Tales of a Teenage Dominatrix

“Like this,” I said as I looped the pillowcase I had pulled off the bed over both of his arms behind his back, and then pushed the panting, sweaty teenage boy back on the mattress, his bodyweight pinning down his arms in the makeshift arm-binders.

She did the same to her boy on the second queen size bed, and he groaned audibly as she accidentally kneed him in the stomach, clambering back over to straddle him with all the expected awkwardness of a 16-year-old girl being shown how to restrain someone for the first time. The hotel room where we were all staying on our youth group retreat had powerful air conditioning, and I still remember running my fingers over the gooseflesh of the boy’s arms, down his chest and stomach, stopping my fingers just above his studded belt. “You want me to touch it?”

He shook his head vigorously, “Yes please.”

“Well I’m not going to yet,” and I flashed him a devilish smile that I long since learned could make a teen boy kneel on hot coals when paired with promises to touch his junk.

I had become an evangelist for my peculiar choices in games with boys and girls alike, which exploded in variety and breadth once I figured out which of the sex toy stores along the highway didn’t card entrants. I would often pull in friends to buy their first vibrator at these stores, handing them specimen after specimen while they pawed nervously around the flavored lube.

One store became my favorite but only between the hours of 11pm and 6am, when a particular clerk was on shift who took great joy in welcoming one and all to her palace of healthy sexual exploration. An ally in my exploits, she would direct me to femdom selections from the magazine bargain bin, which I pored over like sacred texts, soaking up everything I could like a kinky little sponge. Though my hands long danced over the restraints and impact toys, I was still far too anxious to purchase them knowing I’d have to secret them away in my room, likely unsuccessfully.

And so my penchant for little party tricks like the pillowcase trick grew, lashing my playmates with anything I could find in their drawers, on their bodies, with bits of clothes, sheets, belts, and in one instance, saran wrap. That is until one night I walked in and my favorite clerk stood resplendent in a tight dress made of something that looked a lot like tape.

“What is that!!” I squeaked with delight as she did a pirouette on one foot to show off how it stretched across her buxom frame. She explained to me that it was bondage tape, a kind of plastic latex blend on a roll that stuck only to itself and not to skin.

“Here, have the rest of it,” she said as she tossed me the shiny black roll. I held it up as if it were a wooden sword from Legend of Zelda, a gift to aid me in my journey. It’s dangerous to go alone, take this! And so my fear was broken, and when the bondage tape ran out I graduated to a collection of restraints that I paid a neighbor boy to keep in the trunk of his car away from the prying eyes of my parents.

I slid my hands along my youth group playmate’s inner thighs, my nails stroking him through the thin, tan fabric as his erection strained against his pants. I traced its outline with my fingertips, a small spot appearing where he could barely contain himself. He popped his head up and I pushed it back down with the flat of my hand, the other pressing my nails in to the sides of his cock, and he shivered contentedly.

“They’ll wait,” I told the eager girl on top of the boy in the next bed, “they love it.”

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