A polite telephone conversation followed weeks of email. A date and time was set. The ground rules were simple: we would meet for drinks at an elegant old Nob Hill hotel. I knew that its lounge area offered privacy among the sumptuous, overstuffed chairs and sofas. It would be drinks, and only drinks, if she did not want to proceed. But if she did want to go further, there would be a second stage: dinner at a quiet Japanese restaurant on Union Street that I had known since the early 1970s.
If I passed this further examination, or "chemistry test" as she liked to call it, we would return to the hotel where I had a room. I had done the required prep work there: a bureau drawer contained all the implements that she had requested: ankle and wrist cuffs, various lengths of rope, a black silk scarf that would serve as a blindfold, one of those intricate little leather-strap devices full of snaps called a ball separator, a stiff leather paddle, a riding crop, extra towels, lubricant, some Fleet enemas (ever the optimist, I had already used one on myself), condoms, etc.
Her choice of paddle and riding crop had struck me as particularly interesting: one is an instrument for gross effect, the other for utmost specificity. Rounding out her list was a CD player and external speakers with music she had requested. The music would serve a dual purpose: it would both afford listening pleasure and help to mask any unusual sounds created in the room.
The music made me think of what words would flow from her if we did act out our yin and yang in that hotel room. If she ordered me to drape myself over her lap, what language and tone would she choose as her paddle strokes landed? Would they be formal or casual? Stern or humorous? What would she say when she slipped the main loop of the ball separator over my cock and snugged it down tightly? There might be silence as she expertly completed affixing that taut little web, pulling on each ball in turn, wrapping the tiny leather belt around the drawn skin of the scrotum and securing it with the snap. The first time I tried doing this myself, on orders from an online Mistress, it took forever. But the final result, I finally had to admit to myself, was deeply satisfying. There I was, all trussed up, vulnerable to the whims of the Mistress. I even had to chuckle that it all looked like a flying goose: the shaft of my cock flanked by two balls, straining like Tootsie-Pops in their wrappers.
My reveries then leaped ahead to how she might take advantage of my being so intwined. Would she order me to lie on my back, arms and legs splayed wide? Would she then stand above me, straddling me at shoulder level and teasingly run the tip of the riding crop up and down the inside of my legs? Perhaps without warning the first smack of the crop would land on an inner thigh or ball. I would not be able to control my reaction with that sort of pain. I would emit a gasp and gird for the next, and next. To mute my cries and hide the next destination of the crop, she might even lower herself onto my face, almost smothering me. Would the circle then close? Would the pain in my loins become one with the bliss of what my tongue was being allowed to explore?
