by Sabrina York
After the blindfold, I’ll secure his ankles. Then the real fun begins.
I’ve bound my subject so his lovely dangly boy bits are easily reached, for they are the initial focus of my explorations. Before I do much else, I ensure that his balls will stay where they’re accessible, because if I don’t, they will retract into the body as soon as I start any serious impact play—impact play meaning slapping, whipping, flogging and the like. So I tie a cord snugly around everything, and check it frequently to see if it’s too tight. Injuries are not on my agenda.
Then I start clipping and clamping with colorful fasteners of various sorts. I may turn on a pop music mix and dance around. After I’m done with the CBT—cock and ball torture—I’ll likely leave the clamps on while I clip other body parts—nipples being a favorite—and then get more deeply into what’s called “sensation play.”
I love sensation play. I’m not a pain slut but a sensation ho. I love to give and receive various stimuli—hot and cold, soft and rough, pain and pleasure. The guiding principle is that the human mind, despite our attempts to multi-task, can focus on only one thing at a time. So pain combined with pleasure drives the bottom to focus on the pleasure, and when that pleasure is spiked with pain, it’s highly arousing. Scratching then massaging. The whip’s sting followed by a sensual, slow fuck, perhaps accompanied by an occasional swat on the ass. CBT chased by deep throating, if I like the guy enough. Most often I do not have sexual contact with my subject unless he is already my lover.
If the subject enjoys ass play, I’ll put on a strap-on rig and “peg” him which, for a woman, is an interesting experience. Quite empowering, and fun for me also if I’m using my vibrating dildo. However, I have to stay highly aware, without allowing myself to sink into pleasure. I want to give my subject a terrific scene without injuries, and I know I’m a novice at this activity. I don’t want to rupture anything.
After an hour or two has passed, the combined stimulation has brought the subject into sub space or close to orgasm. Then I’ll wind down the scene, slowly and sensually removing clips, releasing his balls and then his cock. The release of a clamp often hurts when blood rushes into the formerly clamped areas, so all of this is done with lots of caressing to balance pain, lots of encouraging whispers in the ear—“You’re so wonderful… I love how you’re responding… Have I told you how hot you are?”—boatloads of kindness and affection amid teasing, flirtation and taunting.
So the mix of stimuli is not only physical but emotional, but never deviates into brutality. I’m just not built like that. And none of it is faked. I’m fond of my partners, even my practice bottoms. I don’t play with people I don’t like, and generally, I don’t merely play. I have relationships, friendships of varying intimacy and closeness.
After I release my subject, if he’s in shape to do so, he will usually volunteer to help me tidy up. What that entails is cleaning every object I’ve used with bleach wipes, even if it’s been covered by a condom, such as the dildo I’ve used for pegging. If he’s too thrashed to help, I’ll keep him close and warm while I quickly clean my gear and repack. Then we’ll find a cozy couch to cuddle on and chat for a bit, until we both feel as though we’ve emotionally left the scene space, so to speak, and reentered ordinary reality. Sometimes we’ll give each other foot massages—it’s especially wonderful for me to get out of those Dominatrix boots—sip wine or have a nice cup of tea.
Sounds fun, doesn’t it? And shouldn’t everyone have a hobby?
Fetlife is different from other social media sites in that we identify ourselves by our gender and our inclinations right away. I was mystified by a designation that I saw, GF, for a long time (girlfriend???) until I realized that it indicated “gender fluid.”
The gender fluid, especially those who started off as male, are a playful bunch. They are also some of the bravest people I have ever met. In my not-very-humble opinion, it takes true balls for a man to be so deeply in touch with his feminine side that he identifies occasionally as female, likes to wear women’s clothes, get manicures and so on.
