Silk And Shadows 1

Trigger warnings: nonconsent/CNC scene (so trigger warnings apply), with spanking, caning, anal, bondage, and physical and emotional masochism. Please actually talk about and negotiate any IRL CNC/noncon scenes thoroughly before engaging.

....

Oh, my God, where do I begin? First of all, how could I have been so stupid and naive as to not know what he wanted out of me?

You might think when a woman says that about a man, it's because he only wants one thing. In this post #metoo era, you might even think he took it from her despite her unwillingness. That's a story too often told.

But that's not our story. That was only one of the many things he wanted.

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Our meet-cute was pretty standard: we met around New Years, at a party. I was sitting quietly, alone in a cozy corner with a thermos of tea. My dress that night was long and black, and I hoped, likely to detract from male attention.

"May I sit here with you?" No such luck, I thought when I heard a male voice.

Then, I made eye contact with him. Have you ever just looked at someone and

knew

there was something about them, that spark? That's what hit me at that moment.

"Yes, of course."

"James. And you are?"

"Jess."

From there, we had a three hour conversation about history, the state of the world, philosophy, and near midnight, finally about ourselves, grad school, and why we chose to live in this beautiful city. I'll warn you right now that the two of us talk a lot, and we're very nerdy in a city dwelling, intellectual sort of way.

We agreed to meet up, coffee for him and tea for me. I have this image of him burned into memory: he walked into that coffee shop and the slight furrow of his brow turned into a big smile when he saw me. His dark, graying hair waved up at the base of his neck and around his face, and his features are almost too large and too expressive. He has these dark almost liquid eyes, his face just a little too long for conventional beauty, with a strong nose, and a mobile, animated mouth that I can watch for hours. With the exception of his hair, he looked every bit the professional he is, in a charcoal-colored sweater, merino I think, pressed navy chinos, and boots that were perfectly broken in.

He was almost too easy to talk to, and my normal shyness slipped away around him. His high energy and deep conversational topics demand my full attention. There's something calculated about his casual elegance. The part of him underneath that is different, there's something about him, with the wild hair, the warmth that suddenly shifts to an icy gleam, that feels fierce and ferocious. He's strangely comforting to me though. I get a strange but very good feeling of safety and comfort. Like I said, too easy to talk to.

After that, a long walk. Next, he suggested MOMA, which he'd clearly been to before, as have I, then a dinner, followed by a Sunday hike. Then dinner at a nice restaurant on a Saturday evening.

Later that week, an early Sichuan dinner, and a walk to follow. On that night, the city was foggy, and the cool gray veil hid just enough of the filth and fading grimy pastel buildings to make everything beautiful and romantic. We scrolled into a flower shop before closing time, and I pointed out my favorites.

Years ago, a plant seller told me that men would ask her for the names of plants, and then go back to their girlfriends to explain the names. James instead asks me for the names of the plants and flowers he finds interesting. Gardenias and tuberoses, for their scent. Peonies, huge, showy, spectacular yet sweet.

"You don't like roses?" he asked.

"Of course, I love roses too! But modern florist roses have no scent, unlike garden roses that are less flamboyant. I always have gardenias though, because I love their scents at night and because they were my grandmother's favorite flower. Gardenias smell like peaches and oolong to me."

"Hmmm, peaches and oolong. What about red roses?"

The florist overheard. "Men always ask about roses for their wives."

"I'm not..."

He smiled, turning on his charm for her. "This is only the sixth time we've hung out." Oh, he counted? "Thank you for bearing with us so close to closing time. I'd like to take two batches of gardenias? One for me, and one for her."

"You don't have to..."

"No, I want to."

When we walked out, he turned to me. "Why do flowers look so sexual? As if they're opening up, presenting themselves to you?"

"Hmm, because they are? Or maybe it's been too long for you, James?"

"It's been a while, but good sex is worth waiting for. You don't seem to have a boyfriend yourself? So has it been a while for you, Jess?"

I felt warmer than I should have on that cool evening. How did he always have the right, perfectly timed comeback? "It's been a while. I can usually find some dude or other who is interested - but none that's quite right. I don't sleep around, but I'm not a prude either."

He looked very directly at me. "Not right sexually, or just not right?"

