We were never supposed to be this close.
Lacey and I met a year ago through an online dating app. We had that kind of instant click that made both of us think, "This might actually go somewhere." But after a few dates--laughs over sushi, a hike that turned into a mud-fight, and a semi-disastrous attempt at paddleboarding--we both agreed that while romance wasn't quite in the cards, something else was. Something lighter. Stranger. A little messier in the best possible way. Friendship, but with quirks.
Since then, we've been each other's go-to sounding boards for all things weird and wonderful. Especially dating stories. If one of us had a trainwreck Tinder match or a weird Bumble banter session, the other would be the first to hear about it.
Which brings me to a late Thursday night not too long ago. I was on my couch, lazily scrolling through messages, when Lacey pinged me on Messenger.
Lacey: "So. How's the catgirl?"
I chuckled. I had matched with a girl earlier that day who was dressed head-to-toe in a latex catsuit, complete with ears, whiskers, and--yes--a collar.
Me: "Honestly, the tail freaked me out. But I'm not opposed to a collar. Just... the rest is a bit much."
Her response came with frightening speed.
Lacey: "Wait. Hold up. You're okay with a collar?"
Me: "Haha yeah. I guess. It's just a bit... I dunno. Not totally foreign to me."
Then there was a pause. I stared at the little typing bubble for a full thirty seconds before the message finally landed.
Lacey: "Do you have a kinky side?"
I hesitated. Not because I didn't know the answer--but because I really did.
Me: "Massively. You sure you want to go down that rabbit hole?"
Lacey: "Only if you take me with you."
And just like that, the tone of our conversation shifted. Slowly, cautiously, like peeling off layers of clothes you didn't even know you were wearing.
I told her about my gear. About the stash I kept hidden in a locked chest in my closet--restraints, cuffs, collars, gags, blindfolds, ropes, harnesses. About how I practiced self-bondage regularly, always crossdressed. How there was something about the helplessness, the control, the complete surrender that electrified me.
To my surprise, Lacey didn't freak out. She didn't laugh.
Instead, she responded with something simple.
Lacey: "I've done it too."
She told me about an old partner she tried bondage with. Light stuff--scarves, handcuffs from a novelty shop. It had been her idea, but he never really got it. She tried tying herself up, using silk sashes and belts from her bathrobe. Sometimes she'd masturbate with one hand while the other was trapped. Sometimes she'd just close her eyes and imagine what it would feel like if someone else was doing it to her.
"It's relieving," she said. "To talk to someone who actually gets it."
We stayed up that night until nearly 3 a.m., swapping fantasies and favorite stories. I sent her a few pictures--not explicit, just enough to show her the kinds of outfits I wore and how I rigged up pulley systems in my closet for solo bondage.
Lacey, in turn, told me how her heart raced the first time she knotted a scarf around her ankles and couldn't get free. How much she wanted someone to tease her, control her, take charge--if she could trust them.
And then came the next night.
Just one message.
Lacey: "Hey. This might seem forward, but would you like to tie me up?"
My heart stopped. Not out of fear. Out of thrill.
Me: "I thought you'd never ask."
---
We spent the whole night talking. Not sexting, not fantasizing aimlessly--planning. We discussed boundaries, safe words, the kinds of restraints she liked and didn't like. She liked leather cuffs. She hated duct tape. She'd never tried gags but wanted to. She liked being teased. Loved being teased. Wanted to be restrained, humiliated a little, but not hurt. I told her about sensory play, denial, edging, control. She asked if she could try a blindfold. I said yes.
And before we ended the chat, she said one thing that made my chest flutter.
Lacey: "Next time you're in town... you should stop by."
---
We had two weeks to plan.
We talked logistics like we were arranging a heist. I asked what gear she had and what I should bring. She said she wanted the experience to be a surprise--"Use your imagination," she said.
We created a safeword, discussed limits again, and Lacey even sent me a few photos of outfits she might wear for the night. Lace lingerie. A silk robe. A simple collar.
"I want to be vulnerable," she wrote. "But safe."
The day of my visit arrived faster than expected. I drove the three hours with a carefully packed duffel bag in the trunk, my heart thudding with anticipation.
At exactly 7:46 p.m., I got her message.
Lacey: "I won't be able to get to the front door. Key's under the pot. Come in quietly."
My mouth went dry. The pot was right where she said. The key--cool metal in my hand--felt like the start of something.
The house was dark except for the hallway lamp. I let myself in, heart hammering. No sounds. Just a folded note taped to the closed bedroom door.
Scrawled in her handwriting:
"Use any and all equipment I've left out. Use your imagination. Use me. Give me a night to imagine."
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
---
The bedroom was warm with dim, amber light from a single bedside lamp. The air smelled faintly of her perfume--sweet, floral, with a musky base that made my stomach clench with want. My eyes swept the room, drinking it all in.
She had set the stage perfectly.
A padded bench was pulled into the center of the room, a bundle of neatly arranged gear laid out on top: leather cuffs, a blindfold, two lengths of silky rope, a ball gag, and what looked like a vibrating wand. There was also a handwritten note on top of the pile.
"I'm in the bathroom. Take your time. I'm yours tonight."
I walked slowly around the room, brushing my fingers across the soft leather restraints, the smooth lacquer of the wand's handle. Everything was clean, carefully chosen, deliberately presented. She was trusting me completely.
My bag was still slung over my shoulder, heavy with my own favorite toys--custom cuffs with locking buckles, a silk hood, clamps, and my favorite adjustable spreader bar. I laid them out next to hers, feeling a little flutter in my chest.
I knocked gently on the bathroom door.
"I'm ready when you are," I said, my voice low, calm.
There was a pause.
Then I heard the click of the lock turning.
The door opened an inch... then two... then Lacey stepped out, barefoot and slow, like a scene from a dream.
She wore a delicate black babydoll, sheer enough to see the lace beneath. A simple satin ribbon tied at her throat. Her makeup was subtle but smoldering--dark mascara, a hint of shimmer at her cheeks, and lips just barely tinted rose.
She looked at me with wide, cautious eyes.
"Hey," she said softly.
I stepped closer. "Hi."
We stood in silence for a moment, the electric kind. She tilted her head up toward me.
"You're sure about this?" I asked.
"I've never been more sure," she whispered.
I brushed my thumb over the ribbon at her neck. "Then let's begin."
---
I took her hand and led her to the bench, sitting her down gently. I could feel her trembling--not from fear, but anticipation.
"I'm going to undress you slowly," I said. "You'll keep the collar. Everything else... mine to remove."
She nodded, biting her lower lip.
