Chapter 1. My Spotter
My name is Jeng. I am 34, male. I am married and I have a family. I teach at a local university. That's all I would like to share about my life in the daylight. This story is not about any of that. This story happened when I went looking for an alternate world ... a world that existed in the shadowy underground of the city, a world that I had thought would fulfill my fantasies and allow me to live a normal life during the day. It did not. Instead, it created a desire that I did not know I had. It brought into my life an object of desire, and more properly, adoration, that I cannot forget even as I step onto street side from the underground (literally). It brought Katie. Katie ... I cannot even type her name with feeling shudders going through my torso.
Katie was my spotter. That's how it began anyhow. I don't know what she is to me now. Words cannot capture any of it. At times she feels like everything to me ... that I would leave my life to stay in darkness forever with her. Other times, when the day breaks, she drifts in and out my mind like the shadow of a dream ... before I can even grasp and make out her shape and form, she has drifted out of my mind's reach.
Let me explain briefly the beginning. I have had, for years, even before I knew what sex was and knew what even masturbation was, fantasies. Even as a child, these fantasies can become very vivid, so much so that I would stay awake hours at time, living in it in the half-awake, half-sleep state. There is no one person, object, or scene that is constant. But as I got older, I do see the constant (especially after some extended time spent in a psychologist's office). By technical terms, I belong to the category of people who wants to submit and be dominated, used, and abused (to a reasonable extent). I say "technical terms", because when I tried to look up stories and porn videos that have these key words, few ever come close to expressing what I was desiring. I managed to have a normal, successful, and even happy life. I love my family. But in the middle of the night or the day, I would be overtaken with the shadow of my dreams. It is not a sinister kind of darkness, just an uncertain, heart-pounding invitation to go deeper and be lost.
After years of fighting with these thoughts and getting by between therapy sessions and porn (which only provides temporary relief like an Advil is to a headache), I realized that what I wanted is so deeply lodged that I cannot separate the physical from the mental. One thing I want to clarify is that I have never strayed in my decade long of marriage. Externally, I am the perfect man. I never even attempted a fling. I never went to a Strip Club. I was once forced upon a sloppy kiss by a relative stranger in a faraway land, and I was too polite to push off, but did not reciprocate. That is the extent of my outward (lack of) transgressions.
But in my mind, I felt that I have gone farther than any worldly standard would permit or condone. In the end, I gave in. I wanted to know what my fantasies actually feel like ... even though my fantasies take no concrete and certain form. After about 6 months of research and discrete inquiries (if there is a will, there is a way), I signed up, was background-checked, and admitted to an underground club called the "Spotter's Club". It is located in a northeast suburb of the city, connected to a niche restaurant called "The Spot". Along with admission, I was sent a brief and detailed email in a secured account, explaining the basic procedures of the club, which you will see shortly. All that is left for me to do is to request a day. After about two weeks of un-ending mental struggle, I clicked the submit button almost out of sheer desperation. The next screen came up and said, "Welcome to the Spotter's Club. This is your first time. Please select a spotter". A few black and white images came up. They were shadow and outlines of people, both men and women. I cannot make out any face. I was so panicked at that stage that I picked the first name I recognize. "Katie". I liked that name, perhaps. I think I once knew someone named Katie in high school, or maybe it was at work. It sounds familiar, reassuring perhaps. She was a nice person. I don't know. I had to pick something and shut down that screen and close up the laptop (even though I am securely in my own office on the 9th floor of the university, on a day when most students are in recess.) I forgot the name Katie almost as soon as I selected it.
I waited anxiously for a few days, checking the secure site a dozen times a day to see if my invitation is finalized. Then, on a cold winter afternoon, the notice came. "You are requested at the Spotter's Club this evening. You have selected to be a user. Your spotter is Katie. Please make the necessary preparations."
Again, the name Katie didn't mean a thing to me. The word "user" ran through my mind and gave me shivers. I trembled as I made my preparation, which, according to the instructions, included washing, bathing, and self-administer enema with a warm water and vinegar solution, and even a 30-minute stretch routine. I removed every identifier from my body, watch, ring, and placed them in a box and put them under my clothes in the dresser. I put on clean underwear and threw on non-descript jeans and pull-over sweater. With my hair still damp, I ventured onto the streets and waited for a bus. (I have a car, but the thought of driving my car and parking it there is crazy.) The damp hair almost froze in the winter chill and, though I almost never have headaches, I got one now. I pulled my hood over my head, and wishes I could just disappear and re-appear at the appointed place. The instructions and procedures ran over in my mind in obsessive cycles. I feel like I have so many questions, but when I try to think of one specific question, I cannot -- everything step is so clearly spelled out.
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I got off the bus one stop earlier. I am not familiar with this part of the town, but I have studied google map for hours to keep staring at the same blocks. I found my way towards the Spot. By then it was about dinner time, and the restaurant was filling up. I lowered my head and walked quickly by the windows. Some of the guests in there, I had read, will make their way to the basement as bidders. I am unlikely going to know anyone, or anyone would know me. But I felt the panic in my stomach. Still, as I rushed by, I couldn't help but peek in. There were men and women well dressed typical of your niche restaurant in the suburbs, young and middle-aged.
