First Date

It was there just like I promised you it would be. I know there was trepidation. I know you had doubts. I know your mind. And now you feel both relief and concern. It's there.

Months ago we began a dance. Safe, Sane, Consensual. Isn't that always the way? Isn't that the basis of the negotiation? How do we each meet our needs if the rules aren't laid out? But they're not really rules. They're protections. The map, the direction, the way it's going to go... you really have no idea. And what thrills you more – slut- is that you don't have any control.

Most first dates won't be like this. Not in the “real” world. Not in the vanilla world. No. We'd sit over some overpriced dinner and I would try not to get caught stealing glances at your tits and you would try to catch me, knowing you had picked out that cleavage baring sensation just for that reason. So much dishonesty. So much gamesmanship. So much bullshit.

And time. You would spend a ton of time “putting on my face.” As if you didn't have one. Oh , we understand. You have one. You just want to show a different one. You want to dress it up and make sure we like it. Won't matter much tonight will it?

You drove around for hours tonight. Nervous and excited. We've never met. Not counting the hours of negotiation in a lone internet chatroom. You now think you may have revealed way too much about your desires. It doesn't matter. They're only guidelines and points of interest to me. You know that. You know that my knowledge of your desire may simply be a way of knowing what to deny. It's not your game. It's mine. And that's why it's yours. Because you have now chosen to give it to me. I remember the talk we had about safe words. How they were a necessity. Not because I can't tell when you're being pushed too hard. Not because we disagree with those who don't believe in them. It's because we understand the gift of silence. You give yourself, and me, the gift. You relinquish control and your silence is our gift. Silence only as it pertains to that word. Otherwise we will both relish your screams.

Negotiations. You are going into a very dark place tonight. You are putting forth near total trust but neither of us is insane. Neither of us is without concern. You finger the life alert button I sent you. You know your friend holds the receiver. You'd probably have wandered into this situation without it but you appreciate my concern. Of course I have concern. I always protect my toys. And you know that is the only reason you are protected. You are my toy and we are going to play. Hard.

So you finally open the door of the end room in the secluded small hotel. You don't even have to be told to know the adjoining rooms are rented and empty. I don't have to tell you the owner is a friend and he simply turns up the music in his office. You don't have to be told. You are a good girl. And good girls don't have to be told certain things and they otherwise do as they are told. It's your ride as much as mine. You just don't have any control over it.

It's there when you open the door. All wood in black laquer. A 4 foot long board with eyelets on the end. A box bolted to the center of the board. Well, most of a box. It has a bottom, three sides, and a top. The top is hinged and has a latch. It doesn't appear at all ominous but you know what it represents. Your captivity. Your freedom. All of it.

You lift release the latch and lift the top of the box. It's around 10” per side and on the bottom there is a nylon dog collar attached to the base. You've worn your decorative collars in the past. You've been in lifestyle for a while and had your share of the elegant. This is a Wal Mart pet section special. Totally functional with its black nylon clip and completely demeaning. You lower your face into the box and adjust the collar. Just enough to hold your nose to the base of the box and just leaving enough slack to breathe and allow the blood that will be racing through you to pass through those ever important carotid arteries. Others would spend hours before that first date, putting on their face. I'm not even going to see yours and you're never going to see mine. Or- and you shiver a little as this occurs to you- the face of anyone who comes into this room. Obediently you adjust and snap the collar closed. You are kneeling in front of the box and you reach over your head and pull the top closed. You engage the latch. You reach into your pocket of the loose drawstring pants you have been instructed to wear and pull out the little electronic device. You tap the button once to let your friend know you are ok. You know that you won't tap it again unless you are in trouble or an hour has passed and you are now beyond worry. You know you are not going to tap it again and you know you are not going to say any magic fucking word. This is your gift but this is your ride.

You rest your hands next to the eyelets on the end of the board. You look like you are kneeling in deep prayer but there is only a box where your head would be. You are pretty, but nobody cares. You are a body. Covered. For now.

The sound of the door opening is not unexpected. Still, it is amazing how quickly you have gone into your own space inside the box. You are separated from your body and that is all that is presented. You hear me walk across the room and deftly tie your hands to the eyelets. The bonds are tight but just enough to let blood flow. You relax a little knowing there is some degree of care. With no concern at all the flimsy shirt you have worn has been torn off and tossed aside. There is no checking to see if I notice your hanging breasts. You know I do. You know they won't be handled gently. Your pants are pulled off and you are wearing, as instructed, nothing underneath. You know I am checking the quality of your grooming. The closest you were able to come to the vanilla world of putting your face on. Your knees are pushed up against your ankles and secured to the same eyelets. You are open and exposed. You wouldn't have it any other way. You are now nothing but a body. An object. A toy.

First dates need to start out with gentle patter and this is no different. Well, a little. There is no talking. The warm up begins with suede straps gliding across your skin. Teasing , slapping, caressing, stinging, quiet, comforting, and occasionally painful. The level of that pain increases slowly and the frequency between caresses builds. Your breasts, like hanging fruit , aren't simply evaluated. They are squeezed and slapped. So carefully is the sting inflicted and so carefully is deep structure damage avoided. You know your skin is reddening. You know there are probably going to be plenty of new bruises. You are proud. You are strong. Even so you know you realize now that I will get the ultimate prize I am after. Not our orgasms. That's secondary.

You feel my hand open your legs and explore your dampness and then you feel it. The sensation which will in the end grant me my wish of tear stains on the bottom of the box. Here it comes. Against the softest part of your body. Those puffed up lips which define you physically as a woman. There it is ,the feeling you secretly hoped you wouldn't experience. Damn pinwheels. It's my ride. You're only taking it.