by Sabrina York
When I mentioned to his mother that I was there to meet Trapper, she frowned and said, “Trapper shouldn’t be doing this.”
I assumed she meant meeting women at her house. I couldn’t say her resentment was unfounded, though I didn’t understand why it would be directed at me. She seemed busy, as they appeared to be running a business out of their home. Clients were waiting for her attention, so she sat me down in the back garden. It was very like the front, except with comfortable-looking lawn chairs here and there, despite the lack of a lawn.
Summers in the East Bay can be warm, and, as we were inland, the day was very hot. Trapper was over an hour late. Eventually his mom brought her waiting clients ice water. She gave me another frown and said brusquely that she’d bring me water also. I thanked her.
Later, I used the toilet and then talked with Trapper’s father. He was much more forthcoming than his mother, pouring us both a lovely chilled white wine. We chatted in their kitchen, which featured a butler’s pantry and stairs. Then, through a window, I saw Trapper heading toward the back yard looking harried. He found us, drank some wine and mellowed out.
I transferred my stuff to his car and we set off. I wanted to relax but I wanted more to find out why he felt it was okay to behave the way he had. At the same time, I didn’t want to argue, so when he seemed surprised that I was perturbed because he’d been late by several hours, I mentally shrugged my shoulders and let it go, wondering if maybe I was out of step with societal norms.
We talked about sex. When questioned, he stated he’d been a Dom for well over a decade. He’d even taken classes to learn how. I felt comforted—I liked being with a man who knew what he was doing. One of my ex-boyfriends had tried to cuff and spank me before sex, but all that did was bring on my giggles. Maybe that had been nervousness, but with good reason. I now understand how difficult it is to be a good Dom.
We talked about my hard boundaries, what was acceptable and what was not. I realized later that for Trapper, boundaries are what he wants to cross. He wanted to push my limits and did so often. He stated once he wanted to break me, but I didn’t know what that meant.
We drove through The City—in northern California, The City is always San Francisco. There, Trapper stopped at a sex store.
The store was warehouse sized and very male-oriented. Everything was black leather or metal, and a little scary.
Trapper lost no time placing me in my new role, strapping bondage devices on me within seconds—wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, gags and hoods. When he found equipment he liked and that fitted me, he left it on. The hood covered my face with holes for breathing. Even so, it was fairly comfortable, which was good since I was destined to spend a lot of time in it. I don’t always like being blinded but Trapper seemed to love to render me as helpless as possible.
After I was hooded, he led me around the store, checking out various bits and pieces, or so I assumed. Eventually the place closed with us the last patrons. He hastily stripped everything off me and paid. The purchase included three huge black dildos, which unnerved me for a couple of reasons. Not only was their size intimidating, but why three?
I told myself not to be possessive.
We drove up the coast to his family’s condo at Sea Ranch. The two-bedroom, two-story home was beautiful but very cold. The bedrooms were downstairs and because heat rises, they were especially chilly. Trapper told me that his brother shuttles between Sea Ranch and San Francisco, with the other bedroom semi-occupied by someone who worked locally during the week but left on the weekends. Hence the chill.
After we unpacked the car, Trapper switched on the heat and made food. The meal was good, a casserole he’d invented with spinach, quinoa and spaghetti sauce. Tasty and healthy, it went down well with a nice white wine. We sat and ate on the thick rug in front of a roaring fire, listening to the waves crash against the Sonoma shore.
Then there was the sex.
I had not made love for a year. My last relationship had been with David, a super-nice guy who’d whined about his job too much but had done nothing about it. I don’t mean to come off as unsympathetic, but I’d listened to his bitching for three months before I decided not to tolerate it any more. I didn’t say anything, but simply didn’t talk with him as often. Naturally he noticed, and cancelled one of our dates abruptly. When I asked about that, he started to complain about my attitude toward him. I cut him off, saying, “Look, you’re unhappy and that’s all we need to know. Best of luck!”
