Amy senses my frustration and acts appropriately. She pulls a move my best friend would in junior high, when I was too nervous to do it myself. She sees Grey across the room, walks over, and tells him that her friend wants to play with him. I pretend to be all nonchalant, looking at Max instead of the two people discussing me. A few minutes later Amy returns and tells me the deal has been brokered. Then there's another ten-minute delay, and finally Grey saunters back over.
We shake hands again. With the possibility of rejection behind me, I suddenly feel calm and sure of what I want: to be flogged, but not excessively since I'm not sure how much I can take. I tell Grey that I'd prefer not get marks, and could he please steer clear of my bony back and shoulders which, unlike my dumpling ass and thighs, don't have enough meat to absorb a blow. He tells me that he'll start with his largest softest whip, and if I want we can work up to something more potent. I agree. I strip down to my boots, while Grey unpacks his whips. He's brought a bag-full. Then I walk to the wall and grip the chain between my hands.
He starts by massaging my shoulders, establishing the physical connection through neutral contact.
I feel like a teenager learning my sexual response all over again.
The gentle massaging gives way to a gentle slap across my buttocks. There's a long wait, and then swoosh, sueded leather slaps across my ass. Grey is starting off very easy indeed. The large whip, with its dozens of velvety flails, carries no sting. The next blow is slightly harder, and the next one harder still. I yelp a little and shake my fanny at the next blow, to let him know that he can step things up. He does, and I really feel the next one.
"Oh!"
This eggs him on, and the next one is even harder.
"Oh my God!"
Without quite planning to, I slide into a fake southern accent. "Lord have mercy!" I yell when the next lash hits.
"What are you, some kind of smartass?"
Grey switches to a smaller, more aggressive flail, and the next one rips through me. Now we're getting somewhere.
"Oh! I wish you would stop that!"
Snap, sting.
Grey clearly enjoys my showboating — he's loosening up and starting to go at me for real. But even as he escalates the force of his attack, I know that he's exercising control over himself as well as me. I perform for him (and the room) because I'm a show-off, and it allows me to communicate to Grey without seeming to micromanage. The point of the game is to make him want to hit me more. Since he's a top he presumably already does, but I want him to really want to hit me. We're strangers, after all, and anything that gives our interaction specificity gives it more zing. And it's hotter to incite his dominance than simply demand it.
Endorphins are starting to flow as the whipping proceeds. It's getting to a point where he's surprising me, making me gasp for real. I swing my right hip out to meet him, each new lash landing on the same place for extra cumulative sting. I'm getting exactly what I want — an extreme and almost intolerable level of stimulation. I am grateful to receive it. As a submissive, I can't imagine anything more tiresome than flogging another person. Even though Grey seems truly enthusiastic (and I'm doing my best to keep him that way), I'm halfway amazed that he'd go to the trouble for a complete and perfect stranger. Instead of cruelty, the whipping feels like indulgence.
Grey switches to an even narrower flail and I sink deeper into the moment. He's concentrating the blows on the tender region where my ass meets my thighs. For a few minutes I stop intellectualizing, stop showboating, and just feel the blows landing one after another. My knees start to tremble, and a wavy sensation wells up inside me. It's sort of orgasmic, sort of not, coming from someplace new and strange. I feel like a teenager learning my sexual response all over again. But as the feeling deepens, the rush of sensation becomes unmistakable. Then my head clears and I'm back in the room.
The session winds down in another ten minutes. I could possibly take more from Grey physically, but emotionally I've gone as far as I can tonight. A small group of people had gathered to watch our session, which for a drama queen like me is almost as satisfying as the session itself. I'm high from the endorphins, and the attention.
"Wow, thank you," I say to Grey as he packs up his whips.
"Thank you," he says cordially.
The wall of reserve that made our tour so awkward an hour ago is back up — such a contrast to the heated connection of the lash. I put my clothing back on and decompress with Amy.
"You did very well, sweetie," she says, all motherly charm. We mill around for a few minutes more, and I eat my final cookie of the night. While Amy says goodbye to her friends, I spot Grey in a knot of people by the juice bar. I wave, then walk over and we exchange a friendly hug.
The mysterious, dark world of S/M, at least on this beginner's adventure, feels friendly, safe, and crisply defined — a refreshing departure from the rest of my personal life with its endless succession of melodramas. I can't imagine S/M replacing the sweet alchemy of touch, and my endorphin high doesn't compare to the heady rush of love. It doesn't compare to the weight of pent-up anticipation I went in with either — but it's palpable nonetheless, and I feel giddy as I walk home in the drizzling rain. What a relief to have shifted, however slightly, the balance between fantasy and reality. I can't believe I waited so long. n°
