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We connect online.
It’s 6pm and I am scrolling through Feeld while I soak off my day in the bath. I open my profile, for the required maximum of one hour only, to accumulate likes and to see what the tide brings in. The sheer number is always astounding. While I am not especially beautiful I am quite vain, and the dopamine hit this app gives me is off the charts. All these people. Clicking yes yes yes. I have only been dating again a few months and its mind blowing.
I fill up the bath until the steam turns the bathroom to fog, my skin pink, and my hairline sweaty. I am not naive. I know many of these men in particular click on everything and anyone and see what bites. But still. It’s a thrill. Even more if it’s a woman. I scroll through, lick the sweat off my top lip, click, click, click. Mainly swiping left, until I see Him.
He is older. Full head of hair with silver streaked through, thick and long around his collar. Big neck. Big arms. Big hands. Like a beast. I think about what it might feel like to be crushed underneath him. Pinned down with that forearm he’s flexed while taking one of the pictures on his profile. Dark eyes too. Something to keep me inline perhaps. My nipples harden at the thought alone. I am new to the scene, have only just scratched the surface of what I think I’m into, all the acronyms, the ethics, the community - its baffling and intriguing and I am hungry for more.
I match. Type him a note. Say something about his hands. A few weeks later, he’ll be running them over my bare ass (All the better for spanking you with my dear) while over his knee. Wearing nothing but thigh high socks, the snow falling outside the window.
We toy very lightly with what we are looking for on the apps. I discover quite quickly, he is the real deal. He’s older and experienced. Works in the film industry, a producer. Who also happens to have a fully kitted out dungeon in his basement. He takes it slowly, given I am still bambi-like in my newness. Keen, but wobbly and likely to fall over while doe-eyed. He makes it easy, and is kind in his firm direction. Questionnaires. Clear articulation of wants and desires. Contracts. Ascertaining how deeply my desire to please actually goes.
After a month talking, step by step vetting each other carefully, I find I want to please him. Dearly. I want the direction. His bare hands on my bare skin. Marking me.
I screen shot our conversations and send them to a friend who is also navigating the scene, who understands the D/s dynamic, my partner in crime. I have found friends who I only socialize with in these arenas, having a separate circle feels more discreet and deliciously secretive. I am more used to seeing her stalk her way through a play party in suspenders and a silk cami than in jeans or a suit so the first time we meet as civilians for a drink before an event we laugh. How normal we look when not flushed pink with expectation. She sits and unwinds her scarf from her neck. Pulls off her coat. And I know the exact shade of her nipples, the tight line of pubic hair she keeps neat with regular waxes. What she sounds like when she comes. But here we are. Ordering drinks. Fully clothed.
‘Show me the latest’
She grabs my phone when I have unlocked it and she scrolls through our most recent conversation
‘Ohh’ her eyes wide reading through each instruction.
‘Have you met him yet?’
We have a plan to meet the following Thursday. A hotel room is booked. I have my instructions.
Thigh high socks. Nothing else. No ridiculous get up lingerie. He has specified. It just gets in the way. He wants my skin. He wants uninterrupted access to me. I am to wait for him on my knees. My hair tied up out of my face. Perfectly poised and ready to be used to his liking.
Its been six weeks of talking and discussing boundaries, and sexting and videos. I was under strict instructions not to come for 10 days before we met.
10 days? Really Sir?
I had whined
Did I stutter?
Emphatic.
I did as I was told. I didn’t dare touch myself. It was excruciating, counting each day down as a win, the need humming just below the surface threatening to explode at almost any moment.
But I found a sense of freedom in the boundary. More space to breathe now that it has been set. The rules are clear, I know my part. The noise in my heads recedes.
My friend groans reading through the latest sext session on my phone.
‘He’s going to destroy you, you lucky bitch’
We spend the rest of our evening planning our next party, a small affair in a townhouse with a mezzanine level in north London. But for now I’m running through checklists for meeting him. He’s already texted me his STI results, and we’ve run through my soft and hard limits. I have booked off work. His train gets in at 3pm. Check in is 2:30 so I will have time to prepare.
I am climbing the walls.
Arriving at the hotel my heart is drumming against my chest, my face is flushed and the nerves are making my jump. I am earlier that I would have liked but they check me in and show me the room. Right in the heart of Soho. A huge bed. A shower with clear glass in the corner. A massive leather chair. Separate bathroom with tub. Mirrors. I have visions of my fingers tips smeared across them. Bent over, trying to gain purchase and failing.
I get undressed slowly, in a bid to calm my nerves and keep an eye on the clock. My coat and dress are hung up in the small closet, I strip and step out of my underwear and run the shower as hot as I can take it. My phone chirrups as I am toweling off. Its him
Ten minute warning Bella
His pet name for me makes me purr
I need a picture of that perfect pink pussy. Right Now.
I lower the phone, adjusting the angle, make sure I keep my manicured finger nails just in shot above my slit. He loves the colors, corals and gloss, the same shade as the lipstick I am about to apply. Says he can’t wait to see them wrapped around his cock. Click click click.
Good girl Bella, seven minutes. Be ready for me
I roll the thigh high socks all the way up each leg. They fit snugly, accentuating my calves and my thighs. He had picked them out, specifically for this scene. I brush my hair, one hundred times so it shines, and pull it into a high pony tail. Away from my face. The powder I apply to my cheek is only the softest pink, he wants me as natural as possible. I want to see you blush Bella… Then the lipstick, a sharp fuchsia. Mascara too, the kind that runs easily. It will leave the prettiest black streaks when I cry. Which I will. He’s promised me.
When I hear his key card in the door I jump. My nerves betray me immediately. I feel skittish and clumsy. Not quite in the perfect position I wanted to be in, but when the door opens and I see him in the flesh, I am still.
He’s huge. His shoulders take up most of the width of the doorway and he’s at least 6ft4. He steps through, shaking his hair, its rained and his umbrella hasn’t quite done its job. He grins, taking me in, on my knees, flushed and nervous - a broad smile taking over his face, his beard peppered with silver, like his hair.
‘Well, look what we have here’
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