I have found good friends amongst the gender fluid. One I’ll call Bella because she is one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. She began as a male born into an extremely difficult life—she was adopted by an ineffectual farmer and an abusive drunk. She began running away as a teen, has endured institutionalization, physical abuse and even rape. After she transitioned into femaleness, she’s had to put up with jackasses telling her she’s not a “real” woman. I can absolutely attest that she’s a real woman. She reads my Harlequin/Silhouette sweet romances and cries at the mushy parts. So she’s undeniably female rather than gender fluid—even I have to say that those books are unbearably saccharine and soppy. Anyone who reads a book called His Baby, Her Heart and loves it is female.
And, despite all of the crap and the abuse and the pain, she’s triumphed. She works for her local Pride Center, has a gazillion friends and is an inspiration to everyone who knows her.
I’m also very grateful to those males who, despite my lack of experience at the time, put up with my clumsiness to help me become a trained Dominatrix. Whether gender fluid or not, the men who are strong enough to submerge their macho side to bottom are a brave crew and I respect them immensely—more than most of the Doms. They also tend to be much nicer people.
Occasionally this life can become confusing. One person I came across identified as “CD/TV.” I stared at that profile for awhile with all kinds of thoughts buzzing through my head. Compact disc/television? Naw… Maybe Carded Dom/Terrible Vampire? Until I realized she meant “cross-dressing transvestite.”
At least I hope that’s what she meant. And in using the pronoun “she” I’m honoring what I believe is her choice of gender. I think this person has male equipment but identifies as female. But who knows?
Chapter Six
The Cost of BDSM
This is an expensive hobby. Doms, their subs and other kinksters can become deeply attached and want to lavish hundreds of dollars on their lover or lovers. What do we spend our money on?
Equipment, from large to small: Some folks are fortunate and affluent enough that they can outfit a room in their home as a playroom, complete with St. Andrew’s crosses, slings, queening chairs and the like. The rest of us will go to a dungeon or a play space, but of course the facility charges for its use. A good dungeon will have not only an array of equipment, but will provide other necessities, such as tissues, wipes for clean-up, condoms and so on. It will feature conversation and social areas, lockers for securing valuables, clean changing areas and bathrooms. The play space will provide snacks and water, but no alcohol. An inebriated Dom or sub may go too far, which, as I’ve mentioned, can be a very bad thing.
Smaller equipment is kept in a kinksters’ toy bag or toy box. As I mentioned, my first Dom used a rolling carry-on suitcase, and this is a favorite storage method for many. It’s easy to organize and move; plus, it can be locked.
I have one that I keep packed with a variety of equipment, including my first set of floggers, which I made myself from my favorite purple cord; condoms; a wooden paddle; a couple of butt-plugs. I use purple Ace bandages for restraint, blindfolding and gags, and of course I have a pair of bandage scissors in case my subject needs to be released quickly. Feathers, forks and a pair of nubby spa gloves for sensation play. Lube, and injectors for getting it where it needs to go. Rope—though I’m not a shibari fanatic, I do keep rope in various lengths and girths. I have leather cuffs and also fur-lined handcuffs which aren’t really useful except as a decor item. I should probably get rid of them—they add weight to the already overstuffed bag. But they’re cute.
As time goes on, and as I’ve wished to experience more fetishes, the bag has expanded. Strap-ons and dildos for those who enjoy pegging—anal entry by a woman—which many find hot. A candle for wax play, which I bought after taking a class and learning that I wouldn’t hurt a partner if I use a candle that’s soft with a low melting
point. It’s kind of fun to put an ice cube on a sub’s back and drip hot candle wax on and around it to hold it there. The sub gets conflicting sensations, which can be quite arousing.
Almost any object is a “pervertible”—i.e., an ordinary item that can be put to a kinky use. Many kinksters call Home Depot “Dom Depot,” given the plethora of ropes, chains and other fun stuff found there. I favor the dollar stores and thrift stores for many items, such as toy paddles, forks, candles and so on. My pretty purple Ace bandages cost five dollars at Target. Vet wrap, found at many pet stores, is even cheaper. An ordinary wooden or plastic ruler can be used for discipline, and indeed, as I’ve mentioned, “spanking the naughty schoolgirl” is a favorite fantasy scenario for many. Thrift stores are great for costumes, especially before and after Halloween.
