let’s just call him) Bruce for his extremely kind gift.

“I haven’t had anyone bring me flowers to a date before, that’s very sweet, thank you so much.” Is my face as red as it feels?

“It’s nothing,” he said, clearly pleased with himself. Probably considers himself a bit of an old-school charmer. A bold risk, one I can appreciate.

The conversation came surprisingly easily despite my initial nerves; as two dominants we had a lot to relate on and talk about. We talked about our favorite kink parties, about the people we’re usually with, the kinds of topping activities and tools we most enjoy. It took all of 20 minutes for us to start flipping through our phones, showing off pictures of our rope handiwork and other assorted mischief.

We agreed we should go out again, as he needed some more time to warm up to his rekindled submissive urges. I go home and put the flowers in a vase on my bedside table. My phone buzzes.

“You’re gorgeous and sharp and everything else to boot, there’s an actual pain in my chest. I’m sorry if I was weird with the headless profile,” his text reads.

“Super enthused about your enthusiastic response, no need to worry. I’m actually way more likely to give the time of day to an articulate profile with a torso photo like yours was. Just goes to show if you write like a real grownup and then people will want to take your head out for a drink.”

“Precisely. We both deeply value — and respect- language. And I think that says a lot about why we get along well.”

“For a hobby that requires intense open communication it’s essential to be able to write a decent message or profile.”

“Yes, it speaks to attention to detail, generosity, all fairly important traits in the jungle we navigate. Your messages make me feel like the guy who just survived 18 months at sea.”

“Why is that?”

“Because talking to someone like you is a relief, I’ve felt alone for a while, not a lot of people with this kind of experience.”

“I feel you, I’m kind of putting a moratorium on myself for newbies. They end up really demanding and transactional, and it makes me feel even more like I have no one to talk to about these things.”

“Exactly again, we’ve had very similar experience. I don’t do the demanding two-dimensional ones. I need to see and be seen.”

Who was this man who had washed on to my shore? Where did he come from? Why did he seem to know so well what this felt like for me?

In the days preceding our next date I send him tasks and assignments throughout the week to help get him in to the right headspace. I ask him when he last touched himself, sending me pictures of what he’s doing, wearing, body parts, making him confess what he’s been fantasizing about me, telling him he’s not allowed to touch his cock until I see him next. I can feel his excitement vibrating with every “Yes Ava” text I receive in response.

The day of our next date arrives and we tuck ourselves in to a corner of a moody cocktail bar. He tells me about his job, his travel, his past submissive experiences, past loves, the kinds of intensity and heartbreak we often bear when we are as dominant partners somehow more responsible for the outcomes of our scenes and relationships.

Like two dense stars locked in a gravitational dance, our hands pull across the table to each other over the conversation. He runs his hand along my back, and across my shoulder as my hand smooths over his knee. Two tops, so responsive to the act of touching that neither of us can resist the urge to act on each other’s bodies and senses.

He is only here for a few days, and yet I know I will be loathe to watch him go. No one has connected so much to me and to my experience of why I love kink in so long.

“For me domination is about opening people up, releasing them to be able to have an experience,” he says, “It makes me feel grateful to have that privilege of being part of that for them. I feel the same gratitude to be allowed to be with you.”

“You’re a very rare man, I hope you know that,” I say as I hold his hand in mine and run my other hand up his thigh. “It makes me feel better knowing that doms like you are circulating looking for subs, that you’re out there showing people what this can be like.” His warmth and generosity in his manner, his respect. I could see how in this moment I could fall in love with someone who shared my side of the slash.

“You’ve been such a good boy, letting me in to your head, relinquishing your control, giving me the part of you I deserve,” I whisper, my lips just grazing his ear.

“Take everything,” he breathes, “take everything I have. It’s yours.”

“Look at me.”

“I can’t Ava.”

“It’s not optional. Look at my face when I speak to you.”

“You just make me so nervous.”

He runs his hands down his sides and clutches them desperately in front of him like an anxious little boy, appearing as if to have somehow shrunk from the intimidating giant that walked in to the cafe a week earlier.

He is naked and stands in front of me while I sit on my bed, one leg crossed over the other. He stares at his feet and glances down at me cautiously. I can feel his firing pulse as I stand and grasp his face by the jaw and force it to face mine.

“Turn around, hands on the wall,” I instruct, then release my hold. He obeys.

He shakes like a leaf as I stand right next to him. “Too tall, kneel on the floor and put your hands back on the wall. Eyes front.” He crumples to the floor. I place my hand on top of his head and force his forehead to the wall. I ask him if he’s nervous now.

“Terrified, Ava.”

“Terrified of me? Do I scare you?”

“Terrified I won’t be able to please you, it’s been so long since I did this.”

“How do you want to please me?” I slide my hand down to his throat and hold it without pressure. He swallows hard before continuing, staring at the wall.

“I just want to…”

“Don’t stutter, think. Give me and your answer to me your full attention.” I apply a small amount of pressure to his neck, his jugular hammers in my grip. His sizable cock is now pressed erect against the wall.

“…I want to service your beautiful body, however you want me to. From the minute I saw you all I wanted to do is make you cum. I wanted that to be my only purpose.”

“Ask my permission.” He finally turns and looks up in to my eyes.

“Please Ava, please let me make you cum. Please let me show you how grateful I am, please let me do the only thing I’m good for.”

“Why should I let you?”

He half laughs, half chokes, “because I’d be half a man if I met you and didn’t realize how special you are. Please allow me to serve you even though I am so badly trained.”

I lost count of the hours, nearly all of them spent with him buried under my ass and thighs, licking away in a subspace-induced haze. For every time he brought me to orgasm I brought him close and then denied him permission to do the same, a process known as edging. Each time I denied him he’d pull me back on his face, attempting to earn his right to cum.

His voice cracks as I fuck him against my headboard, on top of him with one hand gripping his neck, both of his hands bound over his head. His body burns white-hot, radiating off of him like a furnace and raising the temperature of my cold Victorian apartment. He begs me to release him, to allow him to cum with every breath he can draw deeply enough to speak.

I am no longer the dry land, I am the storm. I am waves that break over his bough, that toss him to and fro, and threaten to snap him in half. All he can do is hold on as I drag him under.

Afterwards I fetch him a glass of water as he sits on the edge of my bed. He sips it only once before setting diligently to winding the rope now on the floor back in to tidy bundles. I notice his eyes are wet and pull the bundle out of his hands and toss it aside, pulling both his hands in to mine.

“What’s going on? Talk to me.”

“I haven’t gone there in a long time, it’s just hard for me when I’m so used to being in control. I want everything to go right and when I’m not the one doing it, I worry that I’m fucking up.”

“You were wonderful, you’re being hard on yourself. I mean how many orgasms did you give me again?” I laugh and wipe his face with one hand.

“I know it’s just hard to get out of my head.”

“I understand. I really do.” I lean down and kiss him on the forehead.

The next day a bunch of flowers arrive at my door, a big wild farm bouquet. “You’re an incredible woman, very rare,” reads the note, “Thank you.”

I pick them up to my face and inhale deeply. By now he is long since on his trip home, headed back out towards his own lonely horizon. Somewhere between the bright, subtle scent of the peonies and eucalyptus, I almost imagine I can smell the sea.