"Both, I think. I'd like to imagine that if I meet someone whose kinks line up with mine or someone who is worth working through the process of lining up kinks, then we'd be right for each other in both ways."

James looked at me, right eyebrow raised about as high as he could make it. "Kinks? Oh, but you're so sweet and put together, there's something so innocent about you, with those big eyes." Something about his tone, the amusement that lurked in it, challenged me to prove I'm not as innocent as he seemed to think.

"Well, I mean, you know, umm, that you're both interested in the same things, sexually."

"What are those things, Jess? I'm more curious about that than I was about these gardenias, which smell great." Smooth, James, very fucking smooth.

"Hmm, I mean, well, I tend to be super submissive - and you know I'm ambitious. I feel like the more driven and assertive I have to be for my career, the more I need the mental vacation of doing the opposite, sexually. I want someone to take control and force me to do things and make me obey, but you know, someone that I like and someone who cares about me and my well-being, like someone who wouldn't cause me physical or emotional harm. And I like pain - I notice whenever I have a sore spot, I agitate it more. Something like -" I feel even more warm but I ramble on "- like being tied up or spanked make me feel very happy. I really love pain, restraint, degradation, things like that." I say, feeling rebellious. "But masochism is a different sort of mental vacation than submission. But both remind me of meditation, I get that type of calm ecstatic high from submission, masochism, and meditation." There was more, of course, but it was already hard enough to share that much. "I can orgasm from pain, sometimes it feels like the kink is more important than sex, or at least as important. I've never had a dom, or been someone's extreme submissive, so there's a lot more for me to discover, I think." The pain orgasm is a recent discovery, and I'm very proud of this ability. I need to stop rambling.

"Hmm, so you'd like a sadistic dom, but one that is kind and caring under their sadism?"

"Yes, exactly! And what do you like?"

"Hmm, well, I have a fair amount of experience with those things, and it sounds like you want a lot of the things I enjoy giving. I like restraints and impact. I've switched once or twice, but unlike you, the lack of control and accepting something being done to me makes me uncomfortable. In work, life, and in most things, I like to maintain control. It soothes my edges - my anxieties - and calms me. As for sadism, it makes me feel powerful and in control, but like you said about masochism, it's different and more exciting, it makes me energized, and that's different from the calm of domination. I worry about what that says about me as a person, that enjoying controlling and hurting people makes me a bad person. Though, my college girlfriend introduced me to kink and topping, I know she loved being topped. So I logically understand I'm giving pleasure, creating the scene, pleasuring and pleasing my submissive, and I'm taking on care and responsibility. But I still feel guilt on an emotional level. And I worry being a sadist means I don't have fundamental kindness."

"How interesting, you're usually so sure of yourself. I guess we all have our little insecurities and idiosyncrasies. I think you are very kind," I say shyly, holding up my gardenias as evidence. "An uncaring abuser who calls himself - or herself - a sadist or a dom or a master - is someone to worry about. You're too thoughtful about domination and sadism to be that. Proper sadism and domination involve recognizing your sub's limits, how much they can endure, what gives them pleasure, and creating that for them. There's so much care and responsibility in being a good dom, in recognizing and respecting boundaries even when your sub is in subspace or giddy with pain and even when you're riding high on your sadism and domination - to be the one in control to keep both of you safe and still having fun. It's just such a huge responsibility. The willingness to take on that responsibility is a form of kindness."

"Taking on that responsibility is exciting and very fucking pleasurable for me, Jess. Okay, specifics: what about consensual non-consent?"

"Hm, why do you ask? What about it? I'd like to try, but, hmm, in some way where it's not as contrived as it sounds. As in, I'm surprised and forced but I want it. I have zero desire to be actually raped. But I'd want the scene to be as realistic as possible." I shiver.

"I'm just curious because I'm seeing a different side of you."

And in retrospect, I don't know how I missed the meaning behind his huge grin. The silence is broken by someone asking "Spare any change?" I put my hand into my pocket.

"Don't worry about it," said James, who already had a five in his hand. "Have a good night, and good luck to you, Sir," The moment was almost too on the nose, but it was also unavoidable and inevitable in San Francisco.