I know that was harsh, but I hate drama. And I wasn’t invested.
And now I was invested. Heavily, as though my entire personal fortune was tied up in Trapper Hart.
And because such a long time had elapsed—I’m picky, okay?—I knew I’d be tight and the first time was bound to be uncomfortable, for me at least. I figured Trapper’s cock was going to be very happy in my snug little nest.
We ate and then took a shower. The games started there, with Trapper demanding that I kneel and suck him.
I happily obeyed. Trapper’s cock was wonderful, thick and tasty. He shaves his rod and his balls, which I adore and prefer. After the in-shower BJ came one on the bathroom floor, with my knees protected from the tile by a rug—much better for me.
I loved Trapper’s cock. It was just a little too long for me to deep-throat him without gagging, but I figured that was all the better for fucking. So I used my hands to play with the parts of his shaft I couldn’t jam down my throat. He had a pleasant habit of grabbing my long, fair hair, twisting it into a rope and using it to guide my head in exactly the way he wanted.
I reveled in that treatment. I like being told what to do during sex. I don’t want to have to guess what my partner wants and likes. Just tell me, okay? Or show me. I don’t bring my crystal ball or my tarot cards into the bedroom.
After we finished, he brought out what I called his “bag of tricks,” or his “goody bag,” a rolling carry-on stuffed with BDSM supplies.
He didn’t let me look through it, and truth to tell, I didn’t try or ask. I wanted to be surprised, go with the flow and allow Trapper to orchestrate everything. That’s totally unlike me. I am usually very controlling, but candidly, isn’t everyone? Everyone wants what they want, and I’m no exception.
But that night, and after, I was happy to give Trapper control. I had no previous real experience with BDSM sex, though a high level of interest. I felt lucky to be with an expert for my first time.
He hooded me and draped me over a hassock in the living room. The fire was blazing; though I wasn’t drunk, I was pleasantly mellow and immediately became aroused by the position. I love being taken on my hands and knees, and the hassock was even better, because it supported my weight. I just lay there and relaxed.
Then he wrapped cuffs around my wrists and ankles, hogtied me and gagged me.
And did I mention I was naked?
I don’t remember everything that went on. That’s the funny thing about such intense sex. It’s completely mind-bending. With perspective and research, I now know that the intensity of the sex releases oxytocin, a “feel-good” hormone that has amnesiac properties. It contributes to forgetfulness.
Unfortunately, another effect of oxytocin is bonding—in fact, it’s referred to as “the bonding hormone.” Though I did not know it and certainly didn’t consent, I was involuntarily becoming bonded to Trapper Hart.
At that time, though, I was focused on the moment. Despite that, I can’t recall specifics. I think he spanked and maybe flogged me, but I don’t remember. But knowing Trapper’s predilections, I bet he did.
He used one of the dildos to open me, and God, it hurt. My bound hands were close enough to my pussy that I kept swatting the dildo away, and he finally got the message that it wasn’t working for me. My previous arousal had faded; the pain was too great. Didn’t feel sexy at all.
I wasn’t disappointed, for I sensed that this was just a bump on the road. After he let me loose, I got him onto the couch and took him.
&n
bsp; It was one of the hardest fucks I’ve ever endured, but I knew it was necessary. Apparently my at-home electric boyfriend, a cute pink dildo, wasn’t opening me enough though I used it frequently. It was maybe a quarter of the size of the black behemoths Trapper had bought.
And I am not especially fond of dildos. I regard mine as necessary but not desirable. Frankly, there’s nothing like cock. Hot and hard, but with a pliancy that no dildo can match, perfectly designed for its job—fucking.
Even writing these words makes me cream.
Finally I was seated on Trapper with his dick fully buried in me. He came, I didn’t, and I went downstairs to bed exhausted while he stayed up and watched TV.
I awakened in the morning in bed and alone. That was not what I wanted, so I found Trapper and said, “Good morning! Why aren’t we together?”