I walked around the block. Behind what seemed apartment units and a fire escape ladder suspended over my head, was an unmarked door. This too, was clearly described in the instruction. There is a number key on the door. I punched in the code I had memorized over and over again in my head, and twisted the knob. The door opened. I went in quickly and shut it behind me.
It was suddenly quiet. It was warm too. The door behind felt heavy and insulated when it shut. I am standing in a warmly but dimly lit hallway. There were no doors on either side. I walked forward, and at the end was a wall plate, much like the ones in hotels directing you to your rooms. My room number was to the right. So I went, opened the door, and locked it behind me. I am in a very small room. A thick dark curtain divided me from the other half of the room. There was a locker and other shelves on my side. Neatly folded on a bench was a stack of things I had read about. Sitting on top was a blindfold gear. I picked it up ... it is made out of dark and thick fabric, with a nice stretch. It almost looked like a swimmer's cap, but thicker and of course, longer, so that it would cover your eyes. I tried it on my head, and pulled it down over my eyes to the middle of the bridge of my nose. It was pitch black. I tried to look down, but it had sealed off the space on the two sides of my nose that I could not see a thing. I took it off again.
Though the small changing room is very warm, I was shivering and shaking. I tried to take a few deep breaths and calm myself down. I deliberately tried to take off my clothes slowly, and folding each piece and putting them away on the shelves. When I was naked, I sat down, holding and folding the blind fold nervously in my hand. There was not a sexual rush through my body. My penis lay almost limp in between my legs, on the bench. I suddenly felt naked and embarrassed at my own body, not that the light was even bright enough to see any details.
I had a slightly-above average body in strictly physical terms. I was lean. Not because I ate well or exercise, but more genetics. For years I was active in sports, but have given up since the kids came along. I am about 5'10", and weighs between 150 to 155 lbs for the last few years. If I drew a breath and hold it and lift my shoulders, I had a reasonably flat stomach. No six packs, just toned muscles behind a layer of fat that comes from getting older, not working out, and having a family. My thighs were the most muscular part of my body because of the mostly running sports I used to do. But in daylight, I looked somewhat pale because of the lack of exposure to any real sunlight. But at the moment, all I saw was my flaws. As I sat, I looked woefully at my belly which seems to me to be hanging out (in reality, only barely), I looked at my penis, which, in its limp state, seem so small and weak (in reality, it is about medium). Though I cannot see, I was imagining the white pale thighs.
Because I had no watch, I had to guess the time. I knew that my part would start at 7 pm. The bus dropped me off around 6:25 PM, so it should be about 10 minutes away now. I fumbled through the rest of the stuff laid on my bench. There were some soft silky ropes, some standard buckles that you might see in the window of a sex boutique store, a ball gag. I had never used any of these on myself (except some form of ropes). They did not look particularly interesting. The blind fold cap, however, seemed to me the most interesting thing. I was going to try it on again.
Suddenly, I heard movement on the other side of the curtain and almost jumped and dropped my blindfold. Someone clearly had come in. I took a deep breath. This was part of the procedure. My spotter was supposed to come and make sure I was ready, and then take me to the bidding floor. Katie was her name, I suddenly remembered it for the first time since this afternoon.
I heard her moving around on the other side, also changing. I didn't know what to say. She wasn't talking either. I tried to remember everything I read about the spotter. The spotter was the person that facilitated the whole process between bidders and users. Specifics aside, they were to guide you through, make sure you were okay with what was being done, they "spot" you when you were in the middle of it to make sure you were safe, and then they came at the end to help you recover. From what I read, the way the whole thing works was that you could chose to be users or spotters. Actually, no, you had to be users and spotters. You had to alternate. Supposedly it kept the spotters sharp because they were users themselves. So they knew what's going on. There was no "safe word" here. Because of the bondages, gags, and other things involved, the instruction said that safe word system was too difficult to manage. So you had to trust your spotter to see something wrong and stop the action when you yourself couldn't.
As I recalled all these, I felt a panic. Obviously, the spotter had a huge role to play here, and I hadn't even thought about this person -- I didn't even know who she was. I did read that, first timers were assigned experienced spotters. After your first time, you could request specific spotters (as well as being requested to serve as a spotter.)
Before I could fret much further, she spoke.
"Hi! Are you there?"
She spoke softly. She had a nice voice. Not cold or professional or pretend like the kind you'd hear in a porn flick. Just a normal person's voice ... like a nice waitress, a colleague, or just a friend.
"I am. ... Hi." I could barely speak. My throat felt stuck and shut. I cleared my throat.
"I am your spotter." She said, and then with a smile in her voice, she added, "I guess you know that."
"Um ... yes, I do." I tried to put a smile in my voice. It sounded stupid.
"Well, I know this is your first time. I'll talk you through. But if I am giving you too much instruction, just let me know and I'll stop." She continued.
"Yes, sure. No, not too much instructions ... I mean, I would like some instruction." I stumbled through my words.
"I'll make sure you are okay." She said, with an emphasis of reassurance.
"Yes, I know." These were the first words that came out of my mouth that sounded normal. But then again, I felt the need to lighten the atmosphere and added, "It's not your first time."
She said nothing. And I felt totally stupid.
After a few moments, she said, "Are you ready?"