"Bless you both. Beautiful couple." Everyone keeps presuming we're a couple.

We walked in silence. Gently, he takes my hands in his. An almost electric thrill passes through me at his first touch. "Thank you." A pause, awkward yet charged in length. "Jess" - he clears his throat - "I'm very much enjoying spending time with you, and getting to know you. I'd like to date you."

"Yes. I mean, um, yes. What were we doing before?"

"I wanted to be sure they were dates. Maybe I was overconfident in buying us flowers to celebrate." He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around me, I tilted my face toward his, and he moved his down to me. The immediate touch of his lips were cool and sweet, but they turned warm, then hot. I was thrilled to the deepest parts of myself. It was so exciting and felt so right. I follow his touch easily, opening my mouth after him for his exploration. His kiss was perfect, and my world felt new and awash in excitement. The perfection of our dance, of following his lead, felt like magic.

So then, given how wonderful the kiss was, and that we had known each other for a few months already, I thought he'd ask me to come home with him. I wanted him to fuck me immediately. I didn't want him as the gentleman right now, I wanted him to ravish me, to show me he was hungry for it.

"What is degradation for you? Why is it your favorite thing?" he asked on our next date.

"Hmm, umm, well, name-calling, and being told that something I'm doing is dirty or somehow bad. I like psychological masochism. Emotional masochism, is that the term? I want to be loved and respected in the real world, and humiliated and humbled, made to bow to my dom in a sexualized context. I wanted to be demeaned and defiled for my sexuality, but not for my intelligence, body, or myself as a person."

"Yes, it's sometimes called emotional masochism. You can say degradation, too. Do you want to be called something like, oh, I don't know -" he paused " - cock sucking whore or anal slut, Jess? Are you a cock sucking whore and anal slut?" He arched an eyebrow, lip curled into a smirk.

I felt a wave of warmth and wetness hit me. "Y-yes, I mean, no, I mean - yes, I like that...maybe a little more aggressive is fine. Do - do you like that, too?"

"I do. Thank you for sharing this, it's interesting to hear a sub's perspectives and desires. And speaking of too much, what are your safewords?"

"Pineapple, mango," I laughed.

"Better than red and yellow," he laughed in return. "Hard limits?"

"Hmmm, urine, scat, permanent damage, minors or pretend abuse of minors. Being called a bitch, fuckmeat, or rapetoy, or being spit on because those things are so vulgar. I'd say blood too, but I'm getting curious about doing that with someone I really care about..."

"You have - very few hard limits. And I agree with you on all. As for blood play, I've never done it, and I would have to feel very connected and very trusting toward the person to even consider it."

I leaned my head against my hand and curved toward him, hoping he'd take the hint.

"Jess, is that a tattoo?" His voice sounded surprised.

"Yes," I pulled up my sleeve to show it to him. "They're always hidden."

"They, Jess, more than one? You're both shy and elegant, and I did not expect those."

"Yes."

"Did they hurt?"

"Noooo. My tattoo artist kept telling her coworkers that I was 'so good' about the pain of this one -" I point to the one closer to my inner elbow " - little does she know that I enjoy the pain. It's pretty mild, the type of pain that makes me feel relaxed. But it has some of the thrill of masochism: I feel nervous and anxious about enduring the pain as I walk into it, afraid I'll crack or somehow not handle as gracefully as I want to, and that makes the ride all the better. Then, I sit there and endure, and that endurance is another high - and the pain starts, and it's not as bad as I think, and then I guess endorphins kick in, and the whole experience is somehow pleasurable."

He rubbed my exposed arms, and wrapped me in his embrace. More sweet, passionate kissing ended that date.

Aroused and somewhat furious, I went home. I pulled off my panties, which are soaked through, and laid face down on my bed. I began fucking my soaking wet pussy with my fingers. I rubbed my clit to the thought of him pressing me down on his bed, taking me from behind, telling me what a slut I was, and how he knew how much I wanted his cock. I filled myself with two fingers, pressing them inside my slippery hole with desperation,

so

aroused by my own need and slutty desperation. My fingers were...unsatisfying. Cock, I needed his cock inside this empty hole. I can't endure this much longer, I thought, gasping as I felt the waves of release and constriction of my muscles.