He came down, and we cuddled, fooled around and napped for most of the day. It was a little difficult; he didn’t seem accustomed to sleeping with a partner, but when I mentioned it, he said he was. Then he stopped talking so abruptly that I realized that he feared revealing too much about himself.
Interesting… Who was he sleeping with? And why was he so secretive?
He worked—he’s a bit of a workaholic, but I imagine he hadn’t wanted to let his family down. They all seemed to participate in the family business. Trapper still worked there part-time while attending law school, a common scenario. So he played around with some paperwork while I studied, read, and relaxed.
Then came the big finish to the weekend. Trapper was taking me to a play space, a.k.a. dungeon. The place was relatively close to home, so he’d drop me off at my car when the evening ended.
I dressed carefully for the event, with Trapper looking over the clothing selections I’d brought. He hated my pink flowered bra and panty set, telling me that they looked like something an old hippie would wear. (Duh. I’m an old hippie). We settled on a dull gold satin bustier trimmed with black under a black leather vest and matching skirt, with black heels and black thigh-high stockings.
Trapper wore a black T-shirt, black leather pants and black boots. He looked entirely hot.
The playtime was preceded by a potluck, which was fun. I was a little nervous about meeting new people in my slutwear, but I saw women in net tops with nothing underneath, a couple of tastefully attired cross-dressers who wouldn’t have been out of place in any office setting, and several clad somewhat like Trapper and me. But most everyone there looked quite normal, wearing the basic American uniform of blue jeans and T-shirt. We had a nice time chatting, for people were open, friendly and kind. Most were there to explore their sexual selves in a safe setting. None seemed as hardcore as Trapper.
After we ate—I just nibbled on some nuts and raw vegetables due to nervous excitement—we explored the place and the equipment. The play space was clean and nicely decorated, with the usual emphasis on chains and black leather. There were Saint Andrew’s crosses, racks and slings, all of which intrigued me. The old-fashioned dentist’s chair startled me. I’ve been with a dentist, and little about him had been sexy.
Upstairs was a huge, romantically draped bed with sturdy-looking bedposts. A few feet away was a contraption that looked as though it had been designed with bondage and discipline in mind. It had a horizontal ring to hold the face and head attached to a surface, perhaps three feet long, for one’s torso to rest upon. Arm and leg supports, and every inch of it was padded. Every part of it had rings for the attachment of ropes or chains.
I looked at him and then this…bondage device…and then back at him. He smiled.
I said, “I want you to know that when we do this, I’m going to develop some deep feelings for you. I’m falling for you.” I know myself fairly well, and am aware that for me, sex and intimacy are intertwined. I wish I didn’t feel that way, but I tend to become emotionally involved with the men I’m fucking. The weekend had already been very intimate, and deeper intimacy was coming. I asked Trapper, “Can you deal with that?”
I needed to know that I would be taken care of. Not just my body but my mind and heart as well.
He told me, “Yes, there will be a role for you.”
A niggle of doubt itched me briefly, but at the time, that was enough for me to hear. I was eager to advance into this new experience, one I had craved for so long.
He directed me to remove some of my outerwear before hooding and gagging me. Then he guided me to the whatever-it-was and eased me onto it face down. He secured wrist and ankle restraints around me, then tied them to it. Lifting my skirt, he cut off my black lace panties.
I told myself never to wear panties around Trapper again. What for?
So I was bound to immobility and completely available. I was gagged, which meant that I could maybe grunt out my “safe word” if necessary. Or not.
Again, I don’t recall exactly what happened.
I remember being spanked, flogged and thoroughly fucked. I remember being smacked repeatedly with something—I didn’t know what, but I suspected it was made of leather—that hurt like a motherfucker. I recall begging him, “Please, sir, please sir, please sir…” through the gag.
I remember coming a lot.
I remember Trapper bending over me, covering me with his body and heat, hissing into my ear, “Whose are you?”