But it’s worth noting that some tops use little if any equipment. One gifted Dominatrix I know says that much can be accomplished using only her body—her hands and teeth particularly.
And yes, I love the clothes. Garter belts and thigh-high, lace-trimmed stockings; hot, cute bras with crotchless panties worn underneath very short skirts. I was at the local sex shop so often that one of the employees offered me the stripper discount on a catsuit. Corsets have become a particular favorite, and I was fortunate to find a corsetiere online whose size small fits me well but isn’t expensive.
I also own a number of masks, which I enjoy. I have costumes that many men have a kink for, such as a French maid’s uniform and a little plaid schoolgirl’s skirt. Frankly, I think that’s a little silly, but… Whatever.
Some say that time is money and kink can be time-consuming. I am not referring to the pleasant hours we spend in play or at parties, but to the classes, meetings and workshops that the community puts on. I have attended many of these and have learned a lot at some and very little at others. It’s like college—it’s hard to tell if a class is going to be any good unless one attends it or knows the instructor. I’ve taken classes that were specific and technical, such as beginning rope (common, useful knots), flogging technique, or the human physiology of breath control. Some classes are more obscure and arcane—an example would be a workshop centering around the psychology or spirituality underpinning some kinksters’ practices.
Classes and education are necessary. As I’ve stated, principled, effective and safe Domination is not easy, which is the reason I shy away from self-taught or “natural” Doms. I took classes and workshops for a year before I used a practice bottom in a controlled setting for my first scene.
Kinksters also get together to talk about the complex feelings that result from our activities. I often attend meetings for the polyamorous—as one can imagine, multiple relationships, while they can be great, can engender or expose feelings of insecurity and jealousy. Analyzing those emotions can often reveal that a kinkster’s past, often events that took place in childhood, may underlie current feelings and interactions—just like everyone else.
Chapter Seven
Never Stop Learning, Never Stop Growing
Life takes numerous twists and turns.
One summer day, I stepped into the office reception area to see Trapper Hart busily tippety-tapping his fingers over the computer’s keys.
My jaw dropped open.
My heart stuttered.
My belly did a backflip. Was it nausea or excitement?
Though I was surprised to see Trapper, I wasn’t surprised by my feelings. I had been told that the first experience with BDSM sex can be very powerful, engendering emotions for one’s partner that may not dissipate for years—if ever.
“Heyyyy, Sue. You’re looking good.”
Dammit, he was flirting. Did I want that or not? Did I want him or not? I had no idea. Though a part of me wanted to slap him, I made polite conversation, then tried to forget I’d seen him.
Unfortunately for my state of mind, he’d moved into the burgeoning world of computers, specifically large systems for law firms. Apparently it was a lucrative and growing niche. My firm’s administrators had hired him to revamp our system, which meant he seemed ever-present for a quite a while.
Altering my schedule to avoid him proved futile. I started taking work home, but the guy stayed on my mind until his birthday rolled around a few weeks later.
Curiosity overcame discipline and I sent him a birthday message—“Hope your birthday can’t be beat!”—along with a photo of myself in Dominatrix regalia: corset, floggers and all.
His response? “Holy crap. That’s hot as Hell.”
We texted back and forth, with me taking the initiative. I wanted to re-engage with Trapper, but was determined that he’d treat me right. So I stayed in Domme mode, firmly but calmly setting limits. It took a day of conversation and texts, but we managed to set up a meeting to discuss our mutual interests.
Of course—Trapper being Trapper, he hadn’t changed in the intervening years—even more negotiation ensued. If the Arabs and Israelis communicated as much as we had over a simple meeting for drinks, we’d have peace in the middle east.
