Behind Closed Doors

We met at a play party. One of those early evening affairs at a bigger kink event.

You were standing against a wall, looking sheepish.

Wearing a grey blue suit, slightly wrinkled. I liked your look. The way it suggested you had some serious, straightlaced career. But your slightly too-long hair and dark stubble said you did things on your own terms. And the wire framed glasses, more at home on some artist or academic than a city worker. I wanted to imagine your eyes were bad from reading too much Sartre, or maybe Foucault.

I saw you scan the room a few times, then look down at your shoes. Embarrassed.

I'll be honest. I'm shy too. I hate these things sometimes. I come along because I'm dragged here by my roommate. No drugs, no alcohol. Watching people play out these erotic scenes without any of the false confidence I need to blur the lines between fantasy and cold reality. Making conversation just feels too surreal sometimes.

So I slide over to you. Maybe you're a kindred spirit. I haven't seen you here before. And something nags me... that I don't want you to never come back.

We exchanged guarded smiles, and then names. I managed to pry out of you how you ended up here. I told you I was fairly new too. You could tell that though, there's still plenty about me that gives me away. I blushed, as you made searching eye contact. I thought I saw your pupils dilate at my embarrassment, as I bit my lip.

Of course I wondered. What your kinks were. What side of the slash you were on. I didn't like to assume from the way you looked, and dressed. You weren't trying to assert yourself, or project anything. Just a quiet air. Thoughtful. Everything you do is deliberate.

We chatted. Small talk's not my favourite. Or yours as it turns out.

Then it happened.

You told me, "I want to take you for a coffee sometime. Chat more."

You've always been a man of few words. But also a man who's not used to people telling him no.

I gave you my phone number before I knew what I was doing.

We met on a Saturday.

We walked through the park. Admiring the view of the ocean as the fog burned off. Stepping over stones jutting out of the lazy green water in the Japanese Gardens.

We flirted in the way introverts do. My stolen glances returned by your penetrating gaze. Knowing smiles. Shared jokes.

We ended up walking for hours.

Then you touched my arm, and said that what you really wanted to do... was take me back to your apartment. And fuck me.

People like us aren't meant to do this. That was the message I'd absorbed, along with everything else I'd been learning.

You always tell me exactly what you want though. And I always want to make it happen for you. A dangerous tendency of mine. At least that time I had the sense to look unsure. We both knew it was what I wanted though.

You reassured me that nothing had to happen unless I wanted it to. And you didn't expect anything kinky to happen straight away.

"We should talk about what you like though." you prompted me.

My stomach tightened at the way you said that.

"I'm submissive". I whispered, dumbly. You knew that by now. "And a masochist". I said it out loud. In daylight. "Pretty... *heavy* on both fronts", I warned you. "There's other stuff, of course. But those are the main things".

I swallowed. Even given where we met, I was ready for the rejection. Most of what I like is too much for other people. The shocked expressions of a dozen exes flashed before my eyes, telling me they 'weren't that type of guy', or looking at me with concern, with pity, when I asked for what I wanted. And the pain of knowing I'd only told them the very tip of the whole sordid iceberg.

You nodded. Not blinking.

"I'm a Dominant. And... I'm still figuring some other stuff out", you told me.

You weren't ready to say what you really were. That was OK though.

Over dinner, we joked about our shared experiences. You told me about your string of attempted relationships. You tried to date the women your parents wanted you to marry. Who would look at home on your arm at a corporate dinner. There was never the sexual spark you craved though. The sugary sweet, gentle pleasure they desired left you bored. And cold.

I told you I hadn't had much luck in love either. It's hard for someone who needs the things I do to form healthy relationships. I didn't tell you too much though, because I didn't want your pity. But even more, I didn't want you to see me as someone too fragile to be hurt.

The way your eyes narrowed at my offhand remark, made me think you understood.

There was an unspoken agreement between us, as we both told the waiter we didn't want more wine.