I rolled over onto my stomach. I imagined him with me, walking into a piercing shop, staring down at me while someone pierced my clit...his face watching me as the pain drills through my most sensitive part. What would be even more delicious is if we found some secret dungeon where they do piercings. I'd be there with him, innocently, while he told me to strip. I'd obey, because of course I would. He'd pick up and strap to a cold sterile metal table, my arms cuffed down, my legs spread and cuffed, my neck cuffed also, my eyes covered by a heavy blindfold, so I can't see what my impending fate will be. Someone rubbed me down, making me sterile, and he laughed at how wet I keep getting, wet because I'm scared and fear and other thrills make me wet and horny, Then I imagine the sharpest bite of pain, tears building in my eyes, and my body trying to rise to protect itself. Of course, it's too late, and he's altered my body. Hm, this fantasy is so incredibly hot for me. Maybe I should touch myself again. I imagined him climbing on top of me afterward...

He asked if I wanted to see his place on the date following that one. Of course I do. He bought the place years ago. His city flat is gorgeous. It spans the top floor of a Victorian on an incline, and still has plenty of moody period details intact. He showed me the updated galley kitchen, with its brass fixtures and deep navy-painted cabinetry. His dining room has period wainscotting, the original wood left unpainted. Three bedrooms, two updated bathrooms, one with an old-fashioned claw-footed tub. It's as tasteful as he is, and as clean as a whistle, as clean as my place, a reflection of discipline and an organized person. The pale sofa we sat on in his living room is a nice contrast to the deep, almost melancholy aura of his beautiful home.

Then he told me why he sometimes had that aura of melancholy. He met his ex-wife while he was still in med school, and he had bought his place before he married. Then, just less than two years into the marriage, his ex-wife miscarried their baby. The loss made him rethink his priorities, and he decided he did not want to have children. They grew apart, she wanted more children, so they agreed she should try to remarry while young enough to bear them. He had dated since - he was too charming to not attract women - but nothing worked out. I wondered if perhaps the thought of getting attached after those losses was too hard for him. I had guessed that he must have had some trauma in his past because he has the type of empathy and emotional intelligence that results from it.

"And was she kinky? Or was that a factor in your split?"

"A little, Jess, like your long term ex. You're bringing up a good point. There was some closeness missing. She would submit, but it wasn't as necessary or exciting for her as it was for me. She wasn't a masochist, and I felt guilty for being a sadist. So I didn't feel completely accepted, seen, or heard, to use your language. She's a lovely person, but...she's now settled in the suburbs, with two kiddos and a husband. And that's not for me. Anyway, not much more to say about it right now." Then he changes the subject.

"I presume we're going to have sex sometime, since we're dating?"

Sometime?

I feel the scowl forming on my face. "Yes...did you have an idea of when you'd like?" Did I sound as desperate as I felt?

"I want our first time to be special and romantic. How about we both take a four day weekend, and I'll plan it all out? Let's say a month from now, ish, once we check our work calendars? I promise it'll be very romantic." Hm, this man wants it romantic, and I don't give a fuck as long as his cock fills me. I sighed.

Again, the obviousness of his plan doesn't hit me until he brings it to fruition.

He wouldn't see me the week before our first time together. James said he needed to wrap up some work things to be ready for our very long weekend together. I'd taken care of emails and messages, told a couple friends that I was going on a romantic escapade, emptied the compost, and I'm beyond ready. I'm wearing old clothes, as he instructed, but with sexy lingerie underneath. My heart is beating and there are flutters in my stomach and I'm very, very, very excited when I stood in his doorway, both because I missed seeing his face and smelling his particular woodsy, masculine smell. I was horny as fuck. He made me wait so long. I wanted to taste him so badly. Maybe he'd fuck me immediately?

As soon as I walked in, he stepped very close and kicked the door behind me. It's heavy, the dark wooden Victorian door with lots of intrinsic gingerbread detail, so it's not easy to kick closed. Then, he picked me and my packed bag up, and carried me past the very dark hallway, where every window I see has heavy blackout curtains making everything darker than all the heavy wood wainscotting already made it. He dropped me onto his bed. Then I snapped out of shock, and pushed myself up. "What's going on?"