We met at an upscale Mexican-style restaurant in downtown Berkeley. I ordered mojitos and he margaritas. And we talked. Initially I did not find him attractive or interesting. He actually spoke Spanish to the servers (Oh, my freaking God!). But as time went on, I began to enjoy his company.
Most importantly, I was determined to be positive, not critical. I did not want to rehash old news, since time had passed. I had changed, and surely he had also.
Or not.
We exchanged pleasantries, mostly about his life. In retrospect I noticed he asked me very little about what was up with me, my life, and my work. When we talked about playing together, I had to ask repeatedly about what he wanted. He seemed determined to extract information from me about my BDSM activities and skills without giving anything. I had already told him I wouldn’t tolerate mind-fucking or topping from below, but he still tried to mess with me. Finally I had to let my FemmeDomme side out and assert myself, which I had expected. I told him what I required and he seemed to try to conform, but he’s not naturally a submissive. He needed domination, claimed to frequently submit, but nevertheless resisted. (He told me he’d been with his current Domme for three years. But what the fuck was she doing with him? Clearly not a lot, considering his deportment issues).
As we went through the points of negotiation, we were getting along fairly well, but when we got to the parts he’d screwed up when we’d been together, I found my temper running away with me. We discussed after care, which he had not provided and which he now said he didn’t need. I pointed out that I did, and he said that a clue to a switch’s needs when being bottomed is to look at their style when topping. He also stated that he’d expected a certain level of sophistication, which was ridiculous. Many bottoms need after care even after years of play. Others don’t, and that varies person to person and even scene to scene. And he’d known I was a newbie.
But I controlled myself. Barely.
I asked about his current emotional landscape, and he admitted he had four partners.
Four.
Upon further questioning, he stated he’d had only two partners when we’d been together. I asked, “So why were you so neglectful of me?”
He did not deny the accusation. Instead, he shrugged and said he didn’t know.
Shocked, I told him, “That’s fucked up,” and walked away.
He grabbed my hand and said, “Sue, sorry, I’m drunk and didn’t mean such a cavalier answer.”
Thinking in vino veritas, I said again, “That’s fucked up,” yanked my hand away and left.
On the way home, I set up a phone conversation with my friend Bella. After I’d showered, we chatted and she talked me down from the ledge.
I was still so hurt. I felt as though the intervening time hadn’t taken place. Fortunately, all the pain that I had experienced did not rush back—I would have been on the ground keening like a kicked dog.
But I was furious, and my contin
uing lack of understanding contributed to my rage and pain. I simply don’t understand mean, unaware people. How could someone so smart be so mindless?
I’d paid the bill since I’d asked him out and told him it was a birthday gift.
Best forty dollars I ever spent. I was done with the guy.
Finally.
The only lingering feelings I had were ones of regret. I don’t like losing my temper. As I’ve said, an angry top is a dangerous top. And of course I regretted finding out that Trapper really, truly is a jerk. How could I have been so stupid?
Chapter Eight
Perilous Play
I was playing a dangerous game, and I knew it.
By the time autumn rolled around, I had been dating heavily but hadn’t reached my goal—a kinky boyfriend. I had been growing increasingly frustrated—I hadn’t made love or had sex, even vanilla sex, for months. My experiences had left me distrustful, even jaded. I was fearful of getting involved with the wrong men because I just couldn’t endure more heartbreak.
Numerous possibilities fizzled for other reasons, mostly sheer incompatibility. A startling number of men I met spouted bizarre conspiracy theories. Strange how many think that the US government was behind the toppling of the World Trade Center when that same day witnessed a successful and devastating attack on the Pentagon, the seat of American military power. I’m floored by the weird logic—the failure of the government to do so many things effectively and efficiently (such as put up a functioning health care website) should put a stop to that kind of fear-based thinking.
One prospective Dom seemed to want a 24/7/365 relationship, and continued to correspond with me even though I said “no way is that possible. I have too many other responsibilities.” Then he wanted to Skype rather than get together, which bothered me—aren’t I worth a few minutes of his time to meet? Really?