In the cab, I told myself this was just another one night stand. No more dangerous or safe than all the other men I'd fucked like this. I called my roommate with the address I was going to. You insisted. That had never happened before.

When we got there, all the things we hadn't said came roaring out. You pinned me to the wall, my arms helpless above my head. Your knee parted my legs as you gnawed at my throat, ravenously, and clawed at my clothes. We were exchanging short breaths between our hungry mouths.

"Undress", you told me. The change of pace threw me off balance.

I started to unveil myself nervously. Pulling my dress over my head and smoothing my hair. Eyeing you warily as you watched me fumble with the clasp of my bra. Your gaze seared into me as I stepped awkwardly out of my panties.

You told me to put my arms down. Not to hide myself from you.

I obeyed. There was never any question that I wouldn't.

You steered me to the bed and laid on top of me. One arm pinned my wrists above my head and your other hand cupped and stroked my pussy, my arousal coating your fingers.

You bit my breast and my slow groan of pure pleasure caused you to smile. You started to bite harder and harder still. I felt you grow rock hard with the recognition that even as you felt the crunch of flesh between your teeth, I only gave a deep, guttural moan. My pleasure taken in my endurance.

It was passionate. You didn't let me close my eyes or look away. You whispered dark, possessive promises in my ear, making me tingle with the sensation of your hot breath as we rocked together to orgasm. You were playing with my limits even then. Making me feel things. Confront things.

You were true to your word. Nothing too out of the ordinary. And no tying up. You understood my need not to get into a situation I couldn't extricate myself from.

As time went on though, we explored each other. Our bodies. Our limits. Our fantasies.

You told me that you love the way I react when you hurt me.

Then you said it. "I'm a sadist."

You'd never admitted it out loud. Even then, you said it with sadness.

You confessed that sometimes, you thought you would like it *even if I didn't* sound like I was enjoying it.

You looked so guilty. So worried about how I was going to react.

You tried to phrase it as if it was something you'd just thought of. We both knew it wasn't. You're like me. You always have been.

Sometimes you masturbate to things that disgust you afterwards. And once you've cum, you loathe yourself. For what you like. Other people's suffering. Crying and pleading. Scenes that look like real violence. Like abuse.

I knew that. Because I'm the same. I just imagine I'm the one suffering the pain instead of inflicting it.

We started to plan it. How we would take things to the next level. It was difficult to say out loud everything we wanted, but you would send me texts, pictures of things you wanted to do to me, things you couldn't bring yourself to say.

And I replied. Yes. Please. Sometimes just with the blushing emoji. But just like in real life, you could read my blushes for their real meaning. Please, take my shame and my fear, and use it to ruin me, divinely.

It finally happened. You arrived unannounced at my apartment, on an evening when my roommate was away. You stripped me, wordlessly. Your eyes flashed dangerously, daring me to defy you. When I tried to squirm under your touch, you struck my face. Not in the throes of passion. Coldly. Silently. With real contempt for my failure to submit. It hurt the way a slap does when it's real. When it has meaning. I didn't exhale in pleasure the way I had before. I screwed my eyes closed and whimpered.

I saw the bulge in your pants as you pushed me to my knees. I reached for your zipper, but you denied me. Instead you made me wait, open-jawed while you jerked and pumped your hot cum into my waiting mouth. Then you wound my hair in your fist, pushed my face to the floor and ordered me to lick up the spilled remains. My whole body burned at my debasement, my pussy throbbing in time with my quickened heartbeat.

You put my wrists into leather suspension cuffs, clipping them to a loop in the ceiling, normally hidden by a lightshade. You cuffed my ankles together too.

I tried to twist awkwardly to see what you were doing. When I did, you spanked me. Not playfully. Hard enough to send a sharp jolt through my body. My brain registered it as pure shock seconds before the burning started. The only real pain for me was knowing I'd displeased you.