To which I promptly responded, “I’m yours.”
And I meant it.
Again, we closed the place down. I don’t remember the drive home, but when we arrived, he parked his car next to mine. We hastily transferred my stuff, then hugged and kissed before parting. I drove home, and after getting into bed, shivered with chills for hours before falling asleep. I made a mental note not to drive home and sleep alone again after an intense BDSM scene.
I now know that what I was experiencing was a phenomenon called “sub drop.” The extreme stimulation generates a cocktail of chemicals in the sub’s body, and as they pass, the sub experiences feelings akin to clinical shock or depression, which can last for several days. An attentive Dom will avert sub drop by providing “after care.” After care can vary according to the sub’s needs. Me—I need to be cuddled through it. That didn’t happen. Trapper never provided after care, an extraordinary omission considering that he was otherwise such an accomplished Dom.
In retrospect, I see that this neglect torpedoed anything we could have had. Had he fulfilled his obligations, we’d have been happily fooling around with each other for a very long and satisfying time.
Even so, I expected to hear from him the next day, perhaps with flowers or an invitation to repeat the experience, or maybe even just to share a meal.
And what I got was…nothing, though I promptly left a message to thank him for a memorable weekend and asked to get together to talk the events over.
But…nothing.
I was in agony. I felt as though I’d been kidnapped from heaven, then thrown into the deepest, coldest emotional abyss one could imagine. Four days later, completely freaked out by what I perceived as abandonment after the greatest intimate experience of my life, I left another message:
“I’m startled that you have not contacted me lately given what we shared. Are you blowing me off? A clear yes or no answer would be deeply appreciated.”
I received: “Oh God. No. Don’t feel that way. This is my crunch week and I haven’t come up for air all week long. I haven’t even slept more than five hours any night this week.”
I found this wonderfully comforting even though quite a few hours had elapsed between my message and the response. I hoped to see him at school or the next weekend, even though I was involved in filming an indie flick Saturday night. I invited him to join me at the set to hang out, which I thought might be interesting for him.
He didn’t show up or even answer. Upset at his rudeness but determined not to remain dateless the following weekend, I asked him to dinner Saturday night and breakfast Sunday morning, saying, “In between I’m sure you and I can figure out something fun to do.”
>
After numerous answering machine messages back and forth, it came out that Trapper didn’t want to spend the night together. We ended up eating supper on Friday night, and during that conversation he told me he still lived with his ex, a woman he’d been with for six years and broken up for three.
WTF?
I wondered if they were really broken up, of course—wouldn’t you?
At this point, Trapper told me over sushi and beer that although they weren’t having sex, (1) he wouldn’t throw her out of his house out of respect and love, and (2) they’d made a deal that neither would meet lovers at their shared home. (3) She is celibate by choice.
I’m sure Trapper was aware that their deal placed all the sacrifice on him. As she wasn’t making love with anyone, being unable to bring a lover home was no burden on her. But it was for Trapper. And, of course, for me.
The situation shat. I couldn’t bring Trapper to my place—I lived in a tiny tenement with several other law students. And Trapper, having made a ridiculously one-sided deal with his ex, couldn’t bring me to his home for a little rough-and-tumble nooky.
I suggested a hotel but that never transpired, and he never gave a reason.
And there was also the other woman he was dating.
Her name was Meg, and she was one of the women Trapper had brought to that party. Her most distinguishing features were her hostility and a really bad dye job. Why do women go around with inch-long dark roots and the rest bleached platinum? Yeeech. I wouldn’t leave my house without a hat if my hair looked like that, and that would be to go straight to my stylist.
At the time, I did not suspect that this woman was Trapper’s. Every once in a while I did see them together, but that was all, until…
Oops. Jumping ahead here!
Our relationship stumbled along for a couple of weeks fueled mostly by phone messages (mine) and desire (mine).
Then Trapper invited me to go to Sea Ranch again.