So I kept perfectly still as you pinched and tightened the clover clamps on my nipples, threading the chain through my cuffs. You held a gag to my face, and I suppressed my shivers as you fastened its leather straps tightly. I was already starting to drool, but my indignity was forgotten as I began to soar, knowing I was sacrificing my comfort, denying my instinct to squirm and letting you take your pleasure from me.

Soon I was dangling, on tiptoe, my cuffed ankles preventing me from even spreading my weight easily. Afraid to move since every small shift tugged the chain running between the nipple clamps, causing a sharp torment.

I knew there was going to be no teasing, no slow build up this time.

No words of reassurance like before.

The ferocity with which you needed to possess me, and mold me to your desires started to show.

I felt the ruthless slice of the flogger across my back, my shoulders, my ass and my thighs. The cruel kiss of each tail, causing me to buck and moan, then wail helplessly into my gag. My skin hissed with the heat but the thud was deep enough for me to know my body would be splashed with tiny bruises by tomorrow. And we both knew that I would admire them in the mirror, and enjoy every ache and tender spot that branded me as yours.

You unclipped me finally and flipped me over to fuck me. I knew it was so you could see my tear-stained face and kiss me, tasting the salt where the tears ran down and pooled over my lips.

As you thrust into me, I watched your eyes for signs that you had lost control. Any weakness. Or remorse. But there were none. I was happy. I don't want a man who hits me angrily and cries about it afterwards. I know how that ends.

As time went on, I told you. *All* the things I wanted. How deep it went.

How I needed to feel owned. Subjugated. And I needed it to feel real.

You never judged me. I know you had moments where you wondered where my kinks crossed over with my past.

But you knew as well as me, I never chose any of this. Nobody chooses this.

You wanted me to be fulfilled.

I gave you everything you could ever dream of.

And you gave me everything I could ever ask for.

Your need for control. I can see why other women couldn't stand it.

Other men didn't know what to do with my submission either. (Laughing) Oh, it's a nice fantasy. A partner who does as she's told, and doesn't answer you back. But it's also a responsibility.

You can handle it though. Submission to you is easy. The way you look at me, like a cherished prize. Your tender touch, brushing your thumb over the back of my neck and earlobes as I kneel with my head on your lap. The way you kiss me, your hard strong body pressed against mine. All these things remind me why this feels so right. The way you say my name, so it sounds like devotion.

When I do fail, there are consequences. Ones I genuinely don't like. I sob, when you punish me for real, whipping me until I break with the weight of my guilt and remorse. But afterwards, I can feel my panties soak just at the memory. And every day I glow, warm with the knowledge that my submission is real. It means something.

I guess that wouldn't make sense to most people.

Our life may not be black and white. But it's colourful. Surprising. When you come home from work, I don't know if I'm going to have to smile and nod while you talk about stock prices or if you're going to grab my hair, bend me over the kitchen counter, yank my panties aside and fuck me. No words of warning. Just your growls in my ears, reminding me that you don't need permission to take what is yours.

This isn't a game to us. We can't just close the lid on a box of vibrators and handcuffs. Our desires don't pack neatly away when they're not convenient. We've learned to live with them though. Where the lines have to be.

The way you've used me and beaten me countless times. But raised your voice in anger to me exactly once. And tortured yourself with guilt afterwards.

The way the hairs on the back of my neck raise as you start to toy with me, sensing your glee at an opportunity to make me suffer. But I know you never stop reading every gasp and whimper. You may not handle me with care, but you do fiercely protect the trust I've placed in you.

The way I don't need sweet, reassuring aftercare. I want the indignity of being a bruised, tearstained and cumstreaked mess, while you throw me a backwards glance on your way out of the door to work. Smirking as you tell me you'll see me later. Because every other thing you do for me shows me that you care.

We know how people look at us. What they suspect when they see the way you can end a disagreement with a look. The way I defer to you. And wear clothes that hide the bruises.

They have their ideas of what goes on behind closed doors. And we have ours.

Occasionally your darkness frightens me. But I like the fear. I crave it.

I don't expect other people to understand that.

But I'm grateful